I tend to write in cycles and lately I have been feeling a bit bound-up. I do not really enjoy winter, so I try to write my way out of it. But every year, shortly before spring, I find the ideas don’t quite work, the words just do not flow, every thought gets jumbled into a mess until one day the sun shines just right and all is right with the world again.
Oh, I have had longer streaks of the dreaded writer’s block. The last few years of my first marriage were less than inspiring and I wrote very sparingly, but for the most part, this yearly cycle has become my way.
This last Saturday, apparently, was the day. I didn’t see it coming, but it hit while waiting for a trailer.
I started the day just outside of Des Moines, my Friday cut short by a brake problem that developed on the road. I found a truck stop to get some help and was shut down for the night. A mobile mechanic arrived during my 10-hour off-time to repair it while I slept. By morning, I was back on the road, heading to the Distribution Center for another load.
It was while waiting at that location that this whole story started. I belong to a group called “George Wylie Writes” on Facebook, and George had asked a question about various pictures, wondering which one was the most inspiring for us as writers. My response was that I found all but one inspiring and explained why. The brain apparently also started working on those photos while I slept.
Saturday I drove from Grinnell and down 63 through southern Iowa and northern Missouri. Along the way, I was informed that my trailer was delayed and was not going to be ready until about 1:30. I stopped along the way for a shower and something to eat, then continued to the DC to drop my empty trailer and wait for the next one to be ready. I turned my attention to those photos.
I call it Flash poetry when I write straight to Facebook. I take the inspiration – usually a photo – do a little research and let the words flow. They tend to be raw, have a few warts and need editing, but they are written in the time it takes to write a Facebook post and they can connect with readers around the world in just a few minutes. Some pieces eventually go through the full editing process and become pieces I try to get published, some just die there and are forgotten as people just scroll by.
This is the story of breaking through my block and the poems that came from that spark – all in the time it took for my next load to be finished so I could continue working and get some home time in when it was done. For chronological purposes, I have included the time of each post.
Baby’s Feet
No real research needed for this photo. Those hands holding the tiny feet and all their hopes together – sure it is a staged photo, sure it is not a deep subject, but it was a place to start.
Who knew
your tiny feet
would follow,
would lead us
every step
as we watch
the spark born,
the glint borne
by eyes
bright with mission,
guiding your footfalls
from our shadows
into the sun
and beyond our days?
Saturday 12:32 p.m.
No real research needed for this photo. Those hands holding the tiny feet and all their hopes together – sure it is a staged photo, sure it is not a deep subject, but it was a place to start.
Who knew
your tiny feet
would follow,
would lead us
every step
as we watch
the spark born,
the glint borne
by eyes
bright with mission,
guiding your footfalls
from our shadows
into the sun
and beyond our days?
Kunta Kinte
I remember when Roots was on television. We watched most of the mini-series, only missing parts that aired while we were at church. I was 9 when it first ran, and bedtime in the Strosahl house was 8 in those days, meaning we usually only got one hour of prime time, but even though I really did not understand all that was going on, we got to stay up late, some of us falling asleep in front of the television.
By the way, this was the photo that the majority of respondents found inspiration from.
My bones you bought,
my labors stolen,
my spirit battered and shackled,
but to the sinew
you do not own me,
my unfettered dreams,
my feet bleeding
each step I run away,
by God my given life,
by my every effort
my soul escaping.
Saturday 12:40 p.m.
I remember when Roots was on television. We watched most of the mini-series, only missing parts that aired while we were at church. I was 9 when it first ran, and bedtime in the Strosahl house was 8 in those days, meaning we usually only got one hour of prime time, but even though I really did not understand all that was going on, we got to stay up late, some of us falling asleep in front of the television.
By the way, this was the photo that the majority of respondents found inspiration from.
My bones you bought,
my labors stolen,
my spirit battered and shackled,
but to the sinew
you do not own me,
my unfettered dreams,
my feet bleeding
each step I run away,
by God my given life,
by my every effort
my soul escaping.
The one I did not find “inspiring”
Yes, the mountains are beautiful, but this was my least favorite photo of the bunch. As I explained to the group, the subject of the photo is too muddled. I would prefer to focus on the mountains or an interesting person out of the bunch, but it just doesn’t get me excited to have people looking at a mountain. Nonetheless, I addressed what I saw.
ants I say,
pesky mounds of drones
crawling all about,
taking pictures
with “oohs” and “ahhs”,
fingers pointing
noisily
as we go about our
business as usual,
proud,
majestic,
yet quiet in the background,
resisting the urge
to stomp out the nest.
Saturday 12:50 p.m.
Yes, the mountains are beautiful, but this was my least favorite photo of the bunch. As I explained to the group, the subject of the photo is too muddled. I would prefer to focus on the mountains or an interesting person out of the bunch, but it just doesn’t get me excited to have people looking at a mountain. Nonetheless, I addressed what I saw.
ants I say,
pesky mounds of drones
crawling all about,
taking pictures
with “oohs” and “ahhs”,
fingers pointing
noisily
as we go about our
business as usual,
proud,
majestic,
yet quiet in the background,
resisting the urge
to stomp out the nest.
Yellow Roses
Not really much to say here. Yellow roses are supposed to show friendship or that you care. Another simple idea approached with simplicity, but maybe it will be used to build something more at another time.
Someone said you cared,
someone shared a cut stem,
two leaves hiding
thorns on the way to your bloom,
your stormy sky
yielding to sun at mid-day,
a friend of gruff exterior
who stayed
and held my hand
as I stared at the flower,
then back to the wall
to hide my tears,
to conceal my sorrow.
Saturday 1:01 p.m.
Not really much to say here. Yellow roses are supposed to show friendship or that you care. Another simple idea approached with simplicity, but maybe it will be used to build something more at another time.
Someone said you cared,
someone shared a cut stem,
two leaves hiding
thorns on the way to your bloom,
your stormy sky
yielding to sun at mid-day,
a friend of gruff exterior
who stayed
and held my hand
as I stared at the flower,
then back to the wall
to hide my tears,
to conceal my sorrow.
John Lennon
I am a big fan of the Beatles. They had a big impact on me and many of the artists I love to listen to. I looked at this photo and thought of all the art that has been inspired by his art, then wondering what if he never was – imagine if you can....
Imagine there’s no Lennon,
imagine his surprise,
no one to sing his music,
no one to question why.
Imagine his own mother
Never giving birth.
You might say
that I am just a demon
and maybe not the only one,
but by imagining,
I hope someday you will see
his work
cannot be undone
and the world
will always be
changed.
I hope you will agree with me the Lennon poem is the weakest of the pieces. While I like where the idea could go, the execution is not quite up to par. Perhaps at another time I will work on this one more.
Saturday 1:19 p.m.
I am a big fan of the Beatles. They had a big impact on me and many of the artists I love to listen to. I looked at this photo and thought of all the art that has been inspired by his art, then wondering what if he never was – imagine if you can....
Imagine there’s no Lennon,
imagine his surprise,
no one to sing his music,
no one to question why.
Imagine his own mother
Never giving birth.
You might say
that I am just a demon
and maybe not the only one,
but by imagining,
I hope someday you will see
his work
cannot be undone
and the world
will always be
changed.
I hope you will agree with me the Lennon poem is the weakest of the pieces. While I like where the idea could go, the execution is not quite up to par. Perhaps at another time I will work on this one more.
The Mona Lisa
Now, what could one write that has not already been about the Mona Lisa? I normally shy away from items like this because they have been overdone. But once I challenged myself, I wanted to finish the challenge. I found an interesting article that mentioned one of the many copies of the Mona Lisa was probably painted alongside Da Vinci at the same time he was creating the original. One of his apprentice’s – possibly his lover – made the same changes to the twin painting as the original was being created, according to the examination of the layers of paint and the brush strokes.
Was it Salai or Melzi,
watching the master’s moves
brushing the canvas,
discussing the day
and the model,
Lisa so mysterious,
Lisa so ready
for her own wedding vows
to be redone
with all the children present,
the veil raised
revealing a bride
happy yet unsure
at being his third,
at being fifteen again,
not knowing the world
painted in her background –
the master’s captured darker,
the apprentice’s with more light –
and which one captured
the days ahead for her?
My trailer finally done, I hooked up and pulled it away to three deliveries near St. Louis, falling short of my goal to write to all seven photos. I didn’t get a chance to check on responses until the storm that had been brewing blew through and by Sunday morning, I just wanted to finish up and get home.
After lunch, I got to look back at the responses. Mostly positive. I think George noticed that I did not write anything about the last one, as he added details – the fact that he saw the piece in 1964, when the brought it to the New York World’s Fair. He and his brother drove there in a VW Beetle with only 3 of 4 cylinders firing just to see it. He also told of a crazed man who jumped an altar railing at St Peter’s Basilica just to deal 12 hammer blows to the artwork – you may know now as....
Sunday 2:51 p.m.
Now, what could one write that has not already been about the Mona Lisa? I normally shy away from items like this because they have been overdone. But once I challenged myself, I wanted to finish the challenge. I found an interesting article that mentioned one of the many copies of the Mona Lisa was probably painted alongside Da Vinci at the same time he was creating the original. One of his apprentice’s – possibly his lover – made the same changes to the twin painting as the original was being created, according to the examination of the layers of paint and the brush strokes.
Was it Salai or Melzi,
watching the master’s moves
brushing the canvas,
discussing the day
and the model,
Lisa so mysterious,
Lisa so ready
for her own wedding vows
to be redone
with all the children present,
the veil raised
revealing a bride
happy yet unsure
at being his third,
at being fifteen again,
not knowing the world
painted in her background –
the master’s captured darker,
the apprentice’s with more light –
and which one captured
the days ahead for her?
My trailer finally done, I hooked up and pulled it away to three deliveries near St. Louis, falling short of my goal to write to all seven photos. I didn’t get a chance to check on responses until the storm that had been brewing blew through and by Sunday morning, I just wanted to finish up and get home.
After lunch, I got to look back at the responses. Mostly positive. I think George noticed that I did not write anything about the last one, as he added details – the fact that he saw the piece in 1964, when the brought it to the New York World’s Fair. He and his brother drove there in a VW Beetle with only 3 of 4 cylinders firing just to see it. He also told of a crazed man who jumped an altar railing at St Peter’s Basilica just to deal 12 hammer blows to the artwork – you may know now as....
The Pieta
I had to know more about the man, Laszlo Toth, a Hungarian-born Geologist who at the age of 33 (Jesus’ traditional age at death) attacked Michelangelo’s piece, breaking Mary’s arm at the elbow, chipping her eyelid and nose before being pulled away and placed in psychiatric care. Such a pity, such a pity….
A pity
that one who should not
has to mourn the wounds,
has to bear the bones,
the lifeless form of one
she carried to life,
cared for as he grew,
before anyone knew.
A pity,
she still bears
that life bled,
pierced by spear and nails,
even Laszlo’s hammer –
twelve blows claiming himself risen,
the son dragged away
to preach to the insane.
A pity,
no one should have to mourn
for those who have come forth
from the loins,
nor hold together
as precious life
bleeds away.
I had to know more about the man, Laszlo Toth, a Hungarian-born Geologist who at the age of 33 (Jesus’ traditional age at death) attacked Michelangelo’s piece, breaking Mary’s arm at the elbow, chipping her eyelid and nose before being pulled away and placed in psychiatric care. Such a pity, such a pity….
A pity
that one who should not
has to mourn the wounds,
has to bear the bones,
the lifeless form of one
she carried to life,
cared for as he grew,
before anyone knew.
A pity,
she still bears
that life bled,
pierced by spear and nails,
even Laszlo’s hammer –
twelve blows claiming himself risen,
the son dragged away
to preach to the insane.
A pity,
no one should have to mourn
for those who have come forth
from the loins,
nor hold together
as precious life
bleeds away.
Happy National Poetry Month, everybody!
| Copyright © 2021 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. |
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