Sara Krahn is a writer from Winnipeg, Manitoba. She is currently a sessional lecturer and student in the MFA in Writing program at the University of Saskatchewan. Sara’s work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Quagmire Literary Magazine, Stone Poetry Quarterly, The Conrad Grebel Review, The Fieldstone Review, 34thParallel, and elsewhere.
You can read Midsummer in the July 2024 issue.
Would you like to tell us a little bit more about your poem? For instance, how or why you wrote it, or perhaps provide some extra context?
It’s an ekphrastic poem, written after Alex Colville’s painting, “Veranda.” I’m a big fan of Colville. The first time I encountered his work was in the National Gallery of Canada, and he has been one of my favourite Canadian painters ever since. Oddly, what enthralls me about his work is the lack of movement within it. There’s a magical sort of stagnancy in his style, like a mirage on a humid day. It’s mesmerizing and you want to keep moving towards it. This is what I experience when I look at a Colville painting—I want to keep moving towards it. It creates a kind of momentum within me, within my imagination. I was especially drawn to “Veranda” because of how mundane and utterly ordinary the whole scene is. A couple relaxing out on the deck, enjoying a summer day. That’s it. Except for, that’s not it. It’s a trick. There’s always something more going on below the surface of things. The seemingly ordinary scene is always on the verge of something. I wanted to capture that verge. I wanted to crawl inside the frame and move the woman’s hands so they’re “perusing,” stretch the man’s arms so they “ripple like sand.” And then ask a question. Because questions create dissonance and intrigue—a question is the beginning of a story. So what about that dog? What happens to our imaginations when we’re forced to look at a thing twice? It’s just a dog, yes. But it’s also more than a dog. It’s the heat. It’s malaise. It’s boredom. It’s escapism. It’s death. It’s the breath that keeps moving in the midst of it all. A simple depiction of a pet dog can take us to the edge of what we know, if we let it. I find this idea terrifying and awesome and inspiring all at the same time.
Do you have a collection of poetry or even a single poem that acts as a touchstone?
I’ve been reading and rereading Ada Limon’s The Hurting Kind. She writes such rich testimony to the interconnectedness of humans and the natural world. The idea that what is nonhuman can reveal to us some of the deepest truths of ourselves.
A single poem that acts as a touchstone for me is Osip Mandelstam’s “And I was Alive.” I have it memorized, so I carry it with me wherever I go.
How do you revise your work?
I read my work aloud. Almost obsessively so. If I fumble over diction and syntax, then I’ll switch to a silent reading, to see if this changes (or doesn’t change) the rhythm and coherence of the sentences. If I’m stumbling in both a quiet and oral reading, I revise. It’s exciting. Honestly, it’s in the revision process that my work comes alive. Often in my first draft I’ve no idea what I’m writing about. I’m just writing because it feels good and because there’s a story or expression that wants to come out. Writing subsequent drafts, then, is a bit of a treasure hunt. The narrative, the image, the expression, it’s all in there somewhere, waiting to be dug out from the rubble of “shitty first draft” words. It’s like being an archeologist! Maybe this analogy is a bit quaint, but it works for me because it encourages me to let go of my words. They can’t all be precious. In fact, most of them aren’t. Most of them are boring old rocks and they must be discarded so the good stuff—all those bones and ancient artifacts—can be uncovered.
As a poet, what does creative success or achievement look like for you?
Writing stuff that I would want to read. If I don’t want to read my own writing, this, to me, is a kind of failure. That and I also want others to come to my work and feel that something has found expression through my words. Expression in a way they’ve never thought of before. Isn’t this what we look for in the work of poets? Original articulation of something we’ve all, at some point in our lives, felt deeply?
What are you working on now?
I’ve recently finished a draft of a novel, in completion of the MFA program at the University of Saskatchewan. Now I’ve started work on a novella. It’s a story that’s been percolating since last summer. I was travelling home from Vienna, and while I was in a packed elevator at the Vienna airport, a woman behind me whispered to her companion, “I shouldn’t have kissed you.” She’d initially been speaking in another language, so the sudden switch to English was notable. And struck me as odd, as this was the only thing she said in English: “I shouldn’t have kissed you.” I haven’t stopped thinking about it since, and now with my MFA novel somewhat complete, I’ve finally been able to start crafting a story around this strange moment. Right now, the novella is about classical piano, Anthony Bourdain, what our cravings can tell us about grief, and a world without kissing. It might be about too many things. It might be another novel …
How or where or with what does a poem begin?
For me, poetry begins with a gesture. I’ve always been musically inclined, so movement captures me sooner than imagery. Not to say I’m not captivated by an image, but it’s the small, day-to-day movements that lift my heart to my mouth, that make me want to attach words to what is seemingly ineffable.
Are there other art forms that inspire or inform your poetry?
Music. I studied classical piano in my undergrad, and I’ve spent most of my life singing in various ensembles. I’m also an obsessive music listener. Much like writing, engaging music, whether through listening or playing, is therapy for me. It restores a sense of wholeness in myself. Most recently, I’ve been listening to a lot of Neko Case. Case is such an original storyteller, both lyrically and musically. I’ve been spending a lot of time with her album Blacklisted, but there are select songs on The Worse Things Get, the Harder I Fight that leave me shattered. I’m thinking especially of “Midnight in Honolulu” and “Ragtime.”