Martin TURNER Poems
|2.||Escape From Venice||3/31/2007|
|5.||Fragments From Before The Gaze Of Alphabet||9/20/2008|
|6.||Phoenix Museum Of History||9/26/2004|
|8.||Lines For Alexander Blok||6/23/2008|
|9.||Tankas For The Memory||6/16/2008|
|11.||Dreaming Of The Dead||2/21/2006|
|13.||This Daughterless Night||6/23/2008|
|15.||A Kick Of Light||9/26/2004|
Comments about Martin TURNER
Night comes and the clenching of teeth.
Gone the ricercare of the birds.
A baroque sky of shell and pearl
gives way to one of dark silk.
Do you remember the man in the brown suit,
sipping his coffee in a shop by the front,
wandering with seven faces in the century’s mirrors,
now fêted in the bars along the sea?
In his verses the sea breathed,
the sea of the sweeping sleeve,
the sea sipping at the land,
the sea washing as an afterthought.
Inscrutable as a cat with the tail of a mouse
still hanging at the corner of its mouth,
Escape From Venice
No disease, or death here, or Constellation of the Guitar;
no sleep of second childhood.
This intensive care is as orderly
as a circus in which all are acrobats.
The tumbling fills hands and air.
Can the sober matron follow the tottering
velvet hat through the tall crowd?
The city, stilled and digitised, reappears in a solemn wraith.