free verse poetry

Poet Spotlight on: Odessa Grimm

Odessa Grimm, in their own words, is a poet who writes from the places people usually avoid – the quiet, heavy corners shaped by memory, trauma, and heartbreak.

Their work is raw and honest; sometimes, according to Odessa, it can be “uncomfortable” because they don’t believe in softening the truth to make it easier to hold.

When did you realize your writing voice had developed into your own?

It wasn’t just a single moment – more like when I noticed I stopped asking for permission to write and be myself. I realized my voice had settled in when I could read something and recognize it as something I was actually proud of.

How do you decide what goes into a poem and what to leave out?

I try to keep what carries weight and brings emotions out. If a line is only there to sound pretty, it usually goes. If it hurts a little, I leave it in.

What would your younger self think of your poems?

I think my younger self would feel seen – maybe a little exposed. Probably surprised the things they tried to hide became the very material I write about. There might be pride there but also a quiet kind of grief, realizing that the reason why I’m writing is because we lost our best friend.

What is a line from a famous poem that haunts you?

A line that stays with me is from Emily Dickinson:

“Tell the truth, but tell it slant.“

It lingers because it understands something essential about poetry that truth can be too sharp to face.

Angling it, shaping it doesn’t weaken it. It makes it survivable, and sometimes, more honest.

Do you believe poetry has the power to shape the world we live in?

I do think it can shape the world we live in but not in loud, immediate ways. It works slower than that. It changes how people see, and once perception shifts, choices follow.

A poem can name something someone didn’t have language for before, and that alone can alter how they move through life.

girls like me stop blooming
when we are told
your anger is unbecoming
your brightness is too much
your mouth is a threat
so we grey
quietly
& rot
elegantly.

-Odessa Grimm

Isabelle Palerma

The Woman who Couldn’t Die: a Blackout Poem

A prompt from Maureen Thorson.

“Write your own blackout poem. Maybe you’ll find something of interest in the Internet Archives.”

According to Claire McNerney, from The Writing Cooperative, “blackout poetry is a form of found poetry where the poet takes a text and removes words from it, creating a new text”.

Here’s mine:

She looked like a goddess,
no doubt,
in another way,
she seemed very much a woman.
She was primitive,
casual
in her childlike uncovering of her body,
in the unconcern of the eyes of others
when she bathed.
She knew that she was beautiful;
and she had knowledge of the power
of beauty.

She watched a wild goose fly overhead,
watched it as it disappeared from sight.
“Tell me,” she said, “where did I come from?”

Needling of apprehension through my body.
How much she should be told
was not easy to determine.
“From across the sea.”
“It must have been long ago.”
“Yes. It was long ago.”

Isabelle Palerma

Mourning: a Poem

A prompt from Maureen Thorson.

“Write your own meditation on grief, with a middle section in which a question is repeated with different answers given.”

We dressed our mirrors in black,
hiding our reflections from even ourselves.
Our songs turn to lamentations,
our eyes wet with tears.

How do you mourn your dead?
You speak their name
so they will not be forgotten.

How do you mourn your dead?
You find their symbolic language
and look for them
every day.

How do you mourn your dead?
You don’t mourn the loss.
You celebrate the life they led.
You wear colors so bright
we look like confetti.
You dance under a full moon
to songs that feel like worship.

We visited cemeteries
and talked to ghosts,
whispered prayers to candles.

How do you mourn your dead?
We celebrate the days we shared
and forget the ugly rot of death.

Isabelle Palerma

This Vision of Myself: a Poem

Remind me
what it’s like to be exuberantly seven –
climbing trees without worrying about
the consequences of falling
or bloody noses
or if that branch might crack.

What it’s like to chase someone
while riding bikes
without worrying about skinned knees
or twisted, broken bones.

What it’s like to be three –
painting all the colors
because rainbows are my favorite color
and nobody told me my art is terrible yet.

Remind me
it’s okay to be fragile
like I was at fifteen,
easily a pendulum swing,
singing Fleetwood Mac with my boyfriend
in the attic bedroom
one minute, debating what it’d be like
to kiss him,
tasting pot on his breath.
The next, crying
because he’d rather play his guitar
than go to some silly homecoming dance
with me.

Remind me
it’s okay to write the poetry like I did
at eleven,
crying, staring at the moon,
wondering why God robbed me of
the only people who understand me.

Remind me what it’s like to be
in my twenties and trying so hard
to be perfect and in control
when everything was falling apart.

Or my thirties and realizing life
is kintsugi and mosaic combined.

Sometimes, I look at myself
and wonder who I am.
If I’m just a matryoshka doll
disguised as human.
The mirror is broken.
I don’t fully see myself yet,
and I’m not sure I ever will.

Isabelle Palerma

Restored Sight/Rediscovery: a Poem

A prompt from a.r. rogers:

“If I gave in to my free will today…”

It’s easy to think someone else
is the master of our circumstances –
a puppeteer
and we’re marionettes, strings tugged on.
But if I were in charge
of my own strings for a change,
perhaps I would cross a few things off
my list – not my to-do list,
but my bucket list.

Instead of going grocery shopping,
I’d go zip lining in the jungle.
Instead of writing poetry in my room,
I’d be performing it on a stage.
Instead of being a coward,
I’d be brave.
Instead of loving,
I’d make love in the rain.

I never wished to be hollow.
I never wished to be empty.
& yet, somewhere along the way,
I lost sight of free will, and I gave my keys
to a different master.
Somewhere along the way, I surrendered
myself and nobody found the heart
to tell me
I could be anything I want.
I just need to rediscover my free will.

This is the beginning of restored sight.
The start of a rediscovery.

I’m giving in to my free will today.