By Glenn Marchand
Sound is made into a desert. Excellence is a ritual. Earth is full of rooms. Each curtain has been drawn back. We see diaphanous springs. We praise rebirth.
I was a young iconoclast, at best, I pondered it. I was an unhealthy seed, infused by madness, taken by hopes and skies, dungeons and blues. If ever to draw closeness it meant pain, if ever to pull away it meant damage. We tend to suffer either way; and harping on a remedy.
Life proves its dissociation, its tender distance, becoming conceptionally affectionate. We fix what we can, respelling our intuitions, a radical bundle of prayers. An entire avalanche of metaphysics.
It was meant to be pessimism; that was silenced out. It was meant to be shocking; that proved a lonely enterprise. Such grayness is in arts, and measured by esoteria—to render a mystic charm.
And life has ubiquity, and it has schism. Some elements we grow to endure.
I find something peculiar is taking place: we often utilize what we abhor, and we often need what repulses us. Life is difficult unclarity, rapacious insights, and obscure demons. In perduring—we wax in indifference. In warring, we wane out on a battlefield. And one is told to be wise.
It felt unnerving to render propensity. I do confess: I have learned in self I can be selfish. Such realization is unsettling; for I know what it implies. As an implicit spirit, implied in realities, charged and sullen, to have spoken unclearly, to have unnerved an audience.
It comes a time where pleasantries perish, privacy becomes a passion, and one is impressed upon, where an audience will see a poet’s portrait—to know his or her name, while nothing remains hidden, when all is hermetic. Both secluded and reviewed. Life becomes prudence.
I was grown before I was an adult. The mind was fluvial, fervent, unfree and desperate for freedom. I sailed in solitude. I took to ink and paper. I lost at times. Life was affective, but ideals were not registering. It became serene to me, in a chase for tranquility—I became something of its magnitude. I still carried lies in me. Per its schedule, I grew defensive.
In a chasm of affairs, while concentrated upon anomaly, certain proclivities were left undeveloped. Years deflate or inflate us. It is often both simultaneously. A man may become a philanderer. If practiced too long, he will become unable to cherish love as a demanding ideal. He will only see what appeals to him as prurient.
A line in thought carries over into life. Abuse stifles growth. While ironically—causing something to sprout. It is harsh on our senses. We will try to bury it underseas. We pass by it and take a look. We see colors and some parts are drab. We die in our existence.
In an instance, each person meets him and herself.
I was with art. I was with Love. I was not equipped to do things accordingly. One may excel in one area, and find another area is uncertain. We try harder in our growths. Some habits are like remora fish; they attach to our souls.
In all of our charms, we feel absent. I should have an answer. I do believe undoing is possible. It will require time and diligence. It will demand determination and honest reflection. In spite of circumstances, we desire goodness.
Glenn Marchand is a poet-writer born in Los Angeles, California, where he received his M.A. in Theology. He was introduced to poetry as an adolescent. Poetry and prose became a therapeutic outlet. And he has been creating ever since. He has publications with Discretionary Love, Ginosko Literary Journal 33, Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts & Letters, Bitter Melon Review and others. Marchand is pleased to present this submission, in a hope to share poetic art.
