somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what is is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
— e.e. cummings
My brother first shared this poem October 14, 2005, which was E. E. Cummings birthday.
In Memory of Brother Tom/Bob, One of His Favorite Poems. Thomas Robert Turner (2000) Image by kenne
Diamonds and Rust
Well, I’ll be damned Here comes your ghost again But that’s not unusual It’s just that the moon is full And you happened to call And here I sit Hand on the telephone Hearing a voice I’d known A couple of light years ago Heading straight for a fall
As I remember your eyes Were bluer than robin’s eggs My poetry was lousy you said Where are you calling from? A booth in the Midwest Ten years ago I bought you some cufflinks You brought me something We both know what memories can bring They bring diamonds and rust
Well, you burst on the scene, already a legend The unwashed phenomenon The original vagabond You strayed into my arms And there you stayed Temporarily lost at sea The Madonna was yours for free Yes, the girl on the half-shell Could keep you unharmed
Now I see you standing with brown leaves falling around And snow in your hair Now you’re smiling out the window of that crummy hotel Over Washington Square Our breath comes out white clouds Mingles and hangs in the air Speaking strictly for me We both could have died then and there
Now you’re telling me you’re not nostalgic Then give me another word for it You who are so good with words And at keeping things vague ‘Cause I need some of that vagueness now It’s all come back too clearly Yes, I once loved you dearly And if you’re offering me diamonds and rust I’ve already paid
Thomas Robert Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
I love you, Bobby!
I, slave, chained to an oar of poem,
Inhabiting this faraway province where
Nothing happens, I wouldn’t want it to.
I have expressly deprived myself of much:
Conversation, sweets of friendship, love. . . .
The public women of the town don’t appeal.
I wouldn’t want them to. There are no others,
At least for an old, smelly, covetous bookman.
So may things might have fed this avocation,
But what’s the point? It’s too late.
kenne and bobby — images by joy & kenne
kenne and bobby
Thomas Robert Turner (2000) Image by kenne
Thomas Robert Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
