April 2019
Marc Darnell
medarnell65@gmail.com
medarnell65@gmail.com
Author's Notes -- from his submission-letter to me -FF.
It is hard for me to name one of my poems as one of my best, but here are 2 poems that I am proud they came out so well, and I feel I had something very important to say about life in them. I am proud that I am able to successfully write in form (I think), and am always wary not to let the form run me instead, though it can get the best of me.
The first poem, "A Beautiful Good-Bye," has had negative responses from some very "high-end" editors, because they say it promotes suicide and violence, but if they take the time to read clear to the end of the poem, I'm not encouraging suicide at all, but living. I honestly don't think some editors finish reading poems. I have struggled with suicide attempts for 30 years, and it irks me that they fail to see the resolution I've made at the end. I've written about 55 villanelles so far, though not all are in tiptop shape. They don't always click. I've also become much looser on the form over the months since I took the form on.
I like rereading the second one, "Pestle And Mortar," when I start to doubt I have any talent at all. It is also personal, because I have been medicated on many drugs in the last 25 years. I think we are an over-medicated society. Notice the long lines at "drive-throughs"-- somehow disturbing, and the widespread use of all kinds of substances -- out of boredom. I recently went off a drug that I didn't realize I was so dependent on to sleep, and the withdrawal was hell.
I hope you enjoy them and feel what I put into them.
Best wishes always with your publication whose authors touch my heart,
Marc
It is hard for me to name one of my poems as one of my best, but here are 2 poems that I am proud they came out so well, and I feel I had something very important to say about life in them. I am proud that I am able to successfully write in form (I think), and am always wary not to let the form run me instead, though it can get the best of me.
The first poem, "A Beautiful Good-Bye," has had negative responses from some very "high-end" editors, because they say it promotes suicide and violence, but if they take the time to read clear to the end of the poem, I'm not encouraging suicide at all, but living. I honestly don't think some editors finish reading poems. I have struggled with suicide attempts for 30 years, and it irks me that they fail to see the resolution I've made at the end. I've written about 55 villanelles so far, though not all are in tiptop shape. They don't always click. I've also become much looser on the form over the months since I took the form on.
I like rereading the second one, "Pestle And Mortar," when I start to doubt I have any talent at all. It is also personal, because I have been medicated on many drugs in the last 25 years. I think we are an over-medicated society. Notice the long lines at "drive-throughs"-- somehow disturbing, and the widespread use of all kinds of substances -- out of boredom. I recently went off a drug that I didn't realize I was so dependent on to sleep, and the withdrawal was hell.
I hope you enjoy them and feel what I put into them.
Best wishes always with your publication whose authors touch my heart,
Marc
A Beautiful Goodbye
Take off your noose-- more colorful ways to die.
It must be spangled, making you notorious,
a suicide that's easy on the eye.
You once chose razor-- that one didn't fly--
blood reversed and clotted. You were furious.
Unknot the noose for colorful ways to die.
They say to live (oh, do you even try?),
unaware what brought it on, incurious.
Not seeing the cause is easy on their eye.
Something pushed you past all stimuli,
past bullied years till you were caged, delirious,
so dig for level-headed ways to die
or dream your expiration in the sky,
Vesuvian bright, no standard goriness.
One's death is easy to one's dreaming eye,
but ask yourself the simple question: why?
Go out with bang and rainbow if that's glorious--
but look for colorful reasons not to die,
a life cut short uneasy on the eye.
Pestle And Mortar
This is the year, no, the age of the pill--
how such a pebble pours into the mind
and silences the children that we were.
If only blood could stay so stubborn, so pure,
potent and perfect beneath the human rind,
but there is no defense to the phage of the pill
that ages all. Through the nerves it rills,
erasing memories till brain is blind,
and silencing the children that we were.
Bleached and atomized, chemicals cure--
to failing health, the pill is very kind,
though the bored have their way with the pill
till purpose and the point of breathing spill,
and find a harder venom to unwind
that silences. The children that we were
are never seen again, as drugs deter
the wrath of pain, but numb limbs grind.
This is the wear, no, the rage of the pill
that silences the children that we were.
Take off your noose-- more colorful ways to die.
It must be spangled, making you notorious,
a suicide that's easy on the eye.
You once chose razor-- that one didn't fly--
blood reversed and clotted. You were furious.
Unknot the noose for colorful ways to die.
They say to live (oh, do you even try?),
unaware what brought it on, incurious.
Not seeing the cause is easy on their eye.
Something pushed you past all stimuli,
past bullied years till you were caged, delirious,
so dig for level-headed ways to die
or dream your expiration in the sky,
Vesuvian bright, no standard goriness.
One's death is easy to one's dreaming eye,
but ask yourself the simple question: why?
Go out with bang and rainbow if that's glorious--
but look for colorful reasons not to die,
a life cut short uneasy on the eye.
Pestle And Mortar
This is the year, no, the age of the pill--
how such a pebble pours into the mind
and silences the children that we were.
If only blood could stay so stubborn, so pure,
potent and perfect beneath the human rind,
but there is no defense to the phage of the pill
that ages all. Through the nerves it rills,
erasing memories till brain is blind,
and silencing the children that we were.
Bleached and atomized, chemicals cure--
to failing health, the pill is very kind,
though the bored have their way with the pill
till purpose and the point of breathing spill,
and find a harder venom to unwind
that silences. The children that we were
are never seen again, as drugs deter
the wrath of pain, but numb limbs grind.
This is the wear, no, the rage of the pill
that silences the children that we were.
© 2019 Marc Darnell
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF