Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

The Art and Craft of Poetry by Joanne Olivieri







The Art and Craft of Poetry.



You wake up in the middle of the night. It is 3:00 am and you cannot get back to sleep. Ideas, street scenes and dreams swirl around in your head activating your creative membranes with words that you know you will forget by dawn. What do you do? Always keep a pen and paper by your bed and jot down those words and ideas. No need to form those words. Those words will become meaningful as you meld them together with your ideas during daylight hours.

The craft of writing poetry does not adhere to the 9 to 5 seven day week venue. Poetry comes to you when you are least expecting it and when you are open to its visit. If you treat poetry as a job it will inevitably fill your days with writer’s block. Poetry is born of the heart and soul and not the brain. The heart holds the poem and the brain forms the style. The following quote by poet Lucille Clifton most adequately describes poetry in its most raw form.

“I think that we’re beginning to remember that the first poets didn’t come out of a classroom, that poetry began when somebody walked off of a savanna or out of a cave and looked up at the sky with wonder and said, “Ahhh.” That was the first poem.” – Lucille Clifton.

The following poem, written by me titled Writer at Heart explains my vision of what poetry is and what the writer explores and displays in his or her own mind.

A Writer At Heart



Words

Emotional expressions

inherent deep within spirit.

Passion are these words

undeniably expressed,

shared, proclaimed

in stanzaic precision.



The writer

Sensitive, intuitive

feelings arise, awaken

born from within

depths of the soul.

A soul unknown

if not for their words.



Ego revisited

firmly understood

and happily embraced.

The writer paints words

with a knowing

of authentic self

creatively expressed.



Memories, dreams

Parade the mind

As streaming videos.

These visual scenarios

Breathe life into the heart

And have no choice

But to be reborn.



Reflections

A glimpse into the heart

where the writer resides

words a mirror to the soul.

A soul which lives

Within the mind

without fear.



The heart

pumps words

through the veins

never missing a beat.

The writer writes

to a different beat

only he hears.



There is no real craft in writing poetry, as it come from the heart and begs to be seen and heard in various forms.

It is imperative however, that poets read more poetry than they write. In order to find your own voice and you need to study the poetic voices of different poets from the traditionalists to the contemporary. This practice will allow you the freedom to find your own style.

The following is a list of a few tips that are essential for getting your poetry published. As a new writer you need a few publication credits in order to have your poetry accepted. As a seasoned writer your name and work speaks for itself. That being said, remember that writing poetry is not about counting all of your publication credits but rather enjoying the poetic journey of sharing your own voice with the world.

My list of do’s and don’ts’s:

1. Always follow the submission guidelines to the letter whether you are a new or seasoned poet.

2. NEVER allow an editor to reconstruct or tell you how your poem should read. An editor is only there to correct spelling and grammatical mistakes. When an editor begins to change your poem, just remember that once done it is not yours.

3. Always keep pen and paper with you at all times to jot down ideas that come to mind.

4. Write in a style that is most comfortable to you. Never let anyone tell you “Well, no one accepts rhyme and meter anymore” because remember it’s not about your publication credits but the journey. Take rejections as a challenge to find someone who will love your poem.

5. Many poets begin by writing very personal poetry and do not want it out in public. Remember though, poetry is about sharing and your story just might help someone else in a difficult situation. Get it out to the world by any means you like. Whether it be a book, blog or online journal, let it be seen.

6. Last and certainly not least, write from your heart. Quote by me “Poetry is the song your spirit writes.” – Joanne Olivieri



Sunday, February 5, 2017

Quietude by Joanne Olivieri


I am extremely excited to announce that my new poetry book titled Quietude is available at: https://www.createspace.com/6903990  Here is a brief synopsis:

Experience a poetic journey through life and love from the city by the bay to the streets of Hong Kong and back. Quietude speaks to cultural diversity with a focus on peace and tranquility. The connection between music and nature provides a melodic read through this collection of poetry. You will gain insight into different cultures and traditions and explore each moment through the eyes of a poet who treads softly upon this earth with a serene heart and peaceful mind. 
 
Quietude 
 
quiet envelops the trees 
leaves speak foreign tongues 
ancient manuscript 
 
Poetry is the song your spirit writes.



Saturday, February 28, 2015

Be Thankful For Your Job


First let me say that though I never have been able to relate to Charles Bukowski in any way, shape or form,  this quote was perfect for this particular blog post.

There are those of us who have careers, those who work regular jobs to pay bills and put food on the table and those who have no income at all.  

I have never been career minded at all.  I have always wanted to write poetry and take photos.  However, I was never able to make a living on these creative pursuits.  I have been paid at times, I have won awards and a trip to Hong Kong for my poetry of which I am very thankful.

I work the everyday 9 to 5 as most people, though in my case it's 12 to 8.  It's easy to complain about a job as Bukowski has so bluntly described with the above quote.  We all complain to some extent about our jobs.  I know I do, until I "saw the light" so to speak about what I do each day.

My main job is to take photos of products and write descriptions while promoting these products online.  So, essentially I am being paid for my photography and writing. Not to mention I am learning something new each day.

It is all in the way you look at things.  I am grateful and thankful for the opportunity to make a living doing what I love to do.  Changing our attitude creates happiness.





Tuesday, October 5, 2010

I Guess Heaven Couldn't Wait and Can You Hear Me? by Liz Paez - Guest Post


Photo by Joanne Olivieri Poetry by Liz Paez

I was given these two poems by a friend of a friend. It touched me in such a profound way that I see life in general a little different as a result. These poems are raw and poignant and come directly from the heart and soul. Poetry is born in the soul and these two poems clearly display that aspect. Life is fragile as so eloquently versed through this poetry.

Being of such a personal and tragic nature, I want to personally thank Liz Paez for allowing me to publish her poems and to Julie for sending them to me.

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Let me give you some background on this first poem. Liz's Grandma was killed in December of 2008. Little information is known except for how she was found. Based on that information and the events that happened that day, Liz wrote this poem - I guess Heaven Couldn't Wait.

I Guess Heaven Couldn't Wait

I guess Heaven couldn't wait
To depart her from this life
If only Heaven could have waited longer
So that I could have said goodbye

I guess Heaven couldn't wait
To have her by it's side
My life left to be filled with tears and fears of the evil I might find
Why did it have to end like this?
Why did she have to go?
Everyday it becomes much harder, Please God I must know
Who is responsible for this death?
Who is guilty for her taking?
So many thoughts have crossed my mind
But still no progress am I making

I guess Heaven couldn't wait
As the men went through her door
Picked her up and pushed her down
Face planted on the floor
Kicking and screaming she begged for them to stop
Continuing to struggle as the masking tape dropped

I guess Heaven couldn't wait
Her rosary clenched in her fist
Reciting a short prayer, "God help me through this."
But this time there was no answer
No, there was no reply
She waited patiently for her final moments to go by
Thoughts about her children and the grandchildren she had raised
Wishing them a happy life and for them to live long days

I guess Heaven couldn't wait
As they tied her hands together
Taped her mouth and beat her
Then they ended her forever

I guess Heaven couldn't wait
As they realized what they had done
Hid her lifeless body in the closet
Then began to run
No one said a word, no one suspected a thing
Who would have known the amount of pain one phone call could bring
"Mom is missing," my aunt told my Dad.
"I don't know where else to look."
Tears rolled down her face as her whole body shook.
"We'll find her tomorrow. There's nothing else we can do."
My Dad tried to comfort her, but deep down he knew.

I guess Heaven couldn't wait
As the sun rose the next day
Family hoping and crying as they'd pray
"I found her," my aunt said, my Dad silent on the line
"She's gone, they took her, we ran out of time."
"No" my Dad said, "It can't be true."
He dropped to the ground, not knowing what to do.
He couldn't believe his Mom had been killed for no reason at all
These men took her life for 80 dollars, an amount so small

I guess Heaven couldn't wait
As my Dad dialed my number
This moment in my life, I so strongly remember.
"Hello," I said, "Dad, I'm busy, I'm working, what's up?"
From the tremble in his voice, I knew something was wrong
And then he told me the worst news of all

I guess Heaven couldn't wait
As I drowned myself in tears
Ran into the arms of a stranger as if I had known him for years
Who would have known of the trauma and the nightmares that were to come

I've lived that day more than once, as if I was there and watched her die
Everyday I think about her and can't help but cry.
I wake up in the middle of the night, looking for her by my bed
and then reality hits me, and I remember that she is dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This next poem in succession was written by Liz on August 19, 2010. Liz returned home to her Grandma's house for the first time since she died and wrote the following poem.


Can You Hear Me?

Can you hear me? I am here now, it's okay
I'm sitting here where you were forced to lay
I feel the weight of your hand on my shoulders, telling me to be strong
The tears are rolling down my face as you tell me that you were never gone.

Can you hear me? I can't hold back my tears. This place is not the same anymore,
not without you here
I'm so scared right now, as I sit where you took your last breath
My body is getting hot as my tears combine with sweat

Can you hear me? I think about you everyday
I can't do anything except to let my mind have it's way
Replaying the event over and over, again and again...
you being helpless... I want that memory to end.

Can you hear me? I'm here and came to talk to you
If you weren't my guardian angel, I don't know what I would do
I talk to you everyday and even though you don't speak, I know you are around
To keep me safe, to guide me through this... I just wish those responsible could be found.

Can you hear me? Inside I'm screaming your name, PLEASE DON'T GO!
It's so hard for me to say goodbye... I have to take it slow.

Can you hear me? I know you can, you have since your last day...
I miss you and love you, and in my heart you will forever stay.



Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Chapbook Review: Theater of Life by Pat. St. Pierre



I first met Pat St. Pierre when she submitted A Taste Of Summer to Ya'Sou! ezine for publication. Her poetic voice is such that she can artistically express her thoughts within a simple yet complex imagery that not only entertains but tells a story. Her poetry is reflective and ground within her own roots, calling on memories and the complexities that life hands us.

When I found out she had published Theater of Life I was thrilled. I knew I was in for a treat and decided to read this book while out in a nature setting so that I could involve all the senses clinging to her words.

Her poems are telling, they have meaning and are written with care. Metaphor is highly present and regarded in each verse with endings that have the reader contemplating life as in the poem -

The Woman in Me

As a child
vibrant colored leaves were gathered on autumn days

and preserved in picture frames.

The woman in me views autumn as

God's angels having painted a majestic array of colors.

As a child

winter was skating, snowmen and sledding.

The woman in me looks up to heaven on a
winter's evening and feels the snowflakes

touch her cheek and views snow as innocence.

As a child

summer was lemonade, swimming and lazy days.

The woman in me is awed by dancing fireflies
and symphonies from songbirds.

Part of me yearns for yesterday.

But the woman in me carries on

as life erupts from spring soil

and there is a celebration of birth.


Though many of the poems in this chapbook strike a chord, I can completely relate to this particular poem. St. Pierre, as a poet has the uncanny ability to relate to everyone, no matter who you are or where you have been. She speaks the truth in an honest yet subtle manner with her creative talent flowing through each line.

I highly recommend this book for anyone who loves poetry. It is one of the best I've read in a long time. If I were to give it one out of five stars with five being the best, I'd give it a six. It is just that good. Visit her blog at: www.pstpierre.wordpress.com

Her book, Theater of Life is available through Amazon.com by clicking the widget below or through www.finishinglinepress.com


Sunday, September 26, 2010

Poetic Shutterbug Ezine



I have had many requests to bring my ezine back to life. The thought of creating a brand new site or blog gave me hives :D. I just don't have the time. However, creating a new page on this blog was easy and alot less time consuming. So, I give you Poetic Shutterbug Ezine and ask that any of you writers who wish to share your poetry/haiku with us, please do so. Just visit: http://poeticshutterbug.blogspot.com/p/poetic-shutterbug-ezine.html and follow the guidelines.

The ezine page will be promoted as actively as my blog. Your poetry will appear at the top of the page as it is posted. And, you can include your own blog or website link. I don't know how to make separate posts on the new page and I don't know if it can even be done. If anyone knows, please let me know. So, the post will be continuous.

Any questions, post them here or email me.

Thanks and have fun.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

The Artist - Guest Post by Cheryl Oertli


The photo above taken by me at the Botanical Gardens. The poem below was written as a tribute to me by a dear friend and fan of my work. Thank you so much, Chey.

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The Artist

Images of God's creation captured forever,
Frozen in time by the photographer's hand;
Nothing specific, whatever tickles her fancy,
Spontaneous creations, crafted not planned.

Commonplace objects like auto headlights,
With talent and creativity now seen as new,
A tilt of the lens, a magnification;
They all come alive because of this poets view.

Images taken at The Botanical Gardens,
Photographs of buildings and people far away;
Exotic images, tourist treasures captured,
Her own personal reflection of a grand holiday.

She speaks to others in words and photos,
An artist with a unique point of view;
Freely sharing her gifts with other,
The gift of an artist, honest and true.

Cheryl Oertli
(c) 2010

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

The Reality of Difference - Guest Post by Leonardo Minjarez







there are not many people out there
who will understand the reality of difference
the oneness of being alone
and the loneliness of isolation
the dream desires wish the kiss of the world
laid upon my lips
placed with the ease of the sun rising
so effortless
such a flow like waves of nothing more
and to see something more than myself
every time i look in the mirror
the eyes staring back have lived millennia
having held every drop of Life
in flows of tears of blood
to drink upon my name
my words
my uplifting soul
with no expectations of receiving
such a beautiful gift
my selflessness for you
the love i offer up like a sacrificial idiot
dumb to the nature of the Beast
having spared my soul for the eyes of another
and yet through time
through my death and birth
each life i have ever lived
is filled with daily omens
reminders of JUST who i am
and what i am
and will never be another like
identical to this difference that is Me.

by Leonardo Minjarez

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Home Improvement - Guest Post by Taylor Graham


Poetry by Taylor Graham and Photo by Joanne Olivieri (Poetic Shutterbug)
I really did not have a photo that fit the poem but for some reason I liked the above pic with the verse. Enjoy!


HOME IMPROVEMENT

We’re blackbirds in search of a nest here, among
the aisles that taste of new-milled lumber and
sawdust in fluorescent sparkles, leading to the Paint
Center with its color-chips that ring like china
in a farmhouse cupboard. I run my finger over cool
adobe tile and carpet samples that smell of tabby fur,
a hearth cat who lives at peace with blackbirds.
No, a blackbird barely survives here, out of the rain
that artilleries the roof; he lives on bolts and wing-
nuts, disappears into high-gloss Ebony. You’ve got
your cart loaded with rolls of stockwire fence and
studded T-posts we’ll haul home to drive into bed-
rock-mortar, throwing a line around old Miwok
kitchens that were open-air to ridge and canyon
before this range was subdivided. Miwoks gone
out of mind like birds in the rafters. We’ve paid our
plastic for metal, now the sliding doors swish
us fare-thee-well and whisper shut behind us.
A warehouse blackbird is a homeless lot.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Hoping For Spring


Photos taken by me @ The San Francisco Botanical Gardens



This is a guest post by Taylor Graham. Taylor, I so much appreciate your loyalty and friendship. Thank you so much for your poetry.


HOPING FOR SPRING


Gray sky lowering with just
a horizon-line
of light that moves beyond you.

The apple tree’s white petals
promise fruit. Tonight,
storm. Will weather strip each bud?

Wild geese whispering – they’ll
fly before morning:
March sounds its call of Leaving.

On the hilltop, one bare oak.
Remember, leafless
trees still can blossom with wings.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Happy Birthday Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Born in Portland, Maine on February 27, 1807, Longfellow was and still is one of the best loved poets of all time. Henry was an active boy, sometimes quick tempered but always sensitive, impressionable and creative. He loved song and dance but did not enjoy excitement. He began school at 3 and by the time he was 8 he studied halfway through Latin grammar. His Father’s extensive library of Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and Dryden, just to name a few, lent to his early curiosity of poetry and writing.

At the early age of 13 he penned and had his first poem published by the Portland Gazette titled “The Battle of Lovell’s Pond.” The poem was highly criticized at that time for being unsymmetrical and and unoriginal. However Longfellow was not discouraged. By age 15 he passed the exams for Bowdoin College and studied with well known writers to include Hawthorne. Although his Father wanted Henry to study law he spent a year at Cambridge college in study of general literature.

His extensive travel and study of foreign language lent to his receiving a professorship at Cambridge and Bowdoin. Throughout his life he wrote poetry and shared his love of words and language within the genre. He was a champion of the down trodden and those less fortunate. He lived his passion and as a result we are left with an exceptional anthology of his works to be savored and shared by generations to come.

He is my favorite poet. I’ve read all of his works and can testify that I enjoy all of his writings. I do have a few favorites such as The Day Is Done, The Arrow And The Song, Woods In Winter and Hymn To The Night. He was passionate about his work and it shows through each and every collection. I celebrate his birthday today and everyday as he, through his poetry, allows me to display my creativity and share my love for this craft. Happy Birthday Henry.

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

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I'd also like to thank John over at English Wilderness for this award. I appreciate it very much. Please check out his blog, it's one of my favorites.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Without Sound


Both photos taken by me -View of my Street from the Great Highway along Ocean Beach

The wind caresses my face while I follow cotton candy clouds dancing against blue skies. Seagulls gracefully swirl above while black hawks hover over sand dunes. The pounding of waves against the shore reverberate in a familiar echo as an aquatic symphony permeates the salt air. I breath and inhale the refreshing sounds in a moment of sheer joy.



When all of a sudden, the silence interrupts. The birds mute, the wind quietly slapping my cheeks without even a whisper and the waves lost. Heavy footsteps, my own, are all I can hear amongst the dead solitude despite the colors of life surrounding me. For a moment, the deafness brings me to a place of relentless despair. A place where complete quiet resides and my ears no longer exist. Sounds escape me and I am lost in a world without life.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Valentine's Day Poetry



There are so many beautiful poems and songs written in celebration of Valentine’s Day. The 19th Century poets in my opinion had a monopoly on love poetry. However one of my favorite love poems is The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe. It is simple, descriptive, an excellent style and you could basically just feel the deep sentiment in the poet’s heart while reading the lines. It’s the type of poem where the imagination comes to light and you feel as if you are in that setting. Sometimes simplicity is the essence of beauty and I think this poem proves that point.

Have a Happy Valentine’s Day!

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
Christopher Marlowe


Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Grandpa Remembers - Guest Post by Taylor Graham


Photo by DK Miller of the Shutterbug Eye @ theshutterbugeye.blogspot.com


GRANDPA REMEMBERS

The river in its rippling sheen of patterns
green and silver, blue with sky,
rocks, trees inverted, sound of silkworms

on mulberry leaves, soft water-sounds
of Mother spinning, reeling threads from
boiled cocoons twisted into yarn, spools

he holds as she weaves a fabric, then
knits the silk to stockings for so many
children in that low-built room by fire-

light, shadows in the upper loft – no attic
in her house of rich scarcity, of getting
along with God’s blessings. A cushion

if a guest should call... the childhood
home a man can never see again. How far
he travels, year by sunny afternoon

before he finds this very night’s
bed, and lets sleep’s river-currents
over-flow his mind.

By: Taylor Graham

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

The need to make sense of such Darkness

This is a guest post by my dear friend Leonardo Minjarez. He is a wonderfully talented poet and photographer and I am so thrilled to have his work showcased here. Enjoy. If you would like more information on Leo and his work please contact me. Thanks.

The need to make sense of such Darkness

i will write and write
until my fingers bleed
and my heart has healed
(which ever comes first?)
for to hold back these torrents of thoughts
rain pierced my mind
and fester to sore my blackened heart
upon spikes of your smile
impaled by words you had spoken
and the touch of flesh encased with
crystalline sweat
and your eyes
oh your eyes
how could one forget?
the need to dive into the pools
of your soul
endless
endless
forever night
as i would gladly wrap myself among the folds
of darkness
and be led by the Devil himself
into a world of your eternal bliss.

Monday, January 25, 2010

To Love Is To Live


Ocean Beach in San Francisco

This is a guest post by my buddy Mitch Marcus. It is a raw, passionate and compelling poem. I want to thank Mitch for his contribution to my blog. You can visit his blog by clicking the link at the end of this poem. The photo above was taken by me at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. Enjoy!

To Love Is To Live

I miss her so much

I will patiently wait for her

For the rest of time

I dream of redemption

Of receiving a short note

That asks

Will you come to me?

Half way around this world

Will you come for me?

Yes, I say

I will cross the oceans

And ford the rivers

I will come for you

I will listen harder

I will see clearer

I will speak less

I will love more

Although that seems impossible

To love anyone more

Than I love you

Than I had loved you

Than I will love you

I miss her so much

So much that I cry on a perfect day

I miss her

And I will wait

Forever


http://theargus.today.com

Friday, January 22, 2010

Sing Me Sweet


Photo taken @ The San Francisco Botanical Gardens

Sing Me Sweet
dedicated in memory of my Mom

Sing me sweet
to sleep

Sing me hope
to fly

Sing me dreams
to keep

your sweetest lullaby.