Gizzi Quotes

The lack of color is to show off the dresses. It terrifies our patrons into an existential crisis and then, a purchase. This is what Gizzy tells me, anyway. “The black,” she says, “reminds us that we are mortal and that youth is fleeting. Also, nothing makes pink taffeta pop like a dark void.

You have the power to adjust you life experience simply be being grateful.

I wanted it all under my bigtop turntable mixing close

You have the power to adjust your life experience simply by being grateful.

There is nothing in the world that I cannot achieve when I have the courage to believe.

My poetry is who I am down to the core, even though I do not write autobiographical verse. I have built a syntax and a language to understand myself in the world."—Peter Gizzi

Beauty walks this world. It ages everything. I am far and I am an animal and I am just another I-am poem,           a we-see poem, a they-love poem. The green. All the different windows. There is so much stone here. And grass. So beautiful each           translucent electric blade. And the noise. Cheers folding into traffic. These things.           Things that have been already said many times: leaf, zipper, sparrow, lintel, scarf, window shade.

I am the master of my own destiny, so I choose greatness and nothing less.

That I Saw the Light on Nonotuck Avenue That every musical note is a flame, native in its own tongue. That between bread and ash there is fire. That the day swells and crests. That I found myself born into it with sirens and trucks going by out here in a poem. That there are other things that go into poems like the pigeon, cobalt, dirty windows, sun. That I have seen skin in marble, eye in stone. That the information I carry is mostly bacterial. That I am a host. That the ghost of the text is unknown. That I live near an Air Force base and the sound in the sky is death. That sound like old poetry can kill us. That there are small things in the poem: paper clips, gauze, tater tots, and knives. That there can also be emptiness fanning out into breakfast rolls, macadam, stars. That I am hungry. That I seek knowledge of the ancient sycamore that also lives in the valley where I live. That I call to it. That there are airships overhead. That I live alone in my head out here in a poem near a magical tree. That I saw the light on Nonotuck Avenue and heard the cry of a dove recede into a rustle. That its cry was quiet light falling into a coffin. That it altered me. That today the river is a camera obscura, bending trees. That I sing this of metallic shimmer, sing the sky, the song, all of it and wonder if I am dying would you come back for me?