I remember a photo I saw of a two-hundred-year-old
cherry blossom tree.
I imagine the events it must have borne witness to:
births, deaths, tsunamis, the rise and fall of empires,
but still its branches spread with pink and red blooms.
I wake up some mornings, an elegy for self
on my cracked lips, gazing upon my scars
and wondering why I’m still here.
But to some, I’m still blooming and they don’t see
the fractures I think define me.
Perhaps I still have some life in me.
If a tree can withstand two-hundred years
of storm and sun,
I, too, can live and love a little longer.
Global Poetry Writing Month Poems
Un Cento: A Poem
From the Academy of American Poets, a cento is derived from the Latin word for “patchwork”. The cento (or collage poem) is a poetic form composed entirely of lines from poems by other poets.
Love,
what is love?
I tried to answer,
but our language had been lost
(and forgotten).
So, love’s face may still seem love
(to me).
Everything carries me
(to you).
Love,
what is love?
I tried to answer,
but our language had been lost
(and forgotten).
If little by little,
you stop loving me,
I shall stop loving you…
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me…
Love,
what is love?
I tried to answer,
but
our language had been lost.
If I were a poet,
I’d kidnap you.
Lyric you in lilacs.
If suddenly
you forget me,
do not look for me.
Isabelle Palerma
Poems Used:
- “Love — What is Love?”, Robert Louis Stevenson.
- “In the Dusky Path of a Dream”, Rabindranath Tagore.
- “Sonnet 93”, William Shakespeare.
- “If You Forget Me”, Pablo Neruda.
- “Kidnap Poem”, Nikki Giovanni.
Anorexia: a Poem
I sicken myself with hunger.
If this was a physical disease,
my ribs would be visible through a sheath of skin.
(My rib bones so sharp they could splinter glass.)
Instead, I waste away while appearing strong.
I’d have carved your name on my bones,
but bones fracture and break.
You took a needle to your skin, but this time,
it wasn’t filled with an illness.
You injected yourself with ink,
and ink is my illness, my poison.
If you throw the stars upon the midnight canopy,
a constellation can be found.
In that pattern, my star is home.
But this emptiness gnaws at me, a hunger
that makes me want to devour my own flesh
and cannibalize myself.
Instead, my soul is atrophying with disuse.
(And I pour more and more into myself,
wondering when you’ll return.)
This isn’t a lacuna nor a crater.
You have vanished for longer,
but I have a heart that’s gone beyond starvation.
It’s empty here without you, &
I just wait for your return,
sustaining myself on memories and promises.
Isabelle Palerma
A Shattered Autobiography: a Poem
Like collaging layers of parchment paper
on top of one another,
I have buried myself underneath a rubble
of trauma.
Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon
or a phoenix rising from the ashes,
I am discovering my autobiography
stencilled between lines of poetry
and fiction
and fire.
Every word I scribble down in a mad haste
is a frantic attempt to name a feeling
that is beyond words.
(My way of sketching the rocket ship
that will guide me back to my galaxy.)
The sanitized version of reality
goes down as smoothly as cyanide – a bitter pill,
but somehow, something I’m forced to swallow,
nonetheless.
I see myself in the paint splatters &
the little messes she was so eager to take
a damp rag to.
(This is an imperfect work of art –
lines crooked and acrylics splashed
out of bounds.
This is not something that will catch the eye
of an art dealer.
This is my little mistake on canvas,
but you see,
that inked-in star is home for me.)
I have spent lifetimes, hiding underneath
piles of paper, dodging who I could have been,
avoiding who I could be,
but the truth is
I could be amazing
if you bend the bars of this iron cage.
I could be unstoppable
if you listen to these memoirs,
read these poems,
study these paintings.
When you finally ask who I am,
I’ll tell you.
I’m in media res,
still in the progress of self-discovery,
but I swear, even in the shattered mosaic bits,
I can shimmer.
I, too, can shine.
& perhaps that’s because of your belief in mirrors
that I can see the vestiges of beauty
glittering through the shards others neglected
and left behind.
Isabelle Palerma
An Illness: a Poem
A poem written by me, inspired to share by the poet and author, Nicole Lee (@nicoleleepoetry|Scorpio Skin).
This monster reigns as king,
as heavy as an anvil
(as visible as air).
It begs a fight,
fists clenched,
battle-scarred and ready,
when all I’ve wanted is
tranquility.
The bruises it leaves
rot
from the inside out.
The pain sears,
yet the beast hides
(cloaked in shadows).
It might lie dormant
for centuries.
Undisturbed,
it slumbers.
But when it wakes,
blood trickles from its fangs
as it snarls & seethes.
(Searching for a captive.)
It takes & holds me hostage.
It is as toxic as fumes and as haunting as nightmares.
Isabelle Palerma
Isabelle Palerma 