New Poems by Conway: “Chill” and “Meditation Room”


My pen pal “Conway”, who is serving 25-to-life in California for receiving stolen goods, returns this month with two striking new poems. He writes that “Meditation Room” was composed during a recent stretch in solitary confinement.


Chill

Prisoners of lost sands
swing upon a string
of pearls becoming strands.
Remnants of time;
Like: Cheap laundry,
strung up on the line;
Tethered
to chafe in the weather…

The Sun has blinked
His suspicious eye
once again–
darkness falls on all…

That heavy piss-stained kiss
was unable to fend off
the wind’s bite
and its whistle, cold embrace,
greedy fingers
frostier than jealousy…

While mountains drift away
from these windblown years
our sandbottles treasure
contains an epic measure…

In this moment
that last breath
or, first draft inhaled
when time accelled
before you and I laughed
then a cry expelled…

In this noiseless silence
that could wake concrete
the quiet was complete
it would take only a whisper
to break this spell;
But me
I’d like to yell…

****

Meditation Room
-Yoga 101-

There’s no place like–
Ohmmmmm…
Here, in the meditation Rooms
we are on our–
Ohnnnnn…

Relax, set aside your thoughts for a moment
adjust to the surrounding sounds.
The breeze flows over your body
at an abnormal velocity, all day
all night, it whispers, with the same exacting force.

Let this sound comfort your mind
it will not change–
it is there to fill your Lungs desire.
Now, tune into the jingling bell notes
of brass keys, chains on hips
as they Rhythmically flow into your vibrating eardrums
then calmly fade away (isn’t this serene)

Think warm happy thoughts, as
the cold Concrete walls, caress
your sense of claustrophobia.
No need to panic, it will do no-good
you’re not imagining this paranoia
you are Dead-locked inside, from the outside.

There is No-way
that you can open the thick solid steel doors.
Even in your wildest of dreams.
So, maintain my fellow prisoners;
Embrace your incarceration.
Enjoy the solitude of this tomb
            inside your Meditation Room.
            Ohmmmmm…

“Conway” Reflects on Writing and Mentoring in Prison


My prison pen pal “Conway” writes in his July 17 letter that he has begun reading Dag Hammarskjold’s Markings:


A very good book. It was a manuscript found in his house in New York after he died. Sort of a diary. Very poignant thoughts….

I wrote two poems inspired so far by his words. I’m sendin’ them along — “Sacrifice” and “Interrogation” — plus a couple more. But I would like to share a quote from this book…


Having breathed a atmosphere filled with the products of his own spiritual combustion, he remembers reading somewhere that, in the neighborhood of a sulfur works, even a sparse vegetation can only survive if it is sheltered from the wind — ‘When did this happen?’ he asks himself — ‘and through how many generations will the effects still be traceable?’

–And then what will all earthly joys be, compared to the promise: ‘Where I am, there ye may be also’ (John 14:3)?

In an early July letter to Conway, I had confided in him about a difficult family situation, and my struggle to believe that my personality was not permanently warped by past choices and relationships. I think that’s what moved him to send me this tender story of the vegetation in need of shelter — as if to say, the need for support and consolation is not a weakness to be ashamed of, but a universal precondition of being alive, like sunlight and oxygen. And even where that precondition wasn’t always present, what God has in store for us will ultimately outshine our past deprivations.

Conway has been mentoring at-risk youth in the EDGE Program, which pairs delinquent teens with older prisoners who can de-glamorize the criminal life and guide them to better choices. He shares this story of one youth who was difficult to reach until they started talking about books:


In our last session (EDGE), I had this 15 year old kid, and he never knew his pops, and his mom was a crankster gangster, and lost him to the State. Then when he was 12, she got custody back, for about a year. Then she overdosed. šŸ™

The young man is very withdrawn, and the “Group Home” he’s at, there is some chump who’s been harassing him and the rest of the young men in his charge. So, he’s been “Boning out” with one of his “Home boys” and they got caught smokin’ weed. So, they got in trouble for running off.

Bottom line The kid’s just trying to survive and retain some freedom & sense of self.

I got him to open up & he told me that he liked to read, or used to, until Dude started making his life miserable. I convinced him that reading was more rewarding than smokin’ weed, and asked him, and found out, that he had written a few short-short stories to escape his boredom. (cool)

He was last reading Harry Potter, but hadn’t finished. I convinced him that he could benefit by reading more, and maybe writing some more stories, and he agreed that he enjoyed writing them, even if “they were goofy”

Any rage, I sent him a letter last weekend, and sent him some Raymond Feist books. Three in the “Riftwar Sagas” series, good wizards stuff, and I had one of the c/o sponsors drop the letter & books off, to him….

I hope he’s doin’ better, it just sucks to see the kids, making mistakes, and getting passed around, with no real direction or trustworthy guidance from his adult supervisors.


Conway’s letter has gotten me thinking about resilience. Why do some people seem to have more of it, and what (like sickle-cell anemia) might be the hidden benefits of having less? I feel ashamed to dwell on my own early wounds from childhood bullies and flawed authority figures, when I always had the basics (food, shelter, education, life with parents instead of strangers) that Conway’s friend and so many others are growing up without. And yet these middle-class grievances have marked me so deeply (and, I fear, so visibly) that sometimes I feel like the circus child in Victor Hugo’s L’homme qui rit.


Yes, I know, sensitivity is the price of being an artist, blah blah. I’d feel better making that claim if I could finish my !#$*%&! novel(s) instead of waking up at 5 a.m. with palpitations more often than not, to pray the rosary for two hours as a way to stop obsessing about enemies who haven’t thought of me in thirty years. Margaret, are you grieving/Over Goldengrove unleaving? If Margaret still “spares a sigh” for those “worlds of wanwood” when she grows up, is she a prophet or a case of arrested development?

I’ll end with some poems from Conway’s letter:


Wring Your Wrists

Over the Earth
under that mud
where the earth rescinds
then turns to blood
when back from earth

For what I am, for what we trust
the difference claims
disturbs the unjust
like the past
shall we be dust

So, don’t become
so mortified
the destruction timed
was fortified
in stone

Destruction brings
the domination
construction sings
as does
Abomination, alone

Children declined
treated unkind
living in dread, of Laws’ so blind
too many bad deeds
too good, but a few

counting the past
what could they do
and what of you?

I live in a box
covered by locks
held steadfast
stumbling over the past

All these sands’
alone to kill
if I saved but one
a beach would spill
a million…

****


Interrogation

As July’ sky
Blaze Hot & High
Bright sunlight blended
where the concrete ended
with barbedwire
Imprisoned souls on fire..

Not one cloud
dared to shadow this crowd
Stretched out, laid bare.
Naked heat, waves in the air
embraced by torsos’ of stone,
an endless chain to atone…

PEN Prison Writing Awards


The PEN American Center, an association of writers working for freedom of expression and human rights, has just presented its annual Prison Writing Awards for the best poetry, fiction and essays by inmates in the U.S. prison system. The stories of long-term inmates reveal that in a misguided attempt to be “tough on crime,” states keep cutting back on educational and rehabilitative programs for prisoners.

We’ve all heard the popular gripe (heck, I used to believe it myself) that society’s deadbeats shouldn’t get an education “for free” while hard-working people can barely afford theirs. Let me tell you, folks, college tuition isn’t a quarter-million dollars because some poor lifer in Florida is getting too much writing paper. Such myths represent an age-old strategy to set disadvantaged groups off against each other, squabbling over limited resources while the CEOs, politicians and lobbyists are rigging the system in their favor.

But don’t just believe me. Go visit a prison in your area, or join PEN’s program to mentor an incarcerated writer (no travel required). You’ll be amazed at how this so-called Christian nation throws away so many precious lives.

Here’s an excerpt from an interview with Charles P. Norman, 2008 winner in the Memoir category for “Fighting the Ninja”, a graphic account of how HIV/AIDS is allowed to spread through the prison population.


Those on the ā€œoutsideā€ can help by demanding that state legislators refocus on education for prisoners and not confuse it with ā€œsoft on crimeā€ attitudes. When we had Pell grants and college classes for prisoners, I donā€™t know how many times I heard guards and others complain they had to pay for their educations while prisoners got them for free. Thatā€™s not true. I paid a great price for my education in prison. Life. And Iā€™m still paying.

What they donā€™t realize is that itā€™s in societyā€™s best interest that prisoners develop educational and vocational skills, in order to become wage-earning and law-abiding members of society when theyā€™re released. About 90% of those men who return to prison are unemployed at the time of their arrest. Make society safer by educating prisoners. Do everyone a favor.

Thereā€™s another aspect of illiteracy, that pertaining to legal and illegal immigrants in prison. Iā€™ve worked with crowds of prisoners in ESL classes (being fluent in foreign languages is a great advantage in prison). Men from virtually every Spanish-speaking country south of us, plus Haitians, are a growing presence in prison. Many are illiterate in their native language, but virtually speechless in English. What has impressed me about these men is their desire to learn.

There are so many sad stories, wrenching accounts of starving families, struggling to come here, work, send money home, literally to save their children. One man, a Cuban, had an American wife and children in Miami. He spoke no English. He was working in another city, got mixed up in something, went to jail, had no way to call or communicate with his family; all his wife knew was that he had disappeared. She didnā€™t know whether he was alive or dead, had abandoned his four children or not. Sheā€™d been living in a rental, couldnā€™t pay, went home to her family in Kansas City.

Four years later, he was in my ESL class, trying to learn enough English so he could write letters to government agencies to find his family. His inability to speak or write English crippled him, had a terrible effect on his mental state. Fortunately, Luann Meeker, a friend of mine in Kansas City, made a phone call and found his wife and children. He was alive! What a lift. He wasnā€™t yet able to write a coherent letter in English, but heā€™d dictate and Iā€™d translate. It was an incredible mail reunion. Later they came to visit him.

Visit his website at http://www.freecharlienow.com/.

Conway: “I Already Know”


The latest poetic offering from my prison pen pal “Conway” arrived on the back of a masterful drawing of grotesque comedy and tragedy masks haunting a grey prison cell. I admire his determination to get his artwork out to the world, despite the the prison bureaucracy which often bounces back his mail based on ever-changing criteria about envelope size and penmanship. Sadly, I don’t possess a scanner large enough to reproduce it here, but the poem is below. I’m still looking for a publisher for his chapbook, so please contact me if you have a lead.

This poem resonated with my own struggles to keep God’s grace and liberating promises in sight when others’ harsh judgments fill my daily awareness. To “learn what I already knew” and feel in my heart what I believe intellectually–that is a big part of what it means to “work out your salvation”, I think. And perhaps the first priority of Christian communities should be to show one another what it feels like to be forgiven, so that grace becomes as believable as shame.


I Already Know

Some day; I hope to shake off this wrath
exactly as a dog shakes off his master’s bath
unwanted film of rules, rough cuffs and regulations
fences stretched tight to keep people in, dogs out

You know what I’m tryin to say, but not talk about
Just a quick retort, inside another useless sally port
    before, after the doors crack
exposing the exit, entrance, monkey on my back
    peering out, into this promised land
spilling from an unrevealing hand, manacled.

The blue sky, only open door, dangling above me
    Taunting, “come to me” where everyone’s free

If only I believed the rhetoric, the delivery
    of phrases, phases and useless words
spewing from mouths of deadeyed mocking birds
Some day, one day I’ll learn what I already knew
    come to see your view, go to see you…

Poems by Conway: “Walls” and “Things That Hang”


New poems below from “Conway”, my pen pal serving 25-to-life for receiving stolen goods under California’s three-strikes law. I’m exploring self-publication options for his chapbook, but would also appreciate being contacted by any interested publishers. 


Walls

As I stand in contrast
questioning authority, to which it stands

Is this wall of concrete asking itself
why I stick around, never leave?
Seeming to grieve this stoic stance
held so long, by a pillar built society.
Do the walls rejoice, in my familiar visage
whenever I caress that sharp roughness
with this softer flesh
polishing the stone.

Or, is it just hope
that makes me imagine the wall alive
with sight, even sturdy voice?

Then, I wonder
is it this stone
that exiles me in
or the world out…

****

Things That Hang

A sound in the air
until caught by an ear
wanted people
on the post office wall
offering money to call
A kite by the wind
with a string
on the other end
that question
of doubt
you know
what I’m talkin’ about
A hope
and a prayer
pants, on a leg
the shirt
off his back
A corpse
without any slack…

Thousand Kites Launches National Criminal Justice Project


Thousand Kites is a community-based multimedia project that advocates reforms to the US criminal justice system, using live performances, film screenings, radio broadcasts and the Internet. This month they hope to arrange a hundred screenings of the documentary “Up the Ridge”, a film about one community’s experience using prisons as economic development and the resulting human rights violations.

“Up the Ridge” takes you inside the super-maximum-security Wallens Ridge prison in Virginia, and looks at the personal devastation and racial conflicts that resulted when hundreds of thousands of inner-city minority prisoners were transferred to this rural facility, far from their families and neighborhoods. Click here to order the film, which comes with a guide to setting up a community screening, and other bonus tracks.

This outreach effort supports the American Friends Service Committee’s STOPMAX Campaign to abolish torture and solitary confinement in US prisons. Read prisoners’ own stories of physical and mental abuse at the STOPMAX Voices blog.


“I was strapped into a restraint chair for a few hours or so just to harass me. I have seen people forced to relieve themselves in their clothes because staff refused to let them go to the bathroom while strapped in the chair and also chained to various tables in waiting/holding areas. They would be screaming and begging to be allowed to go to the bathroom and staff would not let them. That is why I attempted suicide. I was done with watching the beatings, torture, and horror and done with the harassment 24-7 and the continuous torment and torture- fingers wrenched out of joint while applying handcuffs, handcuffs clamped in the skin against the bone, the leg chains clamped on so tight that my feet turned purple, constant various threats by staff, being woke up all during the night for various reasons- to deliver mail at 2AM, deliver the paper at 3AM, wake me up to ask me if I am asleep at 4AM. I was done.” –Prisoner in Maricopa 4th Ave Jail, Arizona

New Poems from “Conway”: “City Limits” and “Streets”


My prison pen pal “Conway” returns with new poems that move deeper into surreal territory. I like how he’s moved away from his reliance on Gothic-horror imagery to more subtle and original metaphors. I sent him poems by John MiltonCarl Phillips and Ariana Reines this month, so look for even stranger poems in the weeks ahead.

We’re currently seeking a publisher for a chapbook of his work. If you have a lead, please comment below. Meanwhile, some selections:


City Limits

Exploring her every nook & cranny:
This neon-lit City of Angels
carefully, I pried open
a glass eyed time-piece
sand slithering arteries of Grit
became avenues of dead stars
mixed among flotsam and jetsam once again

A globe-lit recalcitrant flame
Lamp-light of our dark-voided space
sucked into a whirlpool
siphoned through
a pocket-knife sliced Garden hose
Fuel, for a stolen car’s joyride
So lonely for comfort; Yet so alive…


********

Streets

Delay this intrepid LIFE (left behind)
hand-washed away, by years of silent cheers
watch as sunsets-strip away the pain
while your splendor is too keen to withdraw
abstain or restrain, streets of my youth…

The streets I grew-up on, may flee
But, they will never leave me
I know those black veins, pumping red
trees pulsing green
congested traffic trailing lights through the foothills…

They freely flow, like: A mother’s breast
request of issue hushed
producing life, as the sore cries out for more
Time, to ingest floppy kisses, of silt & smog
Tastes that clog this breast with memory…

“too brilliant” in the scheme of things; So I thought!
Yet, looking back now, it seems I’d caught
a hint or glimpse, of troubles to astonish
as shocking as this may sound
I chose to stick around; I could have Run…

PEN Prison Writing Contest Winners Posted


The PEN American Center, a writers’ association that defends freedom of expression and other human rights, offers an extensive Prison Writing Program that mentors incarcerated writers and promotes their work through readings and publications. The winners of their 2007 writing contest are currently online.

I was especially impressed with J.E. Wantz’s first-prize essay “Feeling(s) Cheated“. Part memoir, part political analysis, this piece describes the author’s treatment with the antidepressant Paxil. Wantz asks tough questions about what the individual, and society, gains or loses by medicating the symptoms rather than addressing the causes of sorrow, anger, and shame. When does medication become a crutch, as well a cheaper alternative to rehabilitating the prisoner? What is the true self, and at what cost are we willing to experience its emotional highs and lows?

Wantz recounts a traumatic encounter with a volunteer preacher who denounced antidepressants as Satanic. In this man’s view, mental illness was a demonic possession that would be cured if one’s faith was strong enough. This inaccurate, shaming message cut the author off from a sense of God’s forgiveness, though the challenge also motivated him to wonder what emotions he was so afraid of experiencing without the drug.


When I was a teenager I wasnā€™t prepared to deal with the emotional quagmire that lay before me like a quicksand minefield. I was too tied up in other peopleā€™s views of who I should be. Other people condemned me because I was not like the saints of old. They wanted to shape me into their idea of what a good moral person should be. Their inability to consider that maybe they didnā€™t know what they were talking about never entered their minds. They were right; everyone at church, at youth group, and at summer camp thought the same way. Everyone in my world, limited as it was, told me who I was supposed to be. How could they all be wrong? My mind and emotions were at war. A war I could not win without help. In the psychiatric field I believe that this is called a cognitive dissonance. Ten years later I was introduced to Paxil. The drug helped solve none of the key issues, it merely put them on hold.

But did I need the drug for ten years? Or would a much shorter time period have been appropriate, maybe the original six-month trial period? A drug that was meant to be a stop-gap emergency measure had become a lifestyle. It had become a habit. Did the Band-Aid become the putative cure? My body consumed the substance daily, building a dependency.

An October 2005 article in The Atlantic Monthly, entitled ā€œLincolnā€™s Great Depressionā€ by Joshua Wolf Shenk (adapted from his book entitled Lincolnā€™s Melancholy: How Depression Challenged a President and Fueled his Greatness), examined and found a man who was tormented by melancholy, to the edge of suicide. The authorā€™s argument is that Lincolnā€™s struggle from within his depression focused his statecraft in ways that were essential to addressing the specific challenges of both the war of secession and the contentious debate on slavery. But, as the author explains, all of that arose from Lincolnā€™s approach to living with his depression. He did attempt medical remedies that we can now conclusively say did not help, and in fact may have harmed. He tried tablets of mercury, cocaine, and infusions designed to induce violent diarrhea, to name a few. Today we see all these remedies as “snake oil” in the battle against depression, but the medical establishment of the day trumpeted their efficacy, much as the current TV commercials do for every conceivable malady anyone with disposable income could have.

Lincoln worked with his depression and is now, inarguably, considered one of this nationā€™s best presidents. He didnā€™t overcome, rise above, or surmount his melancholy. He never gave a glowing testimonial about how he found God or a drug that miraculously saved him from the clutches of the demon depression. No, he had a different approach. The author tells us that Lincoln requested a copy of the eulogy given at the funeral of his 11-year old son, Willie. Shenk says, ā€œHe [Lincoln] would hold to this idea as if it were a life raft.ā€ The idea is that ā€œ . . . with confidence in God, ā€˜our sorrows will be sanctified and made a blessing to our souls, and by and by we shall have occasion to say with blended gratitude and rejoicingā€™ it is good for us that we have been afflicted.ā€ His depression was not a demon to exorcise; it was a fact of everyday life necessary to live with.

What explains the judgmental attitude that some Christians have toward depression, as described in Wantz’s story and this RELEVANT Magazine article by Laura Bowers? In a culture that is hyper-sensitive to any signs of Christian hypocrisy, where evangelism is met with suspicion or indifference, I for one certainly feel pressure to pretend that my faith makes me happy and functional. Turning to drugs looks like an admission that Jesus isn’t enough. If the product doesn’t work for me, why would anyone else buy it? I’m not just the president of the Hair Club for Men, I’m also a satisfied customer! 

The flip side of this judgment toward others is shame about one’s self–the exact thing the gospel is supposed to free us from, which should be a sign that this attitude is un-Christian. When I am depressed, I am afraid that it undermines my credibility and makes me unlovable. Depression reveals how much power I’m still giving other people to determine my self-worth, when I “should” be getting that from God’s unmerited love. I put “should” in scare-quotes because these days, that expectation feels like just another demand to which I can’t measure up, i.e. another source of depression.

How do I get from here to there? Maybe I don’t. Yesterday I prayed, “God, thank you for making me a melancholy person, because that is how you made me, and so you must have a reason that is for my good as well as the good of others.”

Do I feel better today? Do I have to?

Prison Poems by “Conway”: “Trapdoor” Revised and Others


My pen pal “Conway”, who is serving 25-to-life in California state prison for receiving stolen goods, returns this month with a revised version of “Trapdoor” and other new poems. I’m enjoying the surreal turn that his work has taken, as he feels a greater freedom to make associative leaps and use imagery rather than explanation to convey emotions.

Trapdoor

All the eyes that have groped–
    invoked, these melted sands,
        us trees in the snow, reaching out
for warm lights brightness
    instead, suffocated by whiteness.

The Sun only dissolved the black asphalt
    melted its pain, in vain
        reflecting on this concrete
crumbling, like stale crackers.

All these faces tied together on the same chain
    vacantly staring out
        of a teasing television’s lens

A world of opportunity offered, taunted
    without scents, glints
        but never relents.

A cliche “so close yet so far away”;

This distant world’s condemned
    by icy wind, forgetting its place
        in the prison’s pecking order;
Seasons listening for prompts.

Still, the only real sounds offered
    will turn into useless static
        untuneable noise we avoid.

Paranoid, of a despicable crowd’s opinion,
    wonder, about thunder’s irrelevance.

When the Earth falls open
    to swallow your soul;
Then, like a trapdoor spider
    closes back up
        to hide the hole…

********


Memorial

This nostalgic promise retraced
is still yours, till the end of time
yours was, to always be mine
those cold feet at night
disturbing our warm bed so fine
recollect the crash
shielding your face with mine
reminisce, we missed a sign
I won’t forget my distress
watching you bringing
our bonded blood into this world
howling–kicking & screaming
make note: who made you a mother
we awoke in love with each other.

Now summon the silence: (when I fell)
when I landed in jail
this slow dragging Hell.
I carry you still, I always will
that crept up on me
like a whisper instead
I conceived my widow, before I was dead

memorizing it all, I had no one to call
no one to talk with, cushion this fall
the stillness complied too
it almost implied nothing of you
except
A tragedy like that
has not happened yet
I’m still alive, besides so are you
these shackles they try to disguise
just might catch our lords eyes
then trust the true light to come shining on through.

still, I can promise you this
we will never regret a kiss
your name on my breath, forget
my voice as it dies in the wind
an authentic heart
can never pretend, or
dishonor fate’s dividend…


********

Failure

A Guitar string breaks
        slakes away the note
    Picks this translation
weak inspiration coils up like a snake
        ready to strike out
            fangs on the concertina
slice razor sharp through the flesh
        this song being sung
            on those broken dreams
    hungry schemes of fate
shake off the silver strands empty music
            surrounds the silence
        counting another approach
when wounded strings fail to sing…

Support Prisoner Re-entry Programs


The Episcopal Public Policy Network is urging members to contact their U.S. senators in support of the Second Chance Act (Senate Bill 1060), which would give federal funding to state programs that rehabilitate prisoners and ease their re-entry into the community. These programs offer literacy and job training, drug treatment, and other mental and physical health services. The bill passed the House of Representatives this fall. Read more about it in Episcopal Life Online.

In other prison-reform news, Thousand Kites, a dialogue project on the U.S. criminal justice system, tomorrow will host its “Calls From Home” national radio broadcast for prisoners. Call their toll-free line (888-396-1208) Dec. 11 from 3 PM to 11 PM Eastern time to record your message to an incarcerated friend or family member. Messages will be included in a broadcast to over 120 radio stations across the country. Find out more here.