Archive for the ‘Tom Turner’ Tag

The Blast of The Self   1 comment

Aspen Draw Fall Colors 2013-8364 blog IIAn Aspen Fall — Photo-Artistry by kenne

In a letter dated 4/26/03, by brother Tom wrote:

“I am in the midst of ‘trying’ to memorize a poem . . .
‘Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour’ by Wallace Stevens . . .
never mind why . . .
although the exercise was triggered by a piece by
George Steiner in which he wrote:

‘The danger is that the text or music will lose what physics
calls its ‘critical mass,’ its implosive powers within
the echo chambers of the self.'”

Tom was aware that what is committed to memory
and susceptible to recall constitutes  “The Blast of  The Self,”
an intensity of outward attention — interest, curiosity,
a healthy obsession was a motivation stronger
even than love or hatred or fear.

— kenne

Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour

Light the first light of evening, as in a room 

In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one…
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

— Wallace Stevens

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #2   1 comment

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

This posting is the second 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.)

After my return from the war
I stepped into a world of Kafkaesque embraces; yearning . . .
Paled with particular sensations
I was momentarily blinded.

Biting hues of romanticism blinded me with quixotic hopes I
Stumbled into a Brooklyn routine and parody  of intent.
The bare facticity of Brooklyn lives got to you.
Spasms of coughing spontaneous tears
Saw us through Saturday matinee's Saul's Deli and a quart of beer.
Always we were together.

Halluncinatory flashes of a deluge on an
Ocen-Avenue-Saturday running laughing
Around an inundated block.

All those Saturdays in the world waited for two riders on a
Slick tandum
Carrening toward a Coney-Island of anticipations
Fiercely believing in the notion of possibilities.
Not sure I understand it now,but I "understood" then.

Walking to Walbaums one twilight
the first spring

                        (or the second they were all alike for awhile)

I could taste the t.s. eliot peach that I dared to eat.
Looking at you the way you love the first person
Who ever touched you
And never quite that way again
I savored my idea of you but missed the obvious.

Through the compactness of subway-sundays
We cherished dreams of escape with
Transcripts and belief that college would do it for us.
Ave. J. and jewish-chritmases allowed a diet of
Imcompleteness and knapsacks of disillusioning bohemianism.
We never looked back,
U-Haul got us out with reassurance of
Family.

Posted November 13, 2019 by kenneturner in Poetry, Information, Photo-Artistry

Tagged with , , ,

Remembering Turner On His 76th   6 comments

(Click on any of the tiled images for larger in a slide format.)

Thomas Robert Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
I love you, Bobby!

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

— Dylan Thomas

Click On Tom’s Celebration pdf

Richard Burton Reading, And Death Shall Have No Dominion

A Series of Nonsequiturs   Leave a comment

Tom Turner (1 of 1) art blog.jpgTom Turner — Image by kenne

Tom once wrote:

“Complications,
ambiguities,
nonsequiturs.
I keep 
searching
for clarity . . . lucidity;
knowing each time I seek that
I’ll become more entangled.

No. I’m not bored.
Just scared.
I’m 
moving toward
a sort-of silence . . .

I know what you’re thinking —
Bull-shit!
Bull shit!
Bull Shit!

Since the
significant things

I want to say
have the wrong

inflections;
intonations

for most arenas
of conversation:

I ramble on
into oblivion.

A series of nonsequiturs.” 

— Tom Turner
        (7/27/84)

Two Hairy Faced Men, Twits Not   2 comments

lummi-island-vancover_tom-kenne_0333-b-w-blogiiTom and Kenne Turner (October 2009)– Image by Joy

We are hairy men
who may be thought of a “Twit,”
but I dare say, are not.
Why you might 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
my driftwood seventy-sixth
wind turned age.

Yet, I remain steadfast
in Shakespeare’s fifth stage
in The Seven Stages of Man,
still acquiring wisdom,
enjoying the finer things in life
and remain very attentive of my appearance,
trying to live life to its fullest,
preparing for the final stages of life.
Shall seventy-six bells sing struck.

kenne

The above illustration is by Quentin Blake in Roald Dahl’s book, The Twits. Part of this posting contains copy from The Twits and  Dylan Thomas’ Poem On His Birthday.

I can’t let this pass without again sharing Dylan Thomas’ Poem On His Birthday.

I Am The Only One That Is Invisible   4 comments

Lummi & MCLACTom Turner — Image by kenne

The poem “Invisible Man,” by Pablo Neruda gets inside me, stirring my very being, mixing the past, present and images of the future. The poem has short lines making it seem longer than it is. Even so, I’m sharing some of Neruda’s powerful lines, which I have read, reread contemplating thoughts of my brother, Tom and existential invisibility.  

“they fire against the people,
which is to say,
against poetry,
but my brother
the poet
was in love,
or was suffering
because all his emotion
is for the sea,
he loves remote ports
for their names,
and he writes about oceans
he doesn’t know,
when life is as full
as an ear of corn with grain
he passes by, never knowing
how to harvest it,
he rides the waves
without ever touching land,
and, occasionally,
he is profoundly moved
and melancholy,
he is too big
to fit inside his skin,
he gets tangled and untangles himself,
he declares he is maudit,
with great difficulty he carries the cross
of darkness,
he believes that he is different from
anyone else in the world,
he eats bread every day
but he’s never seen a
baker
or gone to a meeting
of a baker’s union,
and so my poor brother
is deliberately dark,
he twists and writhes
and finds himself
interesting,
interesting,
that’s the word,
I am no better
than my brother,
but I smile,
because when I walk through the streets
—the only one who does not exist—
life flows around me
like rivers,
I am the only one
who is invisible,
no mysterious shadows,
no gloom and darkness,
everyone speaks to me,
everyone wants to tell me things,
to talk about their relatives,
their misery and
their joy,
everyone passes by, and everyone
tells me something,
look at all the things they do!”

— from Invisible Man by  Pablo Neruda
(Click here to read the complete poem.)

“Where do you go when you’ve already gone?”

— from Tom Turner’s notes

The Gifts That Keep On Giving   2 comments

Vessel of Life — Computer Art by kenne

Note: This posting first appeared in December of 2009

The things that happen to us in life do so because we act. The more we act, the more opportunities we have upon which to act, the more we connect creating a vessel filled with learning moments. If we don’t act on the moments, each will become an opportunity lost.  Even so, it’s important to not think about what may have been left behind.

My vessel of life is an alchemy of acts from which new opportunities are poured – acts attract acts. Paulo Coelho wrote in his bestseller, The Alchemist, “There is only one way to learn,” the alchemist answered.

“It’s through action. Everything you need to know you have learned through your journey.”

It was ten years ago that I first read Coelho’s enchanting fable. It was in preparation for leading a group of four young professionals to the state of Sáo Paulo in Brazil that I learned of Paulo Coelho and his 1988 novel. The book fit well into my own philosophy and set the tone for the trip and remains instrumental to my life.

Again, one act leads to another when at this past Sunday’s Society of the 5th Cave reading club meeting, The Alchemist was selected for the March reading. Once again the concept of alchemy is front stage, this time from a different perspective, which will create many new learning moments.

I’m please to be reading this inspiring book ten years out. The Alchemist is the gift that keeps on giving.  Just today I received an email from my brother Tom, reminding me of someone I have also not read in recent years, American poet, Conrad Aiken, which my poem “Solstice Night,” reminded him of the first lines from Aiken’s long poem, “The House of Dust.”

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

In turn, his reminding me of Conrad Aiken, and the return of The Alchemist, that reminded me of the following from Aiken’s poem, “A Letter from Li Po.”

what’s true in these, or false? which is the ‘I’
of ‘I’s’? Is it the master of the cadence, who
transforms all things to a hoop of flame, where through
tigers of meaning leap? And are these true,
the language never old and never new,
such as the world wears on its wedding day,
the something borrowed with something chicory blue?
In every part we play, we play ourselves;
even the secret doubt to which we come
beneath the changing shapes of self and thing,
yes, even this, at last, if we should call
and dare to name it, we would find
the only voice that answers is our own.
We are once more defrauded by the mind.

Defrauded? No. It is the alchemy by which we grow.
It is the self becoming word, the word
becoming world. And with each part we play
we add to cosmic Sum and cosmic sum.
Who knows but one day we shall find,
hidden in the prism at the rainbow’s foot,
the square root of the eccentric absolute,
and the concentric absolute to come.

So many gifts that keep on giving.

kenne

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

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