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.
Poet Brandan T.C. McCarty lives in Washington and in addition to writing poetry, he is interested in music and art. As a member of the Makah tribe, he has been a dancer, singer, and artist in that culture.
Brandan, you have said before music influences your writing. How exactly does music play a role on the poetry you create?
Yes, music is an influence. I listen to a large base of music because of family and friends introducing me to new music. It depends on the music sound being played, and it could just be a lyric(s). Metallica is a huge influence.
Writing is a form of art, but I know you also paint. What does the intersection of art and writing mean to you?
In ’01, I was hurt emotionally by a teacher in art college. I would destroy any art I created, so I switched to writing to deal with traumatic past events. In ’11, I started to work with acrylic paints. By ’18, I became a visual artist as well as a New Age Coastal Artist for my Native art. The past two and half years, I have been using many mediums and platforms to create art pieces. I still wrote, but not as much. I figured why not do both and maybe blend them together in some pieces. ‘The Wanderer’ is close to a visual concept of what I am evolving into as an artist.
Your Makah roots are very important to you, as is family and knowing your history. This is evident in the poetry you write. What would you advise the young poet who is not as well-versed in their past as you?
My roots are important. My dad has said to me all that I do reflects back on your teachers and persons involved with you. My mom said the same thing in her way of communicating to me. I read. I read just about anything. I was told to figure out the style you want to write, and then go find published work similar so your skill can be honest. As for past or culture, read and spend time with families and friends. Listen, take time to actually listen. Even if it is a day spent sitting in a kitchen drinking coffee and watching grandpa carve, or dad paint a mask. Open yourself to learn, to fall and get back up.
How would you describe your being a father as an influence on your poetry?
I used to have some selfish habits, and those habits almost claimed my life. I came to realize, I don’t want this for my eldest son. Nor any other child that looks up to me. So I turned from booze, I went back to arts. Poetry is art, to me just about anything could be considered an art. Now, with my baby I have been relearning to sing my Native Family songs and dancing the dances. I have been away too long from it. I guess I can say, being a father has enriched my poetry with more care and love than I had before.
Who are some of your favorite poets? What aspects of their poetry appeal to you as a reader? As a writer?
Charles Bukowski, as a reader, good comic. Biography spoken in poetry verse. As a writer, someone once said my work reminds him of Bukowski. Raymond Carver, as a reader, his work involving water or daily life. As a writer, I met Tess Gallagher and she said I reminded her of her late husband, Raymond. J. A. Janice has one book of poetry. Read a little a bit of it. A strong woman, and a gentle soul. She writes crime novels. Met her a couple times in person. My mom got me into her works. My late Mama Valerie, because she had a talent of words and wish I recorded some of her work better.
I stand before you, shivering and straggling a box. A battered, scarred, worn box full of the darkness I wish to gift you. The air I taste and breathe, is excellences of sweetness. In my bitter hands, 1 hold my broken dreams and scattered Spirit. All the past lovers have left their mark, tainting my heart and you stand before me Accepting the box, receiving as a gift and you set the broken box at our feet You lift up my dampen chin, my flooded beard and your lips swim in my waters You brave the morose salt for a delicate kiss. In return, you gift me light. You gift me soothing songs to dance my heart I gift you my darkness, and you gift me the warming light.
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.
My poet today is FH Denny. For the month of April, I have found a diverse group of poets willing to bare their souls to me and share both their poetry and answer my questions. Global Poetry Writing Month is a great time to learn about poets across the world, and the people I have chosen to interview are a diverse group with a wide variety of identities, ages, and cultural backgrounds.
Poet and fiction author FH Denny was born in the U.K. but now lives in New Zealand. He/they write fantasy novels as well as poetry and are a passionate reader, stating his/their favorite book as the novel Watership Down.
In my poetry, I often find a common theme, but your poems seem to run the gamut of different themes. What inspires your writing?
If I were writing a book of poetry, I would try to stick to a theme, but the poems I share on my website are inspired by how I feel at the time. I’m using that space to experiment with different topics and finding new ways to express myself.
What kind of rituals do you have when writing poetry?
I’m not sure I have rituals. I am fairly spontaneous when it comes to poetry. I go through short periods of poetry-inspo where I write whatever comes into my head. Then I go for months without writing a single poem, not even a haiku.
Is there a particular time of day or place you like to write?
I write most of my poetry in my room on my computer. My desk is placed in front of a large window that overlooks the garden and fields that slope down to a small brook fringed with willows and lilies. We rent the fields to a neighbour who keeps the cutest miniature horses. Sometimes you can see the black rabbits that have made a home here and families of pukeko, New Zealand’s raptor-like swamphen. I write best in the mornings. My brain is sharpest then.
When did you first begin writing poetry?
I’ve been writing poetry since I was little. However, those poems consisted of made-up words, a shortcut to ensuring my sentences rhymed. Think of it as a poorly crafted Lewis Caroll attempt.
What transforms a poem from “good” to “spectacular” in your eyes?
The best poems are noticeably authentic. They’re not pretentious, nor do they try too hard with their structure. Even where craft is lacking, true emotion and honest sentiment ensure a profound connection with the reader.
Who are some of your favorite poets?
Emily Dickinson, W.H Auden, Sylvia Plath.
Which areas do you think you excel in? Which areas do you think you need improvement in?
I do not think I excel at all when it comes to poetry. I am definitely still a rookie. Therefore, I feel I could improve in every area. If I had to pick a specific weakness it would be a tendency to repeat myself. I like to say things more than once. Even in everyday speech, I have form for echoing what I’ve just said.
What is your favorite part about writing poetry?
It’s a way to put into words your inner fears, desires and hurts. As opposed to prose, you don’t have to worry about context, you can get straight to the heart of the matter. It’s probably one of the most therapeutic forms of writing.
Do you have a favorite word? If so, what is it?
Equivocal. One of my editors uses it a lot. I find the sound rather humorous. It’s such a pompous sounding word, yet it has a pixie-like ring to it.
I don’t think you are in – Heaven – you are much too earthy for – Heaven. I don’t think you are in – Hell – you are much too good for – Hell. I don’t think you are a – spirit – you were not the spiritual type. Although mum told me of fairy blood in you – as runs through the veins of the Manx. Then you must be in your grave, but I don’t know where that is – we could not visit your funeral- See – but you can’t see for your eyes are closed, as is the custom of the dead.
Then you must be sleeping – somewhere where it’s green – or in a chocolate shop – maybe? Where would you have liked to lie – if lying you have been? Pity – I wouldn’t know; I didn’t know you well.
Had I been far, far, away over the seven seas – maybe – but I fear you’d have more to lose. I asked mum one day what you feared the most – she told me losing your mind. I’ll tell you one thing, Grandma, God did not create this world, but perhaps it was Murphy’s law – I may have known you better, but you may have known me worse. The more marbles you have cluttering your mind, the more marbles you’d likely lose. A pity how the mind contradicts the heart – as your heart gets bigger, your mind gets smaller. You had friends in many places, from Nigeria to the Isle of Man and from New Zealand to the Isle of Crete. Grandma, the world is unkind when it steals a nurse’s mind.
It is why you’re not Murphy’s nature – spirit, or a Heavenly – creature But instead a valued memory – that touched those who mattered. Grandma, those memories you lost weren’t really lost. They were just passing through – from your mind to your friend’s minds – to your family and kin. I may not have known you that much then but I can picture you now. Grandma – I know where you are now – you must be in our minds.
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 