Poet Spotlight on: Jimmy Broccoli

Jimmy Broccoli is a Library Branch Manager by day and a published poet by night with a mission to inspire his readers through imaginative poetic storytelling. His work has been featured in several publications and he released his first full-length book, “Damaged”, on Christmas Day 2021 and compiled the poetry anthology, “Spotlight”, released in March 2022. He enjoys walks on the beach and playing with puppies.

His poetry is raw and tells a story. When you read Broccoli’s poetry, you can feel the emotion of each poem as though you had written it yourself. His poems cut through you like the serrated edge of a knife and don’t hold anything back.


What does poetry mean to you?

I’m a narrative poet, so poetry – for me – is a way to tell stories. Sometimes I write autobiographical poems, sometimes I write fictional accounts – and, often, I write pieces that dwell somewhere in the middle of the two. Much of my writing deals with grief, raw emotions, loss, and death – so poetry, for me, is often a car crash – stories bleeding onto paper or across a computer screen, staining the carpet below. Poetry allows me to express what I would normally keep quiet or secret – it allows me to breathe life into the otherwise unanimated.

When did you begin writing poetry and what has your writing journey been like?


I began writing poetry at age 12 – but didn’t find my “poetic voice” until my early 20s. As an English major at University, I took an upper-level Modern Poetry class and fell in love with confessional poetry – Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Stevie Smith, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and others. My poetic style continues to be heavily influenced by the confessional poets of the mid-1900s.

Whose poetry would you say influences you most? In what ways has it influenced you?  

In addition to the modern confessional poets, my poetry is heavily influenced by music – mostly alternative. The lyrics of Nine Inch Nails, Keaton Henson, Morrissey, and Sigur Ros have been more influential upon my writing than the work of other poets. All of these musical artists write highly emotional, powerful, and raw lyrics – exposing the often strange, dangerous, rebellious, extreme, and dark sides of life. It is within this world I usually write. I keep a flashlight handy.

What is your favorite thing about writing poetry?

Poetry, for me, is the escape hatch behind the bedroom closet that opens into a world similar to ours – but more magical and poetic. Writing as Jimmy, I get the opportunity to be someone else for short periods, while still clinging on to my regular identity and life. It’s often thrilling – and a lot of fun.

What is your least favorite thing about writing poetry?

As a side effect of writing raw, emotional verse, the process of writing a poem can take me out of living for several hours or an entire day. When I write very personal poems, usually filled with painful emotions, I become mentally crippled – it’s much like having a temporary mental meltdown – but knowing it will soon be okay. I go through this until my mind tells me, “Hey, it’s time to function again”. Then, I get up and continue with my day.

Tell me about it. It’s an exhausting process writing an emotionally charged poem. What’s your process like?

I never block off or schedule time to write – ideas come to me and – if I like the ideas – I find the nearest pen and paper or computer and begin writing. For me, editing is a constant phase of the writing process – I edit while writing the initial draft and will revisit the piece to edit for the next day or two. I read every line dozens of times – and every time I make a change, I begin reading the poem from the beginning. On average, the initial draft of a poem takes me 2 – 4 hours to write – while the extra editing time can be fairly short (30 minutes) or take a few hours to complete.

As mentioned above, the writing process – for me – can be a painful one – but it is also therapeutic. Writing is a way for me to shed my demons and get out the emotions that have built up over the years. Writing is a release for me.

Who would you have over for lunch of your literary heroes/heroines and what would you serve? What food and which drinks? Why? What would you talk about over the meal?

Well – if musicians who write beautiful lyrics can be considered, I’d invite singer Jón Þór Birgisson (Jonsi), from Sigur Ros, over for lunch. No other writer, from my experience, reaches the epic emotional states Jonsi brings to music and verse.

Both Jonsi and I are vegan – Jonsi is a raw food vegan – so I’d prepare a large vegan platter that included fruits, vegetables, and nuts or bring a Raw Food Pistachio Zucchini Lasagna. A picnic in the park would be nice. I’d bring a sauvignon blanc (white wine) for me and bring whatever he prefers for him. I’m certain we’d talk about him throughout the meal. He’s a fascinating guy and I know I’d learn volumes from him. He is a hero of mine and spending any time with him would be a high honor.

How has poetry changed you?

Poetry has made me more community-minded. I love being a part of the worldwide poetry community and am a member of a good number of poetry groups online. These relationships – often leading to friendships – inspire my writing and are very enjoyable.

Where can readers find you?

https://amzn.to/3x6o0IP

http://www.jimmybroccoli.com


Broken God

His unshaven posture weakens
He wilts into my arms as if we’re dancing
A delicate dandelion stem exposed to hurricanes
A falling toaster into bathwater
With bubbles

He is crumpled paper and smeared ink
Downturned blue eyes
With confidence hung from rope
Swinging from unstable rafters
Looking down upon a chair with faded and expired paint

I build a fort

Marmalade bed sheets surround his symphony
In stillness, I pronounce him king
Fluffy life rafts in pillowcases
Mix-matched blankets and couch cushions
He sits in silence, thinking only in whispers

With evaporated tears, he falls asleep, handsome
I hold my breath, then exhale diamonds
My emotions spill upon the floor
As I listen to him breathing
-Jimmy Broccoli

Isabelle Palerma

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