The Lightning Room: Blog People

To best understand Mia Sara’s interview it is necessary that you stand up, forget about Julie, and get yourself to the top of the Chrysler building. Check out her column Wrought & Found.

 Interview by DeWitt Brinson

1) Where do you find the photos? Do you search for them or wait until they find you?

“Woman, stuck in a bag, on the Chrysler Building.” An example of my everyday image search. Also, I’m colorblind, so I tend to like images in black and white, but sometimes color is worth it.

2) What’s the most common sound in your current life?

The sound of my daughter talking to her “Nintendog” Sparky.

 3) What was the first poem you fell in love with and how does that differ from the first person you loved?

 “Down By The Salley Gardens” by W.B. Yeats. The first person I loved was of Irish extraction, melancholy, and musical. Not so different. Still some of my favorite attributes, I’m a sucker for a melancholy baby. Continue reading

Wrought & Found

Original poems and found images.

~by Mia Sara


The Black Isle

How many others, at this very minute, are sitting in a dark
kitchen with a cold cup of coffee? I can’t help but wonder.
It’s not my first cup. There was that double espresso I had
after dinner, before driving home in the dark, knuckles white,
night vision sketchy, counting the ways I’ve yet to fail my
son. It was too strong, but I gave up sleeping sixteen years

ago, and faulty vision, all that squinting in the dark, reminded
me of another drive, the one where it took me nine hours to get
from the town of Melrose, in the Scottish Borders, up north to
Inverness. A drive that should have taken four hours, tops, in
the spanking new, navy blue station wagon, with my baby boy
swaddled up tight in his car seat, howling, and me singing Continue reading

Wrought & Found

Original poems & found images

~by Mia Sara

Coffee Santa

Santa Saves Los Angeles

The Santa Ana winds
Dessicate good cheer.
Old roots and memories
Once freeze dried,
Lose their sap,
Withering the prospects

Of our Christmas tree.
The needles fall,
Not one by one, but
In steady showers.
What a fragrant corpse.
This Santa Claus Continue reading