A blog and burrow by Nicole Buzzelli
Shapeless
The more lines I draw, the less shape I got. But I guess, the more shape too.
Looking for Advice. Found Some in Spacetime.
I imagine low-paneled walls, moss green paint, fresco bodies on the ceiling. Every thesis I’ve ever written has been about the body.
i have my body softly
my winter:
I. somewhere, truth and silence are each other. both are empty; both are full. both are vaporous; both are sturdy. be quiet, then be honest. be honest, then be quiet.
II. poetry is a way of being and a way of being experienced. write poetry. be poetry. experience others as poems.
when you forget what you are made from
Spend the summer months
mouthing the unspeakable.
Spend fall holding your tongue.
By the time winter comes,
be done with words altogether.
Bow your head and empty its
contents into the dirt.
on feelings
how to not drown: keep swimming
how to stop swimming: sink down
how to sink well: don’t worry,
at the bottom of ocean
is ground
Childish said: can't live your life on a bus
Blah, blah, can't live your life in a doorway.
DEAR—
This is a love letter to myself, but I'm hoping that if I do it well, it will also be to everything. There is a flower that has bloomed inside my chest. It is not blooming; it has bloomed. It is beautiful and colorful and wide and has so many layers of petals that you can run your fingertips across them forever and each rim will still offer you something entirely new. Like all things, it has a heart in the middle. I did not bloom this flower. It bloomed itself. I was just the garden.
On Being Human (some field notes)
1) I am in Georgia, in Memphis, in the Ozarks, the mountains, the city, an open field in Missouri, house under a thunderstorm, again, body under the rain, and I wonder: where am I? where am I? here? here? how do I make myself into a thing that's gathered?
Ode to Limits
My first pair of glasses bridged my nose
at eight. Grow in thickness every year.
'And what about laser?' they all ask.
After sporting them for less than a minute.
After laughing. After handing them back.
'I could,' I always say
because I could.
I could, but what would I lose?
The Half Bad Poem
I never remember the thirst in my body until it rains
and my chest starts heaving thank god thank god.
Dear You, Who is Also a Tree—
This is a love letter because there are still some places where I can't use the word without tripping over myself. Have you ever wanted to tell somebody that you loved them, but you weren't even sure how you meant it? Well, I love you, whatever that means. I just hope it reaches you in time, but I'm also no longer pretending that I know what time is up to these days.
prayer for existence
So I pray. I pray to all the gods and that is also everyone. I pray to all the people, keep your Existence close. I pray to the Ukrainian people that at the end of this long day, you are in a bed, safe, so safe. I pray to the trans kids in Texas that the expression of your Existence is as it should be, a sacred choice. I pray to the hands. To my own, work and protect. To the ones laid across my collarbone, keep your hands on my collarbone. And to the Ukrainian girl on my computer, I see you and keep your hands on that rifle.
