Lisa Marie Basile’s poetry will make your mind shudder. In the new world order of Female Poets making the earth their literary footstool, Lisa has sculpted a name for herself. Her poems are a link between dystopia and solid ground – ushering you into crescendos of truths.
Lisa Marie Basile is an editor, writer, and poet living in NYC. She founded and edits Luna Luna Magazine and is the author of APOCRYPHAL, as well as a few chapbooks.
Her work as a writer and editor has been profiled in Buzzfeed, The New York Daily News, Amy Poehler’s Smart Girls, VIDA, Poets & Artists Magazine, The Rumpus, Relapse Magazine and other publications.
Snippets of her poetry here will beckon you into new waves of meaning, taunting you to peer into your soul and figure out any demise of self that you hitherto didn’t pay attention to. Her style takes the shape of different inner turmoil and external injustice.
I confess dissociative,
swing a heavy summer down on me. I will not falter
but I am fall.
If it seems I have flowered, you are mistaken.
Our night attracts
simpler things. Other things we don’t see.
That I might be bright white,
a visible thing. I am not a visible thing.
In This Story
in this story,
there is the me
but not me
the me before breaking
& look, there’s my father.
do you smell that? ….
let me really set the scene for you:
in youth I was so beautiful whole houses
shut their mouths. when I came,
barefoot, to stand on porches
dropping to my knees at the window
to watch my father & Sofia recklessly
their polaroid pornography
on that plastic couch:
coral walls ice cream organ song.
the only thing the body knows of desire
is its surroundings.
in our lives
we will talk about fathers
in our white wet dresses
with tobacco undernails, handgloves
& beaded mantilla veils
with the posture of a dressmaker’s mannequin
with desert water sprayed thick like the rotting
at the vanity with a soft gilt hairbrush
with good-girl pearls, merciless rouge
& a sea-foam girdle too big to hold in
the goliath in you.
you say i am gargantuan,
how could you love me?
i don’t. you stand ashamed,
body dripping of candle fat,
an ailing elm tree
its body upright in apology
i want to be so thin
you cannot climb me
To immerse yourself in more poetic marrow by Lisa, check this section of her website.