By Maik Strosahl
Another one of my photography friends, Sandra Nantais, recently posted some new photographs that got my brain whirling. Sandra’s photos have inspired several of her poet friends to ekphrastic pieces and we have collaborated on pieces many times. I used one of her photos before in this column (“Fiji Musume: The Wisteria Maiden,” the tribute to Carolyn Files, August 11, 2021).
Normally when Sandra posts pictures, I ask her for some specific details that can add depth to a piece. This time, though, my mind already was spinning a story—complete fiction that just seemed to grow from the image.
I hope you enjoy her photo and the poem that grew from it.
The End of the Biscayne
Dad said
the Biscayne died
in the Bayou,
the summer of ‘64,
Reggie sticking his head
out the front window,
whining about the heat
in the still air
of a half-shoulder,
hazards declaring
our helpless state
through sunset
and into the dark.
Mom
couldn’t get comfortable
across the back bench,
eight and a half months
into my bake,
tossing with every
infantile elbow or
full leg extension
stretching against
her belly wall.
Dad finally returned
with the first headlights in hours
and a yellow strobe,
hooking the Chevy,
pulling us to the shop
where they administered
last rites,
parking the heap
in the back lot
just as Mom screamed
about her water,
and I was born in the wrecker
on the way to Baton Rouge,
crying out my first breath
over the electronic whir
of a revolving bulb
and its amber glow.
Another one of my photography friends, Sandra Nantais, recently posted some new photographs that got my brain whirling. Sandra’s photos have inspired several of her poet friends to ekphrastic pieces and we have collaborated on pieces many times. I used one of her photos before in this column (“Fiji Musume: The Wisteria Maiden,” the tribute to Carolyn Files, August 11, 2021).
Normally when Sandra posts pictures, I ask her for some specific details that can add depth to a piece. This time, though, my mind already was spinning a story—complete fiction that just seemed to grow from the image.
I hope you enjoy her photo and the poem that grew from it.
The End of the Biscayne
Dad said
the Biscayne died
in the Bayou,
the summer of ‘64,
Reggie sticking his head
out the front window,
whining about the heat
in the still air
of a half-shoulder,
hazards declaring
our helpless state
through sunset
and into the dark.
Mom
couldn’t get comfortable
across the back bench,
eight and a half months
into my bake,
tossing with every
infantile elbow or
full leg extension
stretching against
her belly wall.
Dad finally returned
with the first headlights in hours
and a yellow strobe,
hooking the Chevy,
pulling us to the shop
where they administered
last rites,
parking the heap
in the back lot
just as Mom screamed
about her water,
and I was born in the wrecker
on the way to Baton Rouge,
crying out my first breath
over the electronic whir
of a revolving bulb
and its amber glow.
Copyright © 2022 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. |
Very nice "fiction," Maik! "Fiction" in quotes because the story is so true. It resonates eerily with the latest “Call the Midwife” episode. The narrative and the painting on the building in Sandra's photo resonate with that episode's hippie squatters in a man’s warehouse, with one of their young members due to give birth. Same time period too, the 60s. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteVery nice word picture of heat, pregnancy, and birth.
ReplyDeleteI feel bad about the car though.
Thanks guys! I love this photo. Sandra always gets my mind wandering.
ReplyDeleteI love photos of old houses and cars, and I am glad to hear I'm not the only one to whom stories "spring fully formed from the forehead of Zeus" as it were, they just waltz right in and take over. I tell myself stories all the time, always have. This one is so evocative, especially with the pic, and the whole idea of the child being born in those circumstances. Great insta-poem!
ReplyDelete