Bald Ego

2012-01-31T10:46:00.000-08:00

"Beyond the Pale"

Oil on canvas, 24" x 30"

by Chip Ghigna

A Poet Isn’t Somebody

A poet isn’t somebody

who says the sky

is just another blue

holding down the ground

as though the ground

were on a hinge and could

flap up or maybe come off,

scalped by some Indian god.

A poet isn’t somebody

who goes hunting to kill

or the one who takes dogs

and guns and camouflaged hats.

He’s the one who takes off

his glove to touch the stream

the others cursed because it trickled

over their boot tops when they crossed it.

A poet isn’t somebody

who looks at clocks

before he sleeps

though he learns their

anxious call can eat

through walls, and dreams.

A poet isn’t somebody

who tells he’s a poet.

He’s somebody who asks

if he may hike your property

to follow where the moon

may rise tonight.

©Charles Ghigna

2012-01-12T20:34:00.000-08:00

The Search for Center Ring

A funny band of sad clowns

we were with our tortoise

shell hats and rabbits’ feet

dangling in front of our red

noses like a track of gray

hounds running in circles,

running out of circles until

our luck ran with us in and out,

laughing at all we never said,

never did, never knew we could

when we were just a band of silly clowns

looking for a little laughter,

a little tent of pure attention.

©Charles Ghigna

2012-01-01T13:29:00.000-08:00

Nothing More Than A Door

I’m going out of my mind

looking for a way in, out,

something solid in my hand,

a handle, a knob, a brass ring, anything.

Walls do not breathe,

they do not dream,

they do not question

their need for doors.

The woods are different,

they breathe, dream,

wear their silence like a promise,

wait for us when we are closed.

We are weary of walls,

we are done with doors,

we are dreaming beyond them,

breathing back to the silence of the trees.

©Charles Ghigna

2011-11-14T14:18:00.000-08:00

Paint the Pain

Paint the thunder

Paint the rain

Paint the pleasure

Paint the pain

Paint the rainbow

Paint the dream

Paint the mountain

Paint the stream

Paint the forest

Paint the trees

Paint the sunlight

Paint the breeze

Paint the heaven

Paint the earth

Paint the angel

Paint the birth

Paint the tame

Paint the wild

Paint the woman

Paint the child

Paint the canvas

Paint the wood

Paint the wonder

Paint the good

Paint the morning

Paint the night

Paint the promise

Paint the light

©Charles Ghigna

Art Show

2011-11-02T10:08:00.000-07:00

Chip Ghigna
Auburn University

Cowboy Hat

Oil on canvas, 8" x 10"

Beyond the Pale
Oil on canvas, 24" x 30"
(sold)

Evening

Oil on canvas, 24" x 30"

Treescape

Oil on wood, 9" x 13"

(sold)

Night Forest

Acrylic on wood, 2 x 15" x 6'
(sold)

Underground Storm

Oil on canvas, 24" x 30"

Tree of Life

Oil on canvas, 24" x 30"
(sold)

Into the Light

Oil on canvas, 24" x 30"

Night Tree

Acrylic on wood, 24" x 30"

Pine Cones

Oil on canvas, 20" x 24"
(sold)

Autumn Lights

Oil on canvas, 24" x 30"
(missing)

Cam

Oil on canvas, 11" x 14"

Lone Wolf

Oil on board, 11" x 14"
(sold)

Buddha

Oil on wood, 10" x 16"
(sold)

Apples

Oil on wood, 10" x 16"

Heart of Mind

Collage on foam board, 14" x 17"

Inferno Interruptus

Oil on wood, 24" x 36"

Drum Beats
Acrylic on wood, 9" x 13"

Sax
Acrylic on wood, 9" x 13"

Time Traveler

Acrylic on canvas, 24" x 30"

2011-10-31T22:25:00.000-07:00

"Tree of Life"

(click to enlarge)

Oil painting

by Chip Ghigna

Tree of Life

Gaia, Gaia

burning bright

body swaying

left and right

circles, tunnels

at your side

pull us toward

the dream you hide

roots on fire

treetops ice

heaven, hell

your sacrifice

©Charles Ghigna

2011-09-21T21:12:00.000-07:00

"Into the Light"

(click to enlarge)

Oil painting

by Chip Ghigna

* * *

Nature’s Touch

In the trees, the lakes, the skies

The truth of our future dwells;

When we lose touch with Nature

We lose touch with ourselves.

©Charles Ghigna

Jackson Pollock (1912-1956)

2011-06-29T11:19:00.000-07:00

You wove

your endless web

of dribbles

spills and drips

around the world,

until you dared

enter your own dark

circle of madness,

until the reach

of your genius-rage

was finally done,

until, at last,

you left your

spider-soul

unspun.

©Charles Ghigna

El Greco (1541-1614)

2011-06-23T10:37:00.000-07:00

A Spaniard from Greece

who mastered the Italian

technique of chiaroscuro,

you planted a landscape

whose hills still sow hope

in the hearts of artists

who follow in the deep

shadows of your footsteps,

praying they, too,

might brush against

that fine line between

the natural and supernatural,

might escape, as you did,

from material truth and form

to rise and enter that kingdom

where light and dark

are but a door to more

than meets the eye.

©Charles Ghigna

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901)

2011-06-16T09:14:00.000-07:00

Although the critics were unkind

To your gaudy, bold design,

Your brash and brilliant, new display

Of every Montmartre cabaret

Would set the stage for imitation

Of all your poster innovation;

The orange hair, the garish light,

Each graphic scene set to excite.

A draftsman of debauchery,

You painted pain's frivolity.

And though your life was cut in half,

Your work lives on, a loud last laugh.

©Charles Ghigna

Georgia O'Keeffe (1887-1986)

2011-06-09T11:35:00.000-07:00

Like the baby's sky

that lives beyond

the gentle touch of truth,

your pastels rise softer

than a daylight dream.

Your eyes belong to a sun

of another world

where shade and shape and hue

unfold like lilies

in a field of lilac.

In warm, blending tones

of sleeping summer babies,

you show us how to wake

our eyes to the meaning

and motion of light.

©Charles Ghigna

Edgar Degas (1834-1917)

2011-06-01T14:07:00.000-07:00

Perfectionist with a paint brush,

you taught your eyes to see off-center,

your fresh angles freeing you to view

space and form with new focus.

Uniting classical with experimental,

your soft images jockeyed and danced

across paper and canvas

in charcoal, oil, and pastel,

growing more vivid and abstract

with each turn until at last

you brushed your friends away

and filled your final days

with dancers and horses

made only of clay.

©Charles Ghigna

Mary Cassatt (1844-1926)

2011-05-25T12:57:00.000-07:00

From Philly to France

(against your father's wishes),

you left your impression

upon the Impressionists.

Degas' protégée and friend,

you proved your delicate worth

among the fraternal masters,

etching and earning

your way past the best of them,

your sense of style and grace

painted upon each pensive face

still stares through the eyes

of your immortal mothers

and all their fatherless children.

©Charles Ghigna

Claude Monet (1840-1926)

2011-05-19T09:22:00.000-07:00

Bearded lover of light,

you braved the sun and snow

to follow her Giverny glow

through the clouds, the crowds,

the pools of water lily,

to capture her on canvas,

to have your way with this

most perfect model plein air.

"When it gets dark," you said,

"I feel as though I'm dying."

And we thank you here

for staying alive,

for brushing your brilliance

into our eyes

with such a touch

of everlasting light.

©Charles Ghigna

Poem Planting

2011-04-29T20:23:00.000-07:00

Write a poem.

Plant a seed.

Pour in soul.

Take out weed.

Let it reign.

Patiently.

Share the shade.

Poet tree.

©Charles Ghigna

Air Force

2011-04-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

Air Force

Do not think only of planes in combat,

of military pride and might.

Think of that gentle force of air,

that breath of boyhood magic

that turns candles into wishes

and balloons into birthdays,

that unseen breeze that spins

pinwheels and pushes sailboats,

that teaches toy horns to toot,

that fills each inner tube

and rubber raft with laughter,

that holds up every kite

like a child’s heart

and lets it soar higher

than an endless summer sky.

from A FURY OF MOTION (Highlights/Boyds Mills)

©Charles Ghigna

Could a Poem Stop the War?

2011-04-02T09:25:00.000-07:00

Could a poem stop the bombing?

Could a poem help us see

How much we have in common?

Could a poem set us free?

Could a poem change our thinking?

Could a poem help us find

The peace that we are missing?

Could a poem change our mind?

Could a poem stop the bleeding?

Could a poem stop the war?

Could a poem ask the question

What are we fighting for?

©Charles Ghigna

Sea Scape

2011-03-29T11:35:00.000-07:00

Look inside the scape called sea

until the ocean owns your eyes;

search beneath the surface shine

until its depth dispels its lies.

Climb your stare upon each wave

until you see all shades of green;

swim your vision past itself

until your sight becomes the scene.

©Charles Ghigna

Trip

2011-03-24T23:37:00.000-07:00

I’m going on vacation in my mind.

I’m going there to see what I might find.

If I’m not back by half past eight,

Please don’t stay. Please don’t wait.

Please don’t call. Please don’t write.

I’m going going out of sight.

Please don’t cry and carry on.

I’m going going going -- gone.

from A Fury of Motion: Poems for Boys (Boyds Mills Press)

©Charles Ghigna

How I Fell in Love with Reading, Writing & Drawing

2011-03-04T09:20:00.000-08:00

Something Else

A True Story

by Charles Ghigna

Something Else

a picture book proposal

about a real boy who loves to read, write and draw,

but whose unconventional “books” and artwork

bring grave concern to his teacher.

In all her years in the classroom

Mrs. Barren had never seen anything like

Charlie's little out-of-this-world books.

Something must be done to stop him.

* * *

Charlie and his family

lived in the country

far away from town.

There were no libraries

or bookstores or schools.

Each day

after Charlie finished his chores,

he sat at the kitchen table

drawing pictures

and making up stories.

He called them his “books”

and gave them to his family.

Charlie couldn’t wait for school to start.

The first day of school finally arrived.

Charlie got up early

and waited by the side of the road

for the big yellow school bus.

He was so excited

he could hardly stand still.

Charlie got on the bus

and rode and rode and rode.

His teacher’s name

was Mrs. Barren.

She wore a gray dress

with yellow flowers

and big black shoes.

She said she was going to teach

the class how to draw.

Charlie was so excited

he could hardly sit still.

Mrs. Barren held up a picture

of an umbrella

and a picture of a raincoat.

Then she put them away

and told the class to draw something

they would do to get out of the rain.

What fun! Charlie thought.

What should I draw?

Charlie thought about the pictures

of the umbrella and raincoat.

He thought Mrs. Barren

wanted them to draw

something else.

Charlie’s mind raced with ideas.

Yes, that’s it! He thought.

I will draw a picture of me

with a jet pack on my back

flying out of the rain!

Charlie was so excited

he could hardly sit still.

He drew and drew and drew.

Then he colored and colored and colored.

Mrs. Barren walked up and down

the aisles of the classroom

collecting all the pictures.

That night the phone rang.

It was Mrs. Barren.

She called Charlie’s mother

and asked if she could come

to the school for a meeting.

The next morning

Charlie and his mother

got up early and drove to school.

Charlie waited outside in the car

while his mother went in

to meet with Mrs. Barren.

Mrs. Barren got out Charlie’s picture

and showed it to his mother.

His mother smiled.

Mrs. Barren frowned.

Mrs. Barren said

she was “concerned.”

In all her years of teaching

no student had ever drawn

a picture like Charlie’s.

Mrs. Barren said she thought

there might be something “wrong” with Charlie.

She recommended that

Charlie go in for special testing.

Charlie’s mother smiled again.

She asked Mrs. Barren

about the assignment.

Mrs. Barren explained

how she held up a picture

of an umbrella

and a picture of a raincoat.

She told the class to draw something

they would do to get out of the rain.

Charlie’s mother smiled again.

She looked at Mrs. Barren and said,

“That’s what Charlie did.

He drew...

something else.”

* * *

Mrs. Barren told the class

to write about their summer vacations.

Charlie had been making up stories

in his head all summer.

The one he liked best was about a talking freckle

that rode around on Charlie’s nose.

Charlie was still writing when the school bell rang.

He asked Mrs. Barren if he could take

his story with him and finish it at home.

Mrs. Barren said, “No.”

Charlie wrote, “The End,” and handed it to her.

The next day Mrs. Barren

called Charlie up to her desk.

She told him he was supposed

to write about his summer vacation.

She handed him his story marked with an “F”

and asked, “What is this?”

Charlie shrugged his shoulders and said,

“Something else?”

* * *

The annual school art contest was coming.

The theme was Nature.

Mrs. Barren told the class to go home

and paint something they see outside.

By the time Charlie got home and did his chores,

he had forgotten all about the assignment.

He fell asleep after supper

and dreamed about a thunderstorm.

There was a big clap of thunder.

Charlie sat up in his bed

and suddenly realized he forgot to paint.

He ran to the window and looked out.

The sky was alive with wind and rain,

thunder and lightning.

Charlie pulled out the box of paints

from under his bed

and a piece of plywood

he saved from his father’s shed.

Charlie started painting.

He painted and painted

listening to the thunder,

watching his room

flash on and off to the lightning.

When he finished

he sat back

and looked at what he had done.

He painted a purple sky

with swirling gray-blue clouds,

red stars and a bolt of lightning

that lighted up the trees

turning them yellow-orange

in the thunder sky.

He signed his name at the bottom

and on the back he wrote,

“Dream Sky on Fire.”

The next day Mrs. Barren placed

the paintings on the book shelves

around the room.

That Friday after school

a group of artists from the college

came to judge the paintings.

They went from room to room

with their yellow pads,

looking at all the paintings

and making notes.

A reporter from the newspaper

took a picture of the winning painting.

He asked one of the judges

why they picked that one.

The judge smiled and nodded,

looking at Charlie’s painting.

“There are many fine paintings here today,

but that one,” he said, “That one is...

something else.”

©Charles Ghigna

Earth Art

2011-02-11T14:26:00.000-08:00

He kneads and shapes

and sings to it

till by itself it stands

he breathes his life

into the earth

he holds within his hands

©Charles Ghigna

One

2011-01-24T12:20:00.001-08:00

Open the door

a little more

feast your eyes

on the skies

the wonder

the glory

the sweet

endless story

of all

that is

sacred

and wise

within us

without us

above us

below

the journey

the ebb

the answer

the flow

the earth

the sea

the stars

and the sky

tell us the tale

of the sparrow

and whale

of the who

and the where

and the why

nothing

begins

nothing

is done

the present

the past

and future

are one

©Charles Ghigna

The Bass Fisherman

2011-01-11T20:42:00.000-08:00

in memory of my father

He was the silent type, the mute scholar

reading the sky instead of his books,

wasting no words above the still waters,

searching instead for shades of detail,

for the sharp, deep shadows of silver,

for the subtle moves that only seers see.

He was the careful type, the peaceful brave

wrapping his weapon with string, down

and prayer, warming his sight with colors

of sunset, waiting for sunrise to show him

the way, watching the depth of each cloud

that floated on the lake of his eyes.

He was the simple type, the timeless boy

flipping and testing his first flying rod,

urging it on past limits of hand and arm

to the other side of vision and dreams,

using all of that first moment to cast

the perfect balance of boy and boat.

He was the cautious type, the prize bass

with the broken hook still in his mouth,

staring up at the lake’s final surface of man,

following the drag of the feather’s taunt,

waiting, waiting, learning at last

the only reward of patience, is patience.

©Charles Ghigna

The Veiled Nun

2011-01-06T11:51:00.000-08:00

The eyes of the artist

unearthed you,

saw through

your maiden marble,

carved you out

of your cold stone,

set you here

for us who come

to see through your white eyes

that hide behind a solid veil

that holds our sight

inside your maker’s hands.

"The Veiled Nun" was inspired by the marble sculpture

of the same name by Giuseppe Croft (c. 1860)

that appears in the Corcoran Gallery, Washington, D.C.

and written during my summer residency at the Kennedy Center.

Poem As Priest

2010-12-28T15:38:00.000-08:00

Like the good Catholic boy

who tells his all

to the patient priest,

the poet pours his soul

into the poem,

confesses his passions,

his private fears,

that flow like lamb’s blood

upon the pure white page

that passes sentence

after sentence

upon his sins

and turns his

penance

into prayer.

Be Still in the World

2010-12-21T11:24:00.000-08:00

Be still in the world wherever you are,

listen to life’s lullaby;

the heartbeat, the breathing, the giving, receiving,

the sun and the moon and the star.

They all shine true through the essence of you,

a beacon of boundless light;

the father, the mother, the sister, the brother,

all are within you tonight.

Let the flow of the seas, the lilt of the breeze,

the rush and the calm of all time

carry your dreams along rivers and streams

and let you be still where you are.

Art Lesson

2010-12-09T18:37:00.000-08:00

Summer vacation was over and soon

our third grade paintings hung in a parade

above Mrs. Barron’s blackboard,

each one with its house, its car,

its regulation tree that no one climbed.

By Christmas vacation our painted parade

had grown into a giant rainbow snake

whose art board body wrapped around

the upper edges of our room.

It was that paper snake,

those quickly chosen paints

that shaped our need for color,

that showed us how we felt

and why our sky was never simply blue.

Once during Friday’s time for art

when we all had dipped our brushes

into our separate jars,

it was Howard’s hand

that mixed two colors into one,

that learned to paint

with every shade and hue,

the pastel pinks of dawn,

the brighter skies of blue.

We needed him to show us how,

needed to sample with our brushes

his new colors that would not fit our jars,

needed him to fill our room

with all his painted people

who were already bright and climbing

beyond the subtle shade

of all our blackboard trees,

beyond the hand of color

to paint the summer breeze.

2010-11-29T15:31:00.000-08:00

Hands That See

for Chip Ghigna

Your hands see

your eyes feel

fantasies

beyond the real

your art echoes

black and white

drawing color

from the night

your dreams wake

our sleeping mind

break the bonds

that kept us blind

you see life

in grains of sand

you hold light

within your hand

Art Sense

2010-11-20T10:58:00.000-08:00

Drawing Conclusions

The art of knowing what to draw,

A talent rare and fine;

Like knowing just how far you’ll go

Before you draw the line.

The Edges of Things

2010-11-15T12:08:00.001-08:00

Look again.

It is not the tree you want to see.

It is the edges of its leaves you desire;

the clean, clear sharpness of life,

the unbroken final line that surrounds us,

the perfect, outer edges of truth.

Our eyes are lies.

We cannot see what is in front of us.

It is only the outlines of our lives that are true.

It is there we find meaning,

that which defines what we hold inside.

There is no room for error on the edges.

A River of Words

2010-11-10T11:49:00.000-08:00

A river of words

a stream

a creek

a trickle

let the words

pour on the page

a splash a drop

a tickle

let them rush

let them gush

let them shape

the clay

let them flow

let them know

new worlds

are on the way

Art Gallery

2010-11-03T18:13:00.000-07:00

Though my walls

show you

the world,

I am

a house

without windows.

I am

a room

without sun.

I am

an open

book.

I am

a canvas

bound

please

you.

The Art of Conversation

2010-10-27T13:42:00.000-07:00

How MUNCH do you love me?

More than MONET can buy.

Then why do you treat me like a little DALI?

WYETH it weren't for you my life would be empty.

Your morals are TOULOUSE for me.

SEURAT do you want from me?

Stop being such a little SISLEY.

DONATELLO me what to do!

Who DURER think you are?

I gotta GOGH.

from LIGHT: A Quarterly of Light Verse, Spring-Summer 2011

Andrew Wyeth

2010-10-17T11:40:00.000-07:00

You are the back of the attic mirror.
From your side we see only out.
The change of seasons you sketched
leaves a reflection on us all.
You wear your silver fleck in pieces
like the holey No Hunting sign
aired by the bully’s bullets.
The wind whistles through, not at, you.

We speeding faces fly by your painted past
searching for a glimpse of the still town,
for the attic barn draped in shadows,
for the unfinished spider’s web,
for the opened door, the paneless window,
for the field where Christina lies,
for the chance to look through Helga’s eyes
and to see, just once, more than there is to see.

© Charles Ghigna

Painted Window

2010-10-12T16:52:00.000-07:00

No, this window
was not painted
with a broom,
but its coated panes
have know the taste
of pigment stone
and poison lead.
With total lack
of proffered trust
and patient hand,
a clumsy painter
dripped and stroked
his careless brush
across this pine
and prodigal glass.
Insensitive to
tortured tree
and silicates
fused in heat,
he damned our sight
at window's edge.

But this Red Devil
scraper is clean,
its whetted razor
hungry for revenge.
It licks beneath
the layered crust
of 5 & 10 enamel.
Each decisive slice
curls smoothly
back upon itself
like a scorpion's tail,
like a careful,
clever witch
peeling apples.

© Charles Ghigna

The Magic of Poetry

2010-10-07T22:01:00.000-07:00

The magic of poetry--

revealing things

we thought

we didn’t see.

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

2010-09-30T10:01:00.000-07:00

Art Is Long, Life Is Short

for Chip Ghigna

Like the sculptor

who chips away

at what is not

the sculpture,

your life

is in your hands,

the pure

imperfect stone

waiting for its

daily touch,

the gentle tap,

the savored strike

toward mass

and space

that form

the perfect past,

your tribute

to the art

of living.

The Art of Letting Go

2010-09-23T18:28:00.000-07:00

The difference between the artist and the rest of the world is that the artist has learned the art of letting go. He has learned to let go inside. He has learned to follow his natural instincts and trust his sense of wonder. He has learned to savor the joy of each new discovery and to celebrate with all his might. He has learned how to identify the creative force that stirs within, how to nurture it like a child, and how to finally let it go so that it may take on a life of its own.

The artist has learned that he is not in search of something greater than himself. He has learned that he is a part of the search. He has learned that following the search within and letting it go, so that it can communicate with others through images, words, music or dance, is the greatest gift he can give to the world -- and to himself.

When Howard Became Jesus

2010-09-19T10:13:00.001-07:00

No one in the huddle laughed
when Howard said he was Jesus,
that if we did not believe him
we were all sinners doomed to hell.
The next play was a hand-off to Howard.
Everyone, even our team, piled on,
grabbing for Howard, for the ball,
for the chance to cling to something solid.
When our boyhood heap had finally become still,
a pointed shadow drew our eyes way down the field
and there against the goal post leaned Howard,
the warm ball in his arms like a baby,
his eyes round and deep like the barrels of a gun.
Walking home, everyone was silent but Howard.
He said he had wanted to tell us about it before,
but was not sure we were ready to listen,
not sure we were ready to believe.
He said for the last year and a half
as he lay each night on his back,
his arms stretched out in a cross,
his feet so neatly together,
he was sure he had been chosen to lead us
in the path of righteousness for his namesake.
He said it was not luck that he had aced every test,
that the bookcase and birdhouse he built in shop class
won ribbons at the county fair.
He said that was just his way of being Jesus,
that we must learn to trust his perfect ways
and regard his saintly airs with adulation.
But we walked on in silence, each new step
so tight and full of fear we could not breathe,
could not break away and run on home alone.
At his house we stopped and watched him enter,
his eyes releasing us at last behind the door.
That night beside our beds we fell to prayer
and prayed that all that afternoon was just a dream,
that we would wake up in the morning and find Howard
in the huddle telling lies just like before.

from HOWARD BE THY NAME © Charles Ghigna

The Elms

2010-09-10T09:56:00.000-07:00

The elms here are easy to talk about,

though we never really take them one at a time,
never really know one with words.

Maybe our eyes are the problem,
and when we are close, our hands, too,
get in the way.

We almost cannot walk by an elm
with our fingers still in our pockets,
and I wonder if it is their silence

that we want each time to touch
or simply the feel of something stronger
than ourselves, something rooted and solid

that may tell the truth on us
whenever we come out of our pockets
and open our eyes.

© Charles Ghigna

Matisse

2010-08-24T14:38:00.000-07:00

The conductor

of a silent symphony,
you led your imagined lines
through scores of movements
until the sculpted air
could hold its breath no more,
until the patient canvas
begged for your baton
to brush the mute melody
into the imagery of tone
that echoes still from the eye
of their maestro, medium, magician
of paper, pen and pencil,
of scissors, knife, and hand,
of color, line, and air.

© Charles Ghigna

Couplets for Pablo Picasso

2010-08-12T08:39:00.000-07:00

You carried your world in a cubist cage.
You painted its bars with passion and rage.

And when you were lonely with nothing to do,
You stripped all the bars and painted them blue.

Hanging your soul for the life of your sister
In memory’s museum to show how you missed her,

You painted Conchita, the Devil, and Christ,
Your trinity set for one blessed price.

You painted and paid for your premature guilt
Till your reds and your greens grew into a quilt

Of beggars and clowns and self-portraits, too,
All without color, except bitter blue.

Your fragmented world was coming undone
And painting to you was no longer fun.

You crawled in your cage and pulled it apart
And beat it all back with a broken heart.

And when your rage had painted you too,
Your cubist cage was finally through.

© Charles Ghigna

A Villanelle for Van Gogh

2010-08-08T10:08:00.000-07:00

You saw beyond the blue that filled your eye
And like a child lost in evening prayer,
You brushed against the stars as you passed by.

You spun nocturnal truths out of the sky
In waves of rolling flame upon the air.
You saw beyond the blue that filled your eye.

Your steeple still transcends the hills that try
To touch the golden dreams that held you there.
You brushed against the stars as you passed by.

You searched the other side where shadows lie
In swirling pools of night upon your stare.
You saw beyond the blue that filled your eye.

But Theo and Gachet could only try
To pull you from the depths of your own glare.
You brushed against the stars as you passed by.

Your final stroke fell on a canvas sky
Where dreams once prayed upon the evening air.
You saw beyond the blue that filled your eye.
You brushed against the stars as you passed by.

© Charles Ghigna

Our Glass

2010-07-16T09:55:00.000-07:00

Glass is made of sand...
Dust to dust...

Those quotes weigh heavy on my heart.
My mother-in-law was diagnosed with leukemia last week.
Her doctor talked to her about how much time she has left.
I thought about that sobering sentence
and how we all face our own mortality no matter how much
or how little time we have left. It made me think of how we
each leave behind a mirror of ourselves, one that our loved ones
may from time to time gaze into and catch a glimpse of who we were,
a reflection of ourselves, the ones left holding the looking glass.

Our Glass

The hourglass
is in your hand,
a glass made from
the sifting sand.

When the sand
is finally through,
it leaves a looking glass
of you.

© Charles Ghigna

Be Still in the World

2010-07-01T11:17:00.000-07:00

Be still in the world wherever you are,
Listen to life’s lullaby;
The heartbeat, the breathing, the giving, receiving,
The sun and the moon and the star.

They all shine true through the essence of you,
A beacon of boundless light;
The father, the mother, the sister, the brother,
All are within you tonight.

Let the flow of the seas, the lilt of the breeze,
The rush and the calm of all time
Carry your dreams along rivers and streams
And let you be still where you are.

© Charles Ghigna

1974 Pic and Poem

2010-06-27T10:05:00.000-07:00

I received a grant from the National Endowment of the Arts in 1974 to begin the first poet-in-the-schools program for the state of Alabama. I left Florida State University and headed north to Birmingham-Southern College to begin my two-year residency at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. On my drive up I passed through the wiregrass region of the state and saw a group of day laborers with their machetes raised high in the air, the sun setting behind them. I stopped the car and took notes. My notes became “The Alabama Wiregrassers” that appeared in the September, 1974 issue of Harper’s Magazine. Little did I know my two-year residency would turn into a life-long love affair with sweet home Alabama.

The Alabama Wiregrassers

Dry-rooted in penny coated clay,
the wiregrassers come
suntan tamed in drawl
through the mire faster.
Machetes high-aimed for home,
they carry the clues of day
across their open, flying clothes.
Blade for blade,
steel for grass,
they flog the wire
with a hungry denim run.
Black shin hair stares
boar-bristled red out
from rips of hinged-tight jeans.
Tobacco spittin’ voices
seep coarse through gapped teeth
like hot wax from upside-down brown candles.
An evening shadow sinks itself
in the open field,
closing it for night.
The copper cold dust
from spun home trucks
relaxes into dew
and paints itself across the wiregrass
that sleeps in rust
beneath a hush of moon.

Mose T

2010-06-22T13:44:00.001-07:00

Mose Tolliver
1925-2006

I talked to the Mose
That nobody knows,
The one who paints from the heart.

He sat on his bed
With his hat on his head
And told me the secret of Art.

With a whisper and wink,
“It’s not what you think.
It comes and goes in dreams.”

A brush with life.
A brush with death.
It’s always more than it seems.

* * *

Note: I met Mose in his home in Montgomery, Alabama, where I watched him paint a red pico bird for me that now hangs in my home. He sat on his bed with his hat on painting in the light of the December afternoon. I asked him where he got his ideas. He made his final stroke and handed it to me. A little tear of paint ran from the red bird's eye.

© Charles Ghigna

Poetry Paté

2010-06-16T15:17:00.001-07:00

Poems are truffles
uprooted by the sow
who squeals at you
before she devours her find.
It is your job
to rescue each truffle
before it is eaten.
Let no one conceit
this idea into
soils of soul
or gardens of the mind.
There is no dewy bouquet
in poem-making.
It is all shovel
and pick and fingernail dirt.

The goose liver, too, is a poem,
found and fattened by force,
handfuls of barely corn
pushed past her perfect beak
before the bulk rate rubber band
is stretched into place
around her swollen throat,
a ritual without song
as the swan would have it.

The wafer now waits
with its foreign spread.
Do not grimace
when you taste
what you have done.
You will only ask for more.
You will reach again to rescue
the bloated bird,
the baited sow
before they swallow
what they cannot eat.

© Charles Ghigna

The Open Room

2010-06-07T08:17:00.000-07:00

You have sent me walking
instead of writing.
You have made me see

the world through wordless eyes,
taught me the truth of ceilings
and turned them into sky.

You have shown me how the camera,
like the written word,
can tell a stunning lie.

© Charles Ghigna

In Search of Brother Self

2010-06-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

I was ten years old when
my parents told me I was born a twin
and that my twin brother died at birth.

I am my father’s only son
for the only breath my twin
brother breathes is in me.

But I do not delineate him
here for sheer alliteration.
His soft image still grows

each year within me
like two hands in the dark
that have never touched

light or each other.
They are the hands
whose fingers type these words

in search of metaphor of us.
Each poem that I write
tries to tell me who I am.

If my brother were Updike,
I could be glib and clever here.
If he were Dickey, I could be brave.

If he were Eliot, I could be
moral and loving and mean.
But I am misunderstood

even to myself.
My brother is not
Pound or Whitman.

My brother breathes only in me.
When I walk in the sun
through the field at noon,

he is the shadow that is missing.
He is the path just ahead.
Only at night are we one.

© Charles Ghigna

The Porcupine Poem

2010-05-16T14:17:00.000-07:00

Porcupines can raise their quills, turn around,
and run backwards into their prey.

Just when you think
you are done with it,
the poem turns on you,

charges back for more,
pricks you with its
finer points,

reminds you
things are not
what they seem,

that the past is not past
until it turns and shows
its sharp, uncompromising side.

from A Fury of Motion: Poems for Boys
© Charles Ghigna (Boyds Mills Press)

How To Write Light Verse

2010-05-05T13:53:00.000-07:00

http://www.fwointl.com/artman/exec/view.cgi?archive=22&num=680

BRAVE NEW WORLD

2010-04-30T08:04:00.001-07:00

April is National Poetry Month!

2010-04-01T12:06:00.000-07:00

The Importance of Nursery Rhymes

Nursery rhymes are magic! They are a child's first introduction
to the joy of language and to the enchanted world of books. Their
lilting rhythms and rhymes, their short, simple sentences and their
clever repetition of key words and phrases start children's eyes, minds
and hearts dancing along the rhythmical lines of poetry and into a
lifelong love of lyrical language. It is the joyous power of poetry
that turns listeners into readers and readers into writers.

--Charles Ghigna (Father Goose)

* * *

"Experts in literacy and child development have discovered
that if children know eight nursery rhymes by heart by the time
they're four years old, they're usually among the best readers
by the time they're eight."

--Mem Fox

* * *

If every parent and every child read a poem a day,
Their hearts would be lighter,
Their worlds would be brighter,
Their minds would soar far, far away.

--Charles Ghigna (Father Goose)

© 2010 Charles Ghigna

How to Write a Poem

2010-03-27T08:28:00.000-07:00

In order to grow as a writer, you've got to be willing to risk it all every time you sit down to write. You've got to be open and brave and curious. Whenever I'm asked, "When did you become a poet?" I'm always tempted to ask, "When did you stop?" When did you stop taking risks?

We're all born poets. We all enjoy the sounds of language. Every new parent knows that. We're all born with the need to "sound our barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world" as Whitman would have it.

Poetry is a natural part of our lives. It's not just something we have to memorize and recite in front of the class. Losing ourselves in a poem is one of the best ways of finding out who we are. The act of writing brings us to that point of discovery, of discovering on the page something we didn't know we knew until we wrote it.

Don't let reality cloud your imagination. Look up at the sky and find once again those long-tailed dragons and sailing ships. Wake up to the world as though you are seeing it each day for the first time. Find the wonder. Question the way things are. Imagine new choices. Write from the child in you.

Style isn't how you write. It's how you do not write like anyone else. You don't need a degree to be a writer. It doesn't take teachers or textbooks to show you how to write. One learns how to write by writing. There is no other way.

A Poem is a Little Path

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.

From The 20th Century Children's Poetry Treasury, Knopf
© 2010 Charles Ghigna

2010-01-11T08:54:00.000-08:00

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

~ ~ ~

Choice Art

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.

Silent Echoes

A quiet rhyme
Upon a page
Is what a poet gives;

Some gentle words
Whispered in trust
To see if memory lives.

Writer’s Block

The path to inspiration starts
Upon the trails we’ve known;
Each writer’s block is not a rock,
But just a stepping stone.

Art Show in the Park

The park is full of faces,
Some canvas and some real;
The landscape’s full of landscapes
Where eyes can almost feel.

A microcosm skylight world
Where portraits hang from trees,
Where shadows brushed by tips of time
Are painting memories.

Poetry Is Not

Penned to the page
Waiting for us to admire.
It is only a lonely thought
Caught by tears on fire.

Art

Art is undefinable,
A mystery of creation
Inspired by a pigment
Of your imagination.

Bard From Deadlines

What makes a poem finally work
Is not the time it takes;
It’s how the poet used the muse
To prophet from mistakes.

Be Mused

The art and craft of poetry
Are not so far apart;
The craft comes from the cunning,
The rest comes from the heart.

Fine Vintage

Don’t plant
your poem
on the page
as though
you’re hanging
drapes;
its shape
and flow
should come
and grow
like wild
summer
grapes.

Getting It Write

Writers write what they know best,
Their passions, fears, and dreams;
Writers rarely write about
What other call their “themes.”

Double Vision

A writer’s life is paradox,
It’s more than what it seems;
We write of our reality,
The one inside our dreams.

Poetry

The echo of a promise,
The thunder of a sigh,
The music of a memory,
A child asking why.

Letter Perfect

Twenty six symbols arranged on a page
Can send a soul to heaven or torment it with rage,
Can free a fragile world or hold it in its net--
The power and the magic of the mighty alphabet.

The Write of Passage

The jump from writing just for fun
To getting paid for it
Begins when you first realize
You know you’ll never quit.

Pegasus

It is not the magic of his wings
That sets us free from our bond.
It is the muse within ourselves
That lets our words lift us beyond.

Photo Poet

Consider your mind the darkroom,
Consider your life the lens,
Consider your eye the camera
On whose focus the poem depends.

A Poem Is A Rising Moon

A poem is a rising moon
Shining on the sea,
An afterglow of all we know,
Of all we hope to be.

Star Light

Writing a poem,
Reaching a star,
In making good art
We find who we are.

A Poem Is A Spider Web

A poem is a spider web
Spun with words of wonder,
Woven lace held in place
By whispers made of thunder.

Re-Verse

The final draft upon the screen,
At last my poem’s through;
A verse of only four short lines--
I rewrote twenty-two!

The In-Sight Writer

It’s not the poem on the page
That makes them laugh or cry;
It’s how your soul has touched a heart
And opened up an eye.

Artfelt Emotion

The canvas glows with all your worth,
Your soul is gladly spent;
You worked the morning light with love
To your art’s content.

Dream Land

Each night we leave this world of ours
And venture out past shooting stars
Into a world beyond our bed--
The universe inside our head.

Heart Art

The hand and eye must do the work
That earns the name of Art.
They take the viewer’s hand and eye
And lead them to the artist’s heart.

How Not To Write A Poem

Forget about the feeling,
Just grab your pen and start;
Put your mind on automatic
And throw away your heart.

Inner View

Look inside the scape called sea
Until the ocean owns your eyes;
Search beneath the surface shine
Until its depth dispels its lies.

Climb your stare upon each wave
Until you see all shades of green;
Swim your vision past itself
Until your sight becomes the scene.

Musery Loves Company

Poets mustn’t smile.
It is their job, you know,
To brood about their life and times
Wherever they may go.

So if a solemn poet
Should offer you a rhyme,
Simply smile and say, “No angst,
I haven’t got the time.”

Nothing New
Under the Sun

It’s not the idea
That you think.
It’s how you put it
Down in ink.

Water-Colored Dreams

Oils and acrylics
Are colors that excite
While pastels put the final touch
On scenes that call for light.

But water-colored canvas skies
Are what we like to see.
They’re always easy on the eyes,
They set our vision free.

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.

Write Walking

If you should pass me on the street
And wonder what I said,
Please forgive the mutters made--
I'm writing in my head.

A Poem Is A Little Path

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.

~ ~ ~

Inspiration is often sparked by the introduction of change,
by simply breaking routine and setting up circumstances
whereby a difference can take place.

~ ~ ~

Don't let reality cloud your imagination.
Look up at the sky and find once again
those long-tailed dragons and sailing ships.
Leave the cumulus and cirrus to the serious.

~ ~ ~

Find wonder in the world.
Question the way things are.
Imagine new choices.

~ ~ ~

Wake up to the world
as though you are seeing it each day for the first time.
Wonder -- and wander -- as a child.

~ ~ ~

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

~ ~ ~

Behold the commonplace
for that is where the poem hides.

~ ~ ~

Poems have eyes of their own.
They help us see the world
in new and different ways.

~ ~ ~

Don't think of language as a set of symbols on a printed page.
Think of it as music.
It is.

~ ~ ~

Give your words wings.
Let them glide on the rhythm of your natural voice.
Let them soar on the breadth of each phrase.

~ ~ ~

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.

~ ~ ~

It doesn't take teachers or textbooks
to show you how to write.
One learns how to write by writing.
There is no other way.

~ ~ ~

One does not learn how to write inside a classroom.
One writes despite academia, not because of it.
You don't need a degree to be a writer.
Writing is all it takes.

~ ~ ~

Inspiration does not live inside a textbook.
It lives inside of you.
And the discipline to get it out
comes not from the words of others,
but from your own words.

~ ~ ~

Poems look at the world from the inside out.

~ ~ ~

Losing yourself in a poem
is one of the best ways
of finding out who you are.

~ ~ ~

Writing is a tough, lonely task.
Though it may be filled with the potential for extraneous reward,
its greatest reward is found in the act of writing itself,
in creating something new out of nothing.

~ ~ ~

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

~ ~ ~

No amount of time spent studying the markets
or attending conferences will ever replace the time spent writing.
Writing and rewriting are the only ways to produce quality work.
Despite the odds, good writing still gets published.

~ ~ ~

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

©2010 Charles Ghigna

2010-01-08T15:04:00.000-08:00

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

~ ~ ~

There are many fine poets writing for children today.
The greatest reward for each of us is in knowing that our efforts
might stir the minds and hearts of young readers with a vision
and wonder of the world and themselves that may be new to them
or reveal something already familiar in new and enlightening ways.

©2010 Charles Ghigna