“How could a place so fraught with historical
pain appear to be so ordinary?”
– Sally Mann, on one of her photographs of
the Tallahatchie River, Deep South series
1. Spanish Moss
The dead walk here in the hours just before dawn – when the earth is cool and waiting. Their questions, like Spanish moss, hang in the mist, but there’ll be no answers today. And none tomorrow. That’s why they walk the wet ground – a ground that’s littered with former lives though there are no footprints here – nothing to give away the truth. I’ve heard them in the early hours. Unseen. Moving. I know they’re there. I’ve walked where they do – and I will.
– after Untitled (Fontainebleau)
2. Something Hidden
I can’t seem to remember 1989. It’s become a lost year. I only remember the kudzu from that year – though I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything remarkable with my life – nothing to stand out – I’ve spent decades, one foot in front of the other – careful not to disturb, not to draw attention or too much scrutiny on my whereabouts or doings – and I’ve done nothing that is deserving of your conversations over coffee or a beer. There’s nothing to talk about here. But I’d give anything to remember. Why is it always ’89? and why kudzu? and the days, endless? Why does no one listen to me? Have I designed the universe this way? I can’t recall – I don’t. Why won’t you answer me? … Maybe the answers are the questions.
– after 1989
3. Cumulonimbus
A storm is coming. Your feet are heavy as you try to slip to safety. Words you wrote will follow you – their anger, perspective, and prediction – will find their podcast, voices explaining why this, why that, and what it all means. The storm is coming – you feel it in your leg. You trudge forward, at least you think it’s forward – though you’ve no sense of direction and no way to find the path because there is no path – only more bog. Snakes are here, but they don’t trouble you. Fog drifts the trees as if to say the message is constant change. You keep going though there is no other side. You are always here, moving, sloshing, but arriving nowhere. And though you can’t really see, the sky is shaping the storm. You know it. It’s coming.
– after Untitled (Deep South #30: Boney Swamp)
4. Words to Say
These are the words I wanted to say … needed to say – and it’s not like I didn’t have chances to tell the both of you – I had plenty – though I wasted them all – words that you needed to hear but I needed to say, needed to hear them come from my mouth – as if fire had been discovered, as if life were found in deep space, as if clothes hanging in a forgotten closet were suddenly boxed, taped, readied to ship – but with no destination.
– after Untitled (Fontainebleau Smokestack, Louisiana)
5. What the River Carries
My deepest fear is a leaf, drifting under overhanging trees in late summer heat, beside a partially submerged, overturned boat (why did no one come back to help, to rescue, to clear) – drifting above smoothed stones and sunken timbers, with lights in windows at night, just beyond the banks, dogs howling in the dark – drifting into voices that are almost saying words. Cranes nesting where the current slows. Sometimes there’s music. A car drives by. Suddenly, I’m standing near a moss-covered path, leading to the river’s edge. I reach for the wet leaf – put it in my pocket. I walk away.
– after Untitled (Deep South #22)
Prompt
View photographs by Sally Mann featured in a short video (13+ minutes) of her Deep South series ( https://youtu.be/5EiW9KIZy-c ). The clip consists of images only – accompanied by a musical soundtrack. Mann’s work in this series is highly evocative and reflective of emotional and psychological states. Select one or more photos and write a poem (any form, traditional or hybrid or narrative in verse) which connects directly or indirectly with the image in Mann’s work or is the result of your reaction to the photo; instead, you may prefer to use the image as the setting for your poem. If you select more than one photo you may wish to write multiple poems or write one poem in multiple sections. Your piece may include references to more than one of Mann’s works.
Sam Rasnake is the author of Cinéma Vérité (A-Minor Press) and Like a Thread to Follow (Cyberwit). His works, nominated for a Pushcart and Best of the Net, have appeared in Wigleaf, Drunken Boat, Best of the Web, Southern Poetry Anthology, and Bending Genres Anthology. Follow Sam on Bluesky @samrasnake.bsky.social.
Moist Poetry Journal 