Archive for the ‘Thomas R. Turner’ Tag

Cartoon Du Jour — What In Hell Is Happening?   4 comments

What In Hell Is Happening?

CARTOONCOLLECTIONS.COM

In June of this year, George Booth passed away. Like so many people, especially
readers of The New Yorker, I love his cartoons. For the last three years, this one I
look at every day and shout, “What the hell is happening?” 

But, more importantly, for several years starting in the early 2000s, my brother
Tom placed the cartoon in the upper right corner of copy paper he used to write
letters to me, always written in large capital letters. His letters, sometimes unable
to read without having a dictionary nearby, were always informative. 

He once wrote:

“OOOOOPS . . . LOST MY FOCUS . . . (WHAT A HOOT!) I’VE BEEN, AS OF LATE,
DWELLING UPON THE YIDDISH IDEA OF DRECK . . . “MATTER” WHICH PRESENTS
ITSELF AS NOT WHOLLY RELEVANT (OR INDEED, AT LL RELEVANT . . . WHATEVER
‘RELEVANCE’ IS!) . . . BUT WHICH CAREFULLY ATTENDED TO CAN SUPPLY A KIND
OF ‘SENCE’ OF WHAT-IS-GOING-ON. THIS ‘SENCE IS NOT TO BE OBTAINED BY
READING THE WORDS, THINGS . . .  SORT OF NON-SEMANTIC STUFFING OR
‘SLUDGE’ WHICH ARE EASILY CONFUSED FOR CONDUITS OF COMMUNICATION . . .
BUT PERHAPS OBTAINED BY CHECKING OUT THE INTERICES OF THE DRECK . . .
SPACES SURROUNDING THEM.”

Events are always perceived
with reference to a particular
frame; in another system of
coordinates, the ‘same’ events
are not the same.

— kenne

Posted November 15, 2019 by kenneturner in Cartoon du jour, Information

Tagged with , , ,

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #6   3 comments

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the sixth, and last, I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

The nuances between us were scattered with the 
January snows of Peter's arrival.
Ambiguities, second starts and brokendreams were too
Tangled up in Blue to
Cut to the exact place on the page where our rhythm had 
Broken.
I'm not that young any more.

"Get off your stagnant ass and do something."
The scenario years later would speak.
The Pacific Northwest and a three quarter profile statement
Echoing out Denny's window
Why I never got a job during all those summers.

Only the facts she put to me.
I couldn't keep in step with the definitions you
Dreamed.
 We speculated endlessly in different directions
Whether our togethrness might might imaginable be framed
From inside so that the usual connection between lover 
And lover and loved and loved would be interchangeable but
Paradoxically unchanging.

                     (For my benefit, I suppose)

Was the fiction of my eroticism so damn necessary?

Somewhere I glimpsed you
Coming at me; balancing cryptic hats . . .
Laughing comic confusion.

Now I never see you anymore.
The summers are much colder tha used to be
In that other time, when you and I were young.

I miss the human truth of your smile;
The half-hearted gaze of your voice and all the things
That you'll always be to me.
Only thee is no comic relief
Just a 
Curious translation of cracked nostalgia.

But lets 
Skip the arguments.
I already know how the story ends:
A-not-so-crytic-message:
Don't be naive
You could only gaze into the distance at my life.

	

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #5   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the fifth of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

In the inerstices of "hold me," and "stop hovering,"
The symbiosis of us succumbed 
An anamoly had intruded
The desideratum of my life found my eyes
Bestial and sought transcendence through "appointments-only."
The spontaneity of our quick was cheapened.
                (Funny how incredulity becomes more than a word)

The aesthetics of my artifice went against the grain;
Recreation, utilitarian achievement and another sexuality
Were the hidden Karmas of your soul.
My recondite preoccupations rung-up as
No sale.

Impressions filtered through my extranceous fictions
Single out shared neck massages and inept peeling of oranges.
Her solipsistic soaking in the tub found me
Speaking my love through
Closed doors. Anxiety and discontent had obscured our moments
Together.
My metamorphosis was quixotic and debilitating
Labor for the demensional person on which
Her eyes tried to focus. 
Making love in the afternoon was an
Extreme of ethos a sexual shadow world for her
Yet the doctrine-of-discontinous-selves found a measure of 
Your accentance.

Odd.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #4   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the fourth of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

Closely watched trains came and went without me without us
I somehow missed you

Eyes have a way.

After love with my caliban sweat and noises
A vacant resentment would knife
From glares askance
First seen in the pain of Vanessa-labor.
And this is what happens when you love someone?

Progeny and sunburn haired sensualness
Prefaced Rare-Earth and a student nurse.
The ideology of lesbos intimacy had
Clandestinely raised its latent head.
But it doesn't matter anymore.

                      (You were the poet in my heart)

91st street was the end
Wasn't it?
Curious how our windows are always steamed-up
On Autumnal days.

                      (Was ANYTHING central?)

The "is-this-all-there-is" syndrome sums up the
Period: Existentialist discontent
With a walk-up duplex decor.
A matter-of-fact sexuality
Presaged a psychic-incarnation I couldn't see.
Lisa brought home a metamorphosis I didn't
Realize.
They cut your "tubes" after she came and that was that.
Funny how I thought even then that is was
All a matter of hormonal imbalance. Shit!

And what about you?

Paradoxes betray the limits of logic
Not of the reality we shared.
Your "passion" was stillborn though so damn necessary.
A dissolution of absence into substance sucked
Screaming through a Rimbaud-Day-On-Fire.
I could't laugh enough for the
Frivolity she needed but detested.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #3   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the third of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

The metaphor Milwaukee-East-Side
Found an oblique happiness on Newhall street and other avenues.
A thirty-three-o-one flight walk-up
Mingled with a sweaty montage of
Walk-down circus parades:
Beer with Richard punctuating assassinations
Democratic conventions and
Halloween readings.
My movements in a not-always-silent
Desperation enveloped the shit of a B.S. paperchase.

                    (My illusions were so intensed christ I missed you)

"Im Home:" used to reverberate through someone's contentment
Of newhall evenings and milwaukee days.
Introspective space refracted my looking-glass image and the
Ennui of your self-esteem.
The enigmatic fruit of our "intimacy"
Was even then becoming spurious and estranged
Yet continued to sustain me and confine you.
Our spring had clouded into a season of
Discontinuities.

Snap-shot ambiguities cannot clarify
Where we were
Only echo tangents of truth
Which negate explanations of a then with Allison:
Lake Michigan shoreline Dr's Park Flag day
Too much to drink
We ate dogs with laughter went to bed at ten
And felt safe.

                    (I still see the scenes, but no longer see
                     myself among those present no longer
                     can improvise the dialogue)


24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home — #1   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the first of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

Standing above me in Smith's room 
Awkwardly looking down through a clipped hesitancy 
Our lives came together. 
TURNER 
With all the ambiguity that last name usage implies 
Was what she called me. 
Mannerisms of ingenuousness and a tendency toward the atypical 
Bespoke your ambiance  
                                     (Ineffably I wanted Her) 

That voice - 
Falsetto 
Laced in bursts of Peter's guffaws 
Seemed contrived with a dreamed-of authenticity.  

                                      (Your mouth, my love,the
                                       thistle in the kiss?) 

From within mutually cancelling 
Vignettes of naturalness and gender-cliche' 
She kissed through closed lips of 
Pristine openness. 
Innocently I loved. 

Through summer notes of vulnerability 
Together we embraced an entangled growth of uncertainty  

                                       (Our fictions were tempered in
                                        a painful and inward time) 

Desperate needs equivocated against ordained directions and 
Dead-end holdings of night-bakery-work. 
Even then yours wasn't other-directed but 
A need to keep the Self-absorption of your Ann Arbor soul on a 
Pedastal of conforming difference. 
Eliptically we lived in the interstices 
Between an illusion of  
Fulfillment and letters etched with 
"Know what?"

 

Tom Turner, Shall Seventy-Seven Bells Sing Struck   4 comments

Tom-kenne_0333-b-w-blogTom and Kenne Turner (Tom would have been 77 today.)

Twits

POEM ON HIS BIRTHDAY

We are hairy men
who may be thought of a “Twits,”
but I dare say, are not.
Why might you ask?
If you  look closely, you will not see
tasty morsels in our beards,
while Twits upon close review
will have tiny little specks
of dried-up scrambled eggs.

So says Roald Dahl,
and he should know
of all the disgusting things
found in the beard of a twit,
but no need to hold your noses.

So, what is it these hairy men
are trying to hide?
Is it an ugly face, you ask?
No, not really,
for we are two guys
possessing good thoughts,
which shone out of our faces
like sunbeams,
so we will always look lovely.

Again, Roald Dahl should know:
‘If a person has ugly thoughts,
it begins to show on the face.
And when that person
has ugly thoughts every day,
every week, every year,
the face gets uglier and uglier
until it gets so ugly
you can hardly bear to look at it.’

Even so, on this sand grain day
in the bent bay’s grave
I celebrate and spurn
what would have been
brother Tom’s driftwood
seventy-seventh 
wind turned age,
shall seventy-seven bells sing struck.

— kenne

(Some lines in this poem are from Dylan Thomas’ poem, Poem On His Birthday. My brother loved quoting lines from Dylan Thomas’ poems.)

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