Maria Nazos's Blog

Dan Osborn and I (pre-drag) at a 2024 event in Lincoln, Nebraska.

I know—it’s been a rough ride for all of us. The world keeps pitching and yawing us into its eternal shitstorm; we’re all trying not to be thrown overboard. You know me—I’ll never tell you to stick your head in the sand or water, because you know I never will, because you’ll only get stuck in the mud. I’ll look straight at the storm, squint into the dark, and still try to name what’s beautiful.

Maybe that’s the illusion of control. Perhaps it’s not. All I know is this: if I don’t aim my energy toward the places I can influence, I’ll lose the thread of myself. So here’s what I’m prioritizing—small lighthouses in this shifting sea—which I gently, poetically, urgently suggest to you too:

Can you spot a certain Greek progressive Greek girl standing beside Dan Osborn (right)…at an EVENT WITH A GUY IN A MAGA HAT (left). These kinds of political efforts are nothing short of remarkable. Photo credit and source: Jordan Carney.

Check on your queer friends. Especially your trans friends, especially the ones you haven’t seen in a while—old students, folks you admire, friends who drifted to the edges of your life. I can’t speak for trans people, but I imagine many are feeling frightened right now, with good reason. Ask them how they’re doing. Let them talk. Listen with both ears, both eyes, your whole ribcage.

Reset the psychic algorithm. Share what you love. Share what delights you, what haunts you, what reminds you that you’re alive. Flood the comments, post on my wall—I promise, I will never tire of it. I’m not into toxic positivity; its brightness blinds. But I believe that our scrappy, wild, necessary art needs a chance to breathe above the noise. I have created a mini-tradition on Facebook and Instagram, called Happy, Shitty Friday, where I open up my walls and comments to all my followers’ good news, poems, and pictures.

HAPPY, SHITTY FRIDAY! Instead of dwelling in the psychic mire, join me on Facebook, IG, and Substack, and GIVE ME SOME SUGAR!

• Follow Nebraska Appleseed or your state’s ACLU. Their work makes a difference. Sign up for their emails. Add your voice here: NE Appleseed.. I feel less powerless when my name enters the record.

• Get involved in local politics. I’m heading out on Monday to see Dan Osborn. True confession: I dressed in drag as him last Halloween. Who wore it best? Honestly, probably Dan—but maybe I’ll reprise the role this year. He’ll be in Lincoln tomorrow, Sept. 22, at 6 pm. If you want to come, sign up here: Dan Osborn events.

It is I, in a red hat. JUST KIDDING - MADE YOU LOOK: BLACK LIVES MATTER.

• Your turn. What anchors you? What rituals or rebellions keep you tethered to sanity and care?

Because here’s the truth: We are only as strong as the net we weave together. We don’t survive by going it alone—we survive by reaching out in the dark and finding a hand, warm and waiting.

The small but mighty Maria Nazos henceforth transforms into Dan Osborn. Think my friend will get mad if I dress up as if again this year for her epic party?

Image of Charlie Kirk from 6ABC.

Charlie Kirk was a bigot. And a dog-whistle-blowing racist. And he did his best to ruin America. And he was successful. And his last words were every bit as hateful. I don’t miss him. I don’t mourn him, but I mourn how callous we’ve become - did you see the video? Blood literally shot from the side of his neck.

And people, including my fellow progressives, are dancing and laughing or eulogizing and martyrizing, or making memes within hours of him dying. Yes, we all have a right to our feelings and thoughts. Yes, we should exercise these rights while we still have them, while the window seems to slide shut even more every day. And yes, there’s a strange justice to it all, but are we so hardened that we think this act of violence is funny or deserved? The thing about evil is that it can strike any of us, sometimes, even assholes.

But is this the America we live in? A place where we laugh or feel zero empathy or shock as we watch blood pop out of a man’s neck? It seems to me that we’re living in Charlie Kirk’s idea of paradise: A place where we’re as hardened about violence, as pathologically divisive and callous as he is, a place where he, even long after his death, has won.

I don’t want to let his maligned legacy live. And I don’t want to eulogize him.

What I want to do is say these words and not feel sadness over the loss of Kirk, but for the senseless acts of violence that can overtake any one of us on any day. Given that we live amid this madness, it also seems natural that we must vent, joke, laugh, scream.

But do we understand, my fellow progressives, that as we continue to laugh and joke and celebrate his death, we’re further normalizing gun violence. Our lives, too, are on the line.

We’re developing psychological calluses more every day. And OF COURSE, I feel for those suffering in Gaza, and the too-many mass shouting victims. And OF COURSE I know that far better, more vulnerable people die every day. And OF COURSE I know Kirk didn’t give a good goddamn. And of COURSE I know that his killing and blasé reactions to it are stunningly insensitive, too. And no, I won’t eulogize him. But I can’t just shut down a human response of sadness.

But let’s please not “All Lives Matter” this shit, because, to be clear - no, I don’t mourn Charlie Kirk, but who we have become.

This is not my eulogy for Charlie Kirk. This is my eulogy for America.

My new poetry collection, PULSE, will be out with Omnidawn Publishing in Spring 2026 — but first, I need your eye for beauty!

These very rough ideations and inspiration images are early explorations of what the cover might become — and I’d love your opinion.

⚠️ Important: Read this description if you're not familiar w/my work. (TW for violence).

PULSE interrogates the loss of friends to cancer, hate crimes, & mass shootings, including the 2016 Pulse Nightclub. The poems examine the life force of a fragmented world.

Vote on PULSE covers!

Your feedback will help guide the final look for PULSE. Thank you for lending your voice (and your excellent taste)! 💖

Maria’s Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

So THIS REALLY just happened.

I went to Staples, thinking I'd print out some rough cover ideations of PULSE to share with the wonderful Omnidawn Publishing.

I was not prepared for what just took place.

The guy who waited on me printed these rough cover concepts of PULSE and is new to Lincoln.

He recently lived in Orlando...and was a regular at The PULSE Nightclub. Six of his friends were the shooting victims.

Things got really emotional, needless to say. He - Jade - gave me permission to write and post this. As I broke into goosebumps, I told him I hoped I was doing it right, doing justice to the people who had none.

With tears in his eyes, he told me, "So many people worry about what's right. Do what's authentic."

I'm still reeling. This collection was meant to be. We never know who our work reaches until it does.

As long as we're alive, we have to listen to our PULSE.

Six stanzas. Six end words. Obsessively repeated. A final tercet that ties it all together—or completely unravels you. But here’s the good news: it doesn’t have to unravel you. When approached with intention (and a little rebellion), the sestina can become one of the most cathartic, freeing, and soul-bending forms.

Maria’s Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Which brings me to this 💥 workshop led by David Koehn at Omnidawn: Breaking the Bowl —a generative class that calls poets to abandon the safety of templates and lean into organic form. It’s not about breaking poetry—it’s about breaking open.

Since we’re on poetic containers, let me share my rules for writing a sestina without losing your mind (or your poetic momentum). Call them tough love. Call them survival tips. Call them what they are: Maria’s Rules for a Healthier Sestina—and a Saner You.

🎯 1. Don’t Just Use End Words—Play With Them

Let’s say your end word is wave. Plug “wave” into its assigned line like a puzzle. But you? You’re going to play jazz.

Think:

Microwave

Airwave

Wavelength

Unwavering

Morph your words. Stretch them. Let them breathe.

🔄 2. Use the “One-Word Switch” Rule

Once—and only once—you get a free pass to switch out one of your six end words for a phonetically similar rebel. That’s right. “Wave” becomes “Way” or even “Wayne.” It’s not cheating—it’s poetry as alchemy.

🔥 3. Write About What Obsessively Haunts You

Sestinas love obsession. Give them material they can spin. What loops in your head on a Tuesday at 2 AM? What shows up in your dreams uninvited?

Write that.

⚡ 4. Insert a Turn to Avoid the “Sestina Sag”

Suppose your poem feels like you’re dragging your brain through molasses by stanza five, pivot. Surprise the reader—and yourself. Drop a truth bomb—change speakers. Add an image that yanks the floorboards up.

A sestina’s final tercet deserves more than autopilot.

🧠 5. Choose Subject Matter That Turns

Want to avoid general sag? Choose topics that naturally twist and zig-zag. Think about subjects that mutate with perspective: grief, addiction, memory, and family.

Let the subject do the work.

🎭 6. Persona Poems Are Your Secret Weapon

You know what makes sestinas sing? A strong voice. Persona and dramatic monologue sestinas let you hide the form inside the speaker’s obsession. That way, the reader forgets they’re even reading a sestina until it hits them like a sucker punch.

Why It All Matters (and Where to Go Next)

We don’t write sestinas because they’re easy. We write them because they demand attention, both from the poet and the reader. They make us repeat what we’re most afraid to say. They’re maddening—and meditative.

And if you’re ready to go deeper—not just with sestinas, but with form-breaking, bowl-smashing, organic poetry—then I cannot recommend this enough:

👉 BREAKING THE BOWL: An Organic Forms Class led by David Koehn

We’re not here to follow forms but to make them ours.

#poetry #sestina #writingtips #organicform #Omnidawn #MariaNazos #DavidKoehn #writingcommunity #poetsofinstagram #creativewriting #writingworkshop #formandfreedom #breakthebowl

Maria’s Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Sign up for Breaking the Bowl. Here’s a li’l sneak preview of what’s to come…

Maria’s Rules for a Healthier Sestina – and a Saner You

· Play on and with your end words! For example, if one of your end words is “wave,” then try variations of it as an end word throughout. For example, “microwave”, “airwave”, “wavelength”, and “unwavering.”

· At some point in the poem, ONCE, switch one word out for a phonetically similar but different one. For example, “Wave” could be “Wayne” or “Way.”

· Choose subject matter that is OBSESSIVE in nature. What subject repeats itself over and over in life, in YOUR life, in your brain, or for people in general?

· Avoid the “sestina sag” when you reach the final sestet. Do this by inserting a surprise turn at that point in the poem.

· Avoid general “sags” using subject matter that “turns.” In other words, choose a subject that naturally zig-zags in unexpected directions.

· Persona and dramatic monologue poems ARE AWESOME for sestinas. You can hide the form better, AND when inhabiting someone else’s mind, you can usually advance ideas and narratives to avoid sagging.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedBecause people will always disappoint anyway, we watch Beyoncé take the stage to talk about havinga uterus in Texas—no yellow rose here, baby—just herpink one and Kamala in her sharp blue pantsuit trotting up as well. And for a moment, this fear we’re all feeling—deep in that rosy, tender place, inflamed as an ingrown hair—stops burning. And your friend sitting beside youon the kitchen floor, where everyone dropped drinks and masks to cluster before the tiny TV, tells you how she and her husband became pregnant, only to realize, after seven months, the life inside her was no longerliving. She can’t imagine being one of the many other women who carried an almost fully realized humanwithout a heartbeat to term and needed to tear across red state lines before bleeding out in the passenger’s seat.And yet, we’re supposed to be partying in our costumesand pretending we’re someone else and it’s all business as usual, but the idea that there are crazies praying for zygotes outside clinics and a girl somewhere dyingin a landlocked car, and a woman sitting beside me who could’ve, and didn’t carry a dead child to term—can you blame us for being angry and seeking peace? The thing about the unborn is you can’t blame them for being human, as the guy in prison, sleeves of tattoos and a teardrop, or the woman with track-marked arms. It’s easier to reduce people to clichés and stick themin black-and-white boxes, or “all lives matter” the lives that aren’t yours to touch. It’s comforting to create empathy for cell-clusters that never were, because they didn’tlet you down because people, no matter how looming or beautiful, even Beyoncé and the woman who will hopefully be our leader, will fail us just as much as all the peoplewe’ve loved and continue to. That’s being an adult: standingup in the face of flaws and uncertainty. Refusing our hopeand bodies to wrench away. Willing to fall in love again. And so, we watch Bey wave her yellow-banner-words as if to say, keep your mitts away from my body. Holding it close to ours, praying that soon, we’ll say, and stay the fuck out—and it sticks. Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Mark your calendars!

Omnidawn is hosting “Breaking the Bowl,” an organic forms workshop. Special guests include ME and others. As you know, Omnidawn is my future publisher and has published many award-winning authors, including Craig Santos Perez, the 2023 National Book Award winner. Find details below.

Sign up here

What: A workshop that teaches you all about organic forms

Who: Led by David Koehn with Omnidawn co-founder, editor Rusty Morrison, and special guests!

Where: Online

When: DEADLINE TO SUBMIT is Saturday, September 21

WORKSHOP DATES

·    Sunday, 10 am to 11 am PT

·   September 22 - October 13, 2024

Featuring special guests:

Week one, 9/22 Laura Wetherington

Week two, 9/29  Bret Shepard

Week three, 10/6 

Week four, 10/13  Jose-Luis Moctezuma

How: Send your work here.

PS: I’m a lot of fun to study with…;)

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedTonight, my neighbor starts sobbing again, screaming at his distantlove. He curses resourcefully, sending each syllable up like balloons. I stand on the porch, shrouded in my bathrobe, while he calls her, Bonnie, along with every name in his book of love and rage, until he sank down on the curb and began to cry, bony chest heaving. She comes out to the balcony. Tells him to go away. Some nights, she lets him up, only to send himout packing again. How strange is, in my bare feet, feeling for himand Bonnie, despite their inevitable—probably healthy—collapse. As I try not to imagine him throwing a trashcan through her window, what breaks through instead is sadness; you, a once-close male friend, whom I loved for your hidden glimpses of shining kindness. There were three A.M. phone calls; you could nurse me back to laughter. Then, some silly fight put a sudden, silent stop to our talking—a rift, I now barely recall; something about you telling me to open my eyes: Some men are always scanning the horizon in search of something better than the women before them, which stuck me in a tender place I didn’t know I had, if only because I didn’t want to see my man at the time was always looking. But that was then. And you were trying to warn me, to which I slammed down my phone like a tiny door, refusing to listen. As my neighbor continues screaming, shrill as a girl, he might as well be anyone and proof that maybe some guys never say the right words, no matter how they love you, and some womenmay not answer or hear, but my lord, is he ever trying. Makes me wish we could talk, even if it releases what steams inside each other. If there's one thing I realize, it’s that tonight, if you’re awake, I am too, and finally ready to listen.

Maria’s Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published The president keeps going. The president keeps goingand going. We all enjoy the same glorious freedoms, he insists. I'd like to tether his words to a woman whose friend leads herinto a deserted field at dawn, laying her down, opening her shirt, saying:I will fight for you with every breath in my body and never let you down.Imagine if the president's words were whisperedby one woman to the other:It must be a pretty picture, you dropping to your knees.One of the women lays down, opens her shirt, a red parachuteto keep her from falling into the sky—her freckle-studded skin, almost olive,nipples point towards heaven. In her red shirt, she's a piece of sunrise,just one red shred,a petal landed onto her lover's skin.She leans over her lover, the sky trailing behind her.My fingers are long and beautiful, she says. They lie side-by-side on the grass.I’m…attracted to beautiful women, says the other woman. I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. Then he strides towards them. The women pull their shirts closed. There should be no fear, he says. We are protected and have always been protected. He sits in the tree. His face darkens to champagne in the shadows. You came by the tens of millions to become part of this historic moment….the likes of which the world has never seen…How still the women are. (one tucks her hair behind her small pink ears, eyebrows twin caterpillars)We must protect our borders from the ravages of other countries, he says. Just below his touch, the wind grants a dusting of pollenonto the women's hands. I want to believe in a love like theirs.The field choked with flowers, flowers choked with gold and more gold into pollen, pollen dusting the bees' knees; the women's toes touching in the creek. It's time to remember the old wisdom, he still insists.(his hair blows up in a brief breeze.)The woman in red leans over. She takes her lover's hand. Nothing happens in this field.There are just two women watching the sky,and it doesn't matter what they do,there's no hidden hand to hurt them. Not even the wind speaks—I want the words to stop here.

Maria’s Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.