Style
is not how you write

Quips & Quotes
for Writers, Readers, Artists & Dreamers

(a book in progress)

by Charles Ghigna

illustration by John Caldwell



*   *   *


“Style is not how you write.
It is how you do not write like anyone else.”



*   *   *


“How do you know if you’re a writer?
Write something everyday for two weeks, then stop, if you can.
If you can't, you're a writer.  
And no one, no matter how hard they may try,
will ever be able to stop you from following your writing dreams.”



*   *   *


“You can find your writer's voice
by simply listening to that little Muse inside
that says in a low, soft whisper, "Listen to this ..."


*   *   *


“Enter the writing process
with a childlike sense of wonder and discovery.
Let it surprise you.”


*   *   *


“Poems for children help them
celebrate the joy and wonder of their world.
Humorous poems tickle the funny bone of their imaginations.”


*   *   *


 “The path to inspiration starts beyond the trails we've known.
Each writer's block is not a rock, but just a stepping stone.”


*   *   *



“When you write for children,
don't write for children.
Write from the child in you.”


*   *   *


“Poems look at the world from the inside out.”



*   *   *


“I live on the Isle of Write.”



*   *   *



“The act of writing brings with it a sense of discovery,
of discovering on the page something you didn't know you knew
 until you wrote it.”



*   *   *



“The answer to the artist comes quicker than a blink,
though initial inspiration is not what you might think.
The Muse is full of magic, though her vision's sometimes dim.
The artist does not choose the work, it is the work that chooses him.”



*   *   *



“Poem-Making 101.  
Poetry shows.  Prose tells.
Choose precise, concrete words.
Remove prose from your poems.
Use images that evoke the senses.
Avoid the abstract, the verbose, the overstated.
Trust the poem to take you where it wants to go.
Follow it closely, recording its path with imagery.”


*   *   *


“What’s a poem?
A whisper, a shout, thoughts turned inside out.
A laugh, a sigh, an echo passing by.
A rhythm, a rhyme, a moment caught in time.
A moon, a star, a glimpse of who you are.”


*   *   *


“A poem is a little path that leads you through the trees.
It takes you to the cliffs and shores, to anywhere you please.
Follow it and trust your way with mind and heart as one,
And when the journey’s over, you’ll find you’ve just begun.”


*   *   *



“A poem is a spider web spun with words of wonder,
woven lace held in place by whispers made of thunder.”


*   *   *


“A poem is a busy bee buzzing in your head.
His hive is full of hidden thoughts waiting to be said.
His honey comes from your ideas that he makes into rhyme.
He flies around looking for what goes on in your mind.
When it's time to let him out to make some poetry,
He gathers up your secret thoughts and then he sets them free.”


*   *   *


“Workshop advice.  Stop attending workshops.
Read other writers if you must, but for heaven sakes
save your soul and stay away from how-to workshops.
At worst, they’ll drain you of your creativity.
At best, they’ll have you writing like everyone else.
Keep what little originality you have left from childhood.
Protect it.  Nurture it.  Let it run wild.  That’s all you have.
That’s all you need.  The only way to learn to write is to write.
There is no other way.  Workshops and conferences can only
take you away from the real work, the real world, of writing.”


*   *   *



©Charles Ghigna






Lady Day

Billie Holiday
1915-1959

When Billie came
to sing and sway
the blues all took
a Holiday.


©Charles Ghigna




The Devil Road and the Jesus House


Devil by the Side of the Road

Where store-bought billboards are not allowed,
someone’s handmade sign to sinners stands
beside Interstate 65 just north of Prattville. 

A red, wooden devil with pointed tail 
guards over the angry words of its maker:
GO TO CHURCH or the DEVIL will Get You!

An endless stream of tired Sunday truckers  
haul their rigs past the Devil and his scythe;
weary tourists returning home from Florida

ponder its homemade providence;
Saturday night lovers on their way back to Birmingham
wonder of this roadside warning,

question the one who reached into last night's dream
and cursed them with his demonic omen,
with this searing sentence of impending doom.


©Charles Ghigna




I Know Where Jesus Lives

If anyone’s looking for Jesus,
tell them I know where he lives.
He lives across the street.
His name is on the roof
in bright lights like a marquee.

He went out in the middle of the night
last Christmas and nailed it up, 
then left it there for all to see,
a single strand of white lights
spelling out where “Jesus Lives.”

People come from all over to see it.
They stop their cars and stare.
I’ve heard them talking to it.
They shake their heads and say,
“Good God.”


©Charles Ghigna



It Sounds Like A Story


Art by Chip Ghigna

It Sounds Like A Story
   
     “So what if it’s raining,” Baxter laughed, pushing me and the thirty-some pounds of Katy out from under our beach umbrella.  Picnic be damned.  We came to have fun.  And a sopping wet sheepdog and a wide-eyed girl who still uses her tomboy-days last name were not about to let a little rain dampen our rainy day weekend together.

She laughed again, shutting her eyes and raising her face to the rain, running down the beach like a maniac, her white shorts soaking through to nothing.  

Giddy and out of breath, she lay at the edge of the surf, Katy licking her face, me laughing over them like some lucky beach bum smitten by the best damn day of his life.



©Charles Ghigna

The Night the Forest Came to Town

Art by Chip Ghigna


The Night the Forest Came to Town
a picture book in progress

It was silent in the city
When the cracks began to form
In the moonlight late one August
When the concrete was still warm.

A stirring in the shadows
Found the young shoots rising fast,
Then another and another
Till the sidewalks turned to grass.

The streets began to crumble
With a sudden rush of green
From the roots that choked the sewers
Where they waited sight unseen.

In the quiet of each basement
Bulging mushrooms broke the floor,
Swelling through the subway,
Breaking into every store.

In the Grand Hotel green lichen
Laced the lobby walls in tiers
While Spanish moss in tattered shawls
Hung from the chandeliers.

Throughout the hallowed hush of night
Without a trace or sound
From the hollow mountain caverns
Silent creatures started down.

A mink and fox were followed
By a badger and a shrew,
Then raccoon, deer and rabbits
Joined the roving rendezvous.

An owl chased a chipmunk
Down the shadowed mountainside
While three squirrels scampered by them
In a game of run and hide.

The silver moon slid slowly
Behind a darken cloud
As the forest swarmed the city
Like a stealthy rushing crowd.

The sky grew black with solemn crows
Whose claws were full of seeds
That scattered over city streets
In clouds of future weeds.

Lightning clapped, thunder roared,
The rain beat down in sheets
Till muddy fields of seedlings choked
The empty city streets.

Beneath the swirling shroud of night
New fertile fields were found
And where the concrete sidewalks sat
Young trees soon held their ground.   

And in a wink of owl’s eye
The storm clouds passed away;
Midnight in the city,
But the moon shone bright as day.

In the fountain by the city square
Beavers built a dam
That grew into a moonlit lake
Where trout and salmon swam.

An eagle built a nest upon
The statue in the park
That wore a coat of kudzu vine
That flourished in the dark.

The dawn was but a distant dream
When first the cry was heard,
Beneath the veil of twilight’s blush,
A hungry baby bird.

Morning broke, the sun burned bright,
The sky turned azure blue,
And where the city once had stood--
A forest grew . . . 

. . . and grew.   





©Charles Ghigna

Optical Allusion

Like the baby who first
sees himself in the mirror
and thinks he has met a stranger,

we shuffle through the old photographs
searching for the one we used to be.
But no matter how many times we smiled,

no matter how many times
we combed our hair and acted coy,
no matter how many times

the camera made us small,
we can only guess the fate
of this smiling, young stranger

who once resembled us,
this smiling, young stranger
we hold like a fortune in our hands.







Royal Love

You treat Love
like a king.

You crown him
with your smile.

You rule him
with your kiss.

You make him wish
you were his queen.

You make Love
jealous.


* * *


Your Song

sings always in me
even when you are silent,
even when you are away.
To me there is no sound
as soft as you,
no voice on earth
that gives my feet
such wings,
no whispered prayer
filled with so much promise.
Your voice is the pillow
on which I rest my heart,
the blanket with which
I warm my dreams,
the bed in which my soul
learns its nightly lesson
of everlasting love.