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,
No beginning, this, but an end.
For the calendar the birds gather, harrow or net space,
testing out starting points one after another.
Leaves not yet bitten lustily shine,
burning from the edges.
The birds will leave them green.