On January 18, 2015, at Stanford University, Brock Turner, a nineteen-year-old student, sexually assaulted Chanel Miller while she was unconscious. On September 2, 2016, Turner was released after three months for good behavior – only half his original sentence.
The original scene ofthe crime is now a garden.
If we could landscape the horrors and build walls of stone (to call them beautiful), we would. But remember – even without these gardens planted, you can upend our worlds.
There are names we never speak in our households like giving Satan a title (a crown) – James, perhaps, or Geoffrey, maybe. The boys with ruddy skin & sharp teeth, the boys with trust funds and drinking problems.
The girls we worry about are the ones who think “no” isn’t a reason or that “stop” isn’t a complete thought.
The ones who break us are the ones who teach us rejection doesn’t matter —
nothing matters.
Boys aren’t always just boys. Boys can be feral creatures: unforgiving with dried blood underneath their crescent moon nails.
Boys like Nathaniel and Brock and Christopher.
(The boys you thought were beautiful are the ones who disrobed you with their lust & savagely attacked your beauty with no regard for how you crafted your stars or lingered over your constellations.)
Manipulate me, but I will always say your name.
I will not be quieted because like the author warned me, the girls who swallow their teeth are the ones who get eaten.
So, I will not get roped into settling for the garden of Eden and blamed for taking a bite of the fruit of knowledge.
I will not be silenced. I will not be vanquished. I will scream.
Isabelle Palerma
The crime scene where administration refused to let the words Chanel Miller chose be placed on a plaque in honor of victims of sexual assault.
Love is a Ouija board for the lost souls and the damned — I will not surrender my planchette if it means giving control to the ghosts. I contain within me a cemetery with anonymous tombstone and nameless crypts. I thought mausoleums were meant to be quiet & this one is as loud as a burlesque hall.
You are a ghost & I cannot commit to a life of haunting.
Seances never felt like homecomings but I gave you my last dance – those nights always scented of clove cigarettes and nostalgia heavy like cologne –
I remember watching the moon cut through trees and thought myself a spirit drifting in & out of your life.
I’m writing absences where your heart used to lie, lacunae where stars used to soar. You were my sanctuary, & I thought I believed in forever.
None of this is broken, but sometimes, parts of me fracture.
Every time I try to write, memories of who I was or who I could be resurrect like Lazarus from a tomb.
My skin is barely hanging on my body & I have grown frail. My desires are no longer carnal, and my rage no longer violent. (She told me the years would soften me like overripe fruit, and I denied it like my hard edges have an advantage.)
Now, here we are at the gates and Peter interrogates me — he asks me why I harbored so much hate, but even if I have forgiven, I couldn’t be lace and be defined by my empty spaces.
I feel like I’ve ruptured, and a part of me will never be the same. I’ve said it before, so maybe I’ll say it again, a fabulist isn’t always a liar — sometimes, just a storyteller.
I followed this line until it fractured and you taught me about the fault lines I never grew up along. He asked me if I still smell like autumn, and people clamored to say hazelnut coffee or brittle fall leaves. I never knew who I was, only what others saw.
I couldn’t be lace. I read through the doctor’s notes and they all diagnosed me the same –
a tired cliché.
This isn’t Plath nor will it ever be, but the most I can ever ask for is someone to love me as I am, to take me into their arms, and not to simply tolerate – not to merely accept – but to cherish, to celebrate, to worship, & to love.
You gathered all these different parts of me, all the different eras, and you saw who I was reflected through each, and you swore you’d stay (as long as I didn’t push too hard).
I’ve been pushing people away for centuries now, and I’m tired.
This certainly isn’t the poem I started, but now that you see me clearly, tell me – will you be the one to run?
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.
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.
Isabelle Palerma 