Pardon me for directly quoting a portion of the Zeitgeist Press write-up on him, but it's so important and screams to be shared:
"In his own life (1951-1997), Lerner, sacrificed all for his dream. Tall, 6’4″, with a gut and big hair, Lerner was both flint and steel for the flame which consumed him. He was all contradiction, child and monster, bombast and buddy, prince and beggar, he wanted, he once said, to carry himself like the king of a ruined but noble nation. Early on, when I met him, he had thrown over a book advance, resulting from syndicated articles, to pursue his poetry. He’d also given up a moderately successful journalism career because it interfered with the poetry. As his economic situation became more desperate, he became even more committed to the poetry, to his plans for changing the world. It would be easy to say that this was madness, and indeed there were times when he harvested his own biochemical imbalance like a spring lamb laid on the altar of art. But to know and love David, as I did, was to understand that this was his choice for life, as well as death. He didn’t court ruin, but who he was, and chose to be, placed him in the grips of a dream merciful as a hangman’s noose. He lived and died entirely devoted to that dream. When has the world made room for such a one?
"As a friend, Lerner could be impossible to handle. But he also saw and honored the most fragile part in each of us. He only knew how to love absolutely, and love he did, forthrightly, desperately, with quiet fury and an unmatched private intensity. His wife, Maura O’Connor, in a poem, once described “His Heart and All the Messy Places He Put It.” There was no tragic intent. He wanted to live. He wanted to flourish. He wanted inconsolably to bring the dream of poetry to a people that couldn’t yet see it. But he lived with poverty and drugs, incarceration and madness. But David Lerner is not so easily dismissed by his worst self. He is entitled, as any poet, to be judged by his best. And his best is exceedingly good: funny, perceptive, endlessly appreciative of beauty, he made a faith of the pure truth of feeling. His images shine with instant, intuitive recognition. The mission of poetry, he once said, is to “drive a cherry-red Mercedes Benz into the heart of hell and place a bet on God.”
"This he did, and he relied on us, today, readers and friends, to carry that bet this last mile. It is here, in this book, his bet on “the red, white and blue, its measureless promise boiled down to a dollar, for women who’ve never been touched, and for men who don’t know how…” For David Lerner, poetry meant everything. His was a rave for beauty, a scream for sanity, a mad laughing monologue to convince us to honor the eternal in our selves. Are you listening?
Sadly David Lerner died of a drug overdose in 1997, so that could well be seen as form of suicide, despite this poems emphatic rejection of the many valid reasons he saw for pursuing such an option. He was clearly talented and is a truly great loss to poetry.
I think the drugs and poetry were tangentially related, in that he had a pretty fierce appetite, for both the concrete and the metaphorical. And I know, for certain, that he struggled with despair. But I think it's also fair to bring up that had serious back pain throughout his life, that's how he started his relationship with opiates, and that before he relapsed, he had a very long and vibrant period, during which he helped found Zeitgiest Press, was heavily involved in the reading scene, etc... again, the chroic pain is one part of the story that is easy to excise, but critical for understanding what happened to him. He was a large man, hard to fill with anything. Played the piano beautifully, as well.
Substance consumption doesn't equal fully disregarding ones own health either. He did both. One of which is deliberately setting yourself up to die young.
You don't have to think of it as suicide, just know the connection is perfectly within reason.
Excellent encapsulation of imagery which is not only very raw and relatable but goes far to develop a sense of empathy for those going through such an ordeal.
Pardon me for directly quoting a portion of the Zeitgeist Press write-up on him, but it's so important and screams to be shared:
"In his own life (1951-1997), Lerner, sacrificed all for his dream. Tall, 6’4″, with a gut and big hair, Lerner was both flint and steel for the flame which consumed him. He was all contradiction, child and monster, bombast and buddy, prince and beggar, he wanted, he once said, to carry himself like the king of a ruined but noble nation. Early on, when I met him, he had thrown over a book advance, resulting from syndicated articles, to pursue his poetry. He’d also given up a moderately successful journalism career because it interfered with the poetry. As his economic situation became more desperate, he became even more committed to the poetry, to his plans for changing the world. It would be easy to say that this was madness, and indeed there were times when he harvested his own biochemical imbalance like a spring lamb laid on the altar of art. But to know and love David, as I did, was to understand that this was his choice for life, as well as death. He didn’t court ruin, but who he was, and chose to be, placed him in the grips of a dream merciful as a hangman’s noose. He lived and died entirely devoted to that dream. When has the world made room for such a one?
"As a friend, Lerner could be impossible to handle. But he also saw and honored the most fragile part in each of us. He only knew how to love absolutely, and love he did, forthrightly, desperately, with quiet fury and an unmatched private intensity. His wife, Maura O’Connor, in a poem, once described “His Heart and All the Messy Places He Put It.” There was no tragic intent. He wanted to live. He wanted to flourish. He wanted inconsolably to bring the dream of poetry to a people that couldn’t yet see it. But he lived with poverty and drugs, incarceration and madness. But David Lerner is not so easily dismissed by his worst self. He is entitled, as any poet, to be judged by his best. And his best is exceedingly good: funny, perceptive, endlessly appreciative of beauty, he made a faith of the pure truth of feeling. His images shine with instant, intuitive recognition. The mission of poetry, he once said, is to “drive a cherry-red Mercedes Benz into the heart of hell and place a bet on God.”
"This he did, and he relied on us, today, readers and friends, to carry that bet this last mile. It is here, in this book, his bet on “the red, white and blue, its measureless promise boiled down to a dollar, for women who’ve never been touched, and for men who don’t know how…” For David Lerner, poetry meant everything. His was a rave for beauty, a scream for sanity, a mad laughing monologue to convince us to honor the eternal in our selves. Are you listening?
-Bruce Isaacson, Las Vegas, Nevada"
Thanks for sharing that, Maya. I know of Bruce Isaacson, but I hadn't read that before. It's very well written.
And that's just a segment of the statement. I highly recommend that you go to Zeitgeist Press to read it in its entirety!
"When has the world made room for such a one?" Ah!
Damn. Thank you
Sadly David Lerner died of a drug overdose in 1997, so that could well be seen as form of suicide, despite this poems emphatic rejection of the many valid reasons he saw for pursuing such an option. He was clearly talented and is a truly great loss to poetry.
I think the drugs and poetry were tangentially related, in that he had a pretty fierce appetite, for both the concrete and the metaphorical. And I know, for certain, that he struggled with despair. But I think it's also fair to bring up that had serious back pain throughout his life, that's how he started his relationship with opiates, and that before he relapsed, he had a very long and vibrant period, during which he helped found Zeitgiest Press, was heavily involved in the reading scene, etc... again, the chroic pain is one part of the story that is easy to excise, but critical for understanding what happened to him. He was a large man, hard to fill with anything. Played the piano beautifully, as well.
Ooph that is heartbreaking.
😥
Substance consumption doesn't equal fully disregarding ones own health either. He did both. One of which is deliberately setting yourself up to die young.
You don't have to think of it as suicide, just know the connection is perfectly within reason.
the sprit to endure and continue no matter what 🫶
Indeed 🧡
He writes like a fallen angel.
such intense hurting
This is my mantra. Wonderfully expressed.
Such power. Full of fight. Not flight.
Love, Light, and Peace
🕊❤🕊
He was clearly searching for strength in the face of pain. 🙏😔
Yes, I read it that way also.
Sitting fully in it all the time. We can only take one day at a time.
😭 feel this. Deeply.
Sad and defiant at the same time. No one can know the awfulness of another's pain. We do what we can.
Thank you so much for posting and generally for the invaluable public service you provide here! William's understood " “It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.”
David Lerner. What an astonishing refreshing poet I've never heard of! Found this by him on poetry foundation
"hatred is just love with a chip on its shoulder
a chip as big as the Ritz
and heavier than
all the bills I’ll never pay
because they’re after us
they’re selling radioactive charm bracelets"
Man, you feel the white knuckling in his whole psyche reading this.
Damn. I needed to read that this morning. Thanks
It is indeed not an option; let's just power through it:))
Great poem; thank you for posting. (I decided in the 1980s that suicide was not an option because I couldn't do it to my children, and my mother).
Excellent encapsulation of imagery which is not only very raw and relatable but goes far to develop a sense of empathy for those going through such an ordeal.
So relevant during suicide prevention month…thank you.