poet

Needs: a Poem

A prompt from Odessa Grimm.

“I was not born to be quiet.”

I did not come into this world quietly.
My birth was not out of fairy tales
but horror stories of blood
and weakening hearts,
mothers who felt torn apart by my cries.
The shrieking of a baby
who would not be silenced.
Even in slumber, I begged for someone
to love me.
It was about love, about need.
I always needed.
It was something that seemed like greed
to those who did not understand,
but if I could vocalize those cries,
I could tell them
I was not born to be quiet.
I simply had needs
I could not put to words.
Needs for love and attention.
And now, as an adult,
I still cry out,
begging, at times,
for love and attention.

Isabelle Palerma

A Wish: a Cut Up Poem

In the early 2000s, I found myself really into the Beat era of literature and exploring that scene. William S. Burroughs is a local author who was popular in the Beat era. He utilized what is called the “cut up” experimentation method of writing. He learned this from a painter, Brion Gysin.

I have experimented with a stream-of-consciousness piece and cut up some of it and edited it into a poem.

The result is below.

All I had was birthdays and
these trying few.
My holding conversations,
stories,
constellations for why I’m running.
Not writing or holding my breath.
They wonder
did we see lines like breathing sometimes?

Especially those I long to remember –
the air of the lungs I journal about,
things I am told to write of and the lover
of which I am incapable of writing,
the body he and me cannot share
because air he loved like so
(like need).

For to be a cigarette is something I wished.
Smoking, gasping, and in his lungs
deeply unbroken.
You knew first: water.
And do as philosophy,
go to the depths.
I finally dove but too deep.

When not gasping,
you and I long for that sensation,
holding your breath,
holding my breath.
And you’re punctuation.
A wish for a concept.
A wish for me.
Let me be intimate,
young.
All I had was birthdays and
these trying few.

Isabelle Palerma

Stitched: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

Today’s line comes from a poem by No’u Revilla, “When You Say ‘Protesters’, instead of ‘Protectors’.”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “When You Say ‘Protesters’…”.

Every devastation you have granted me
is one too many.
I bleed, but only because you know where
to stick the blade.
We were taught love is a synonym
for sacrifice,
and paramour is on par with martyr.

So I opened my heart to you and gave you
its contents
willingly.
But the ugly truth is
in your mouth,
even womb is wound,
and my gift of love,
of life, was never enough.

You looked at those with gray in their eyes
and stenciled their names into your skin
like it was a colossal act of heroism,
but I was the one
ripped open
and never stitched back
together.

Isabelle Palerma

Shout til Free: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

Today’s line comes from a poem by Sally Wen Mao, “Anna May Wong Stars as Cyborg #86”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Anna May Wong Stars as Cyborg #86”.

Trigger Warning: Dark themes.

For so long –
too long –
the victors controlled our story.
They told the ending,
wrapped the packaging,
gave it a tidy bow,
and flavored how others saw us.

The men called us “hysterical”.
The rapists said we were “bitches”.
Mothers who found us unlovable
deemed us “troublemakers”.

They all took their turns throwing us
to the wolves,
feeding us
to those with hungry teeth
and starving eyes.

Let’s hijack the narrative,
steer the story ourselves.

We will fight the enemy.
Swim the rising current.
Dance in the streets
the Tarantella.
No longer grit our teeth
but scream if we must.

Shout
and shout
until we are heard
because we will steer this narrative.

Shift this story
from hysterical
to alive,
to fully alive
and aware.

Change our stories
from man-made mythology
to truth.

The truth will free us.

Isabelle Palerma

If I Forget: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

Today’s line comes from a poem by Don Mee Choi, “Wings of Return”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Wings of Return”.

If I forget your name, please forgive me, I’m not myself today. My memories have memories all their own. Sometimes, the memories come. Sometimes, they go.

They have a word for this, you know. What’s the word? My memory isn’t what it used to be.

You wouldn’t understand. You’re just so young. Too young. When I was your age. When I was young.

My memories have memories all their own. Memory’s memory. Memory’s child. My memory lives inside a dust-filled armoire, inside a hope chest, inside a rarely looked at steamer trunk.

My memories are the children of ancestors whose names we’ve forgotten. We’ve forgotten so much.

If I forget your name, please forgive me, I’m not myself today. Sometimes, the memories come. Sometimes, they go. You wouldn’t understand.

You’re just so young. Too young. When I was your age. When I was young. When I was young. When I was young…

When I was young, I didn’t forget so much.