Fragments of the soul: poetry, body, and identity in a world that seeks participation

“Someone told me that my poems bleed. I believe there is no more fitting symbolism to express the meaning of this book.”

These words, spoken by the author of Fragments of the Soul, Silvia Lisena, capture the essence of a work that does not speak only about disability, but above all about humanity. A book that, with essential and musical verses, tells fragments of life, complicated loves, and identities in search of a name.
Without giving in to pity or to the packaged language of awareness campaigns.

Published by Impremix Edizioni and also available on Amazon, Fragments of the Soul stands alongside the author’s other work, the novel The Circus of Wonders, published by Abrabooks.

Writing beyond the boundaries of gender and body

“I have always been a prose writer,” Lisena says, “but poetry surprised me. It arrived at moments when I needed lightness, synthesis, and music.”

Born from this intimate need, the poetry in Fragments of the Soul takes on an essential and sharp form. It does not describe, it evokes. It does not explain, it suggests. Each verse is a fragment, a “lacerto,” precisely, that recalls the high tradition of Italian lyric poetry — from Petrarch to Leopardi — but opens itself to a contemporary, personal, radical lexicon.

Surprisingly, the word “disability” appears rarely. “I speak of diversity,” the author says. “Which is what, in the end, unites us all.” It is a poetic statement, but also a political one: the body that writes is first and foremost a human body, with desires, limits, and its own languages.

“Oproc” and “The Lost Name”: The grammar of resistance

Among the most powerful poems stand out Oproc and The Lost Name.

Oproc, a word that is “body” read backwards, is a hymn to the non-conforming body. “I speak about my body, but it could be anyone’s who does not fit a standard,” Lisena states.

“A body hated, feared, loved, rejected but finally respected. Because it has resisted. Because it has survived despite everything. Despite us.” It is the body that fights, that refuses to be simplified, that exists in its entirety and does not ask permission to exist. The Lost Name, instead, addresses the theme of rare and undiagnosed diseases. “I question the value of the name,” she says. “The name as identity, but also as stigma. What happens when you don’t have one?”

In a medical and cultural system that needs labels in order to recognize existence, poetry becomes a tool of self-determination. A declaration of presence: “I am here. Even without a label.”

Society, love, and the rhetoric of inclusion

The author’s personal experience intertwines with a lucid critique of the dominant narrative on disability.

“The problem is not my condition,” she observes. “But how society interprets it.”

Silvia denounces the fragmentation of the associative world, often more focused on visibility than on the real intersection of needs. “Everyone tends their own little garden,” she says. “There is a lack of a real network.” Even regarding romantic inclusion, her stance goes against the current. “Continuing to hold conferences to say that people with disabilities can also have a sex life does not help. True love will be inclusive only when it no longer needs to be shouted, but simply lived.”

Between work, art, and new projects: living without asking permission

In everyday life, Silvia Lisena is a teacher. A job that, for those with disabilities and without a car, involves practical obstacles that are still too often ignored.
Further complicating the picture is the current structure of the teacher recruitment pathway desired by the Ministry, which in no way facilitates aspiring teachers with motor disabilities. Silvia teaches in the town where she lives — a fortunate condition — but she points out that not everyone has this possibility.

But there is also art, which becomes a tool of struggle and communication.

“Art is an accessible language,” she says. “An open door, more than a microphone. It can touch without explaining, it can welcome.”

She is already working on a new project: a manual on disability designed to dismantle stereotypes and support those who struggle to find a voice. But her real advice today is simple: “Reach out to other realities. Break boundaries whenever you can. Unity is strength.”

Poetry as mirror and weapon

To those who feel lost, Silvia would give Oproc. To those who see disability only as a limitation, she says:

“Limits are meant to be overcome.”

And Fragments of the Soul, in the end, is precisely this: a fragmented map of what is possible. A book that does not heal, but opens. That does not console, but invites. That does not shout, but remains.
Because, as Silvia writes, “bleeding is not synonymous with weakness. It is the sign that we are still alive.”