After 26 years and more,
more years than your life,
I can remember you
with joy exceeding sorrow –
though, as The Prophet suggested,
they’re sides of one coin:
always some tears,
a swift pang.
When your death was recent,
it was anguish to notice young fun –
pinball machines, amusement parks –
you might have enjoyed
if not for a youth in prison,
if not for your final escape.
[Poem #54]
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent, lapsing and resuming) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
Showing posts with label PRISON. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PRISON. Show all posts
Saturday, 20 September 2008
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Prisoner Poet 2: Kindred Spirit
Swift recognition,
though at first
you were wary
behind your exercise book.
Some years later
published poet, on the way
to an Honours degree.…
Out, you returned
to the thrill of oblivion.
Visiting after I broke my leg
you brought armfuls of food,
your methadone,
your wife and baby son.
I never saw you again;
you just vanished,
our birthday pact
broken that year.
Rumour said you OD’d.
[Poem #18]
Post-script 2019. We both moved house unexpectedly – to different parts of the country – around the same time, and didn't have each other's new addresses. But rumour was wrong. Many years later we met again, and became friends again. He has remained a happy family man.
though at first
you were wary
behind your exercise book.
Some years later
published poet, on the way
to an Honours degree.…
Out, you returned
to the thrill of oblivion.
Visiting after I broke my leg
you brought armfuls of food,
your methadone,
your wife and baby son.
I never saw you again;
you just vanished,
our birthday pact
broken that year.
Rumour said you OD’d.
[Poem #18]
Post-script 2019. We both moved house unexpectedly – to different parts of the country – around the same time, and didn't have each other's new addresses. But rumour was wrong. Many years later we met again, and became friends again. He has remained a happy family man.
PS2 2024. He died in October 2023 after battling a severe illness and appearing to have recovered. A month before, he had celebrated his birthday happily, with family (including grand-children) and friends. He did much good in his life and was greatly loved by many.
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Prisoner Poet 1: The Youngest
You sussed me out a while,
finally sidled up. 'I got
these poems here,
they're not very good.'
They were very good.
I bought you a handsome pen
engraved with your name —
an illegal act, I found out later;
but no-one told.
After five years, still angry, you emerged.
We got drunk together, mourning
our friend who died.
[Poem #17]
finally sidled up. 'I got
these poems here,
they're not very good.'
They were very good.
I bought you a handsome pen
engraved with your name —
an illegal act, I found out later;
but no-one told.
After five years, still angry, you emerged.
We got drunk together, mourning
our friend who died.
[Poem #17]
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Screw
Usually the screws were polite
when I entered the prison
to work with poets. Only
this day I was late.
It was Visiting Day. I lined up
with others just arriving.
Women mostly: wives,
girlfriends, mothers.
The blonde in uniform
barged through us,
shoving contemptuously hard
with her shoulders and hips.
Glaring, we knew
not to protest.
I realised right then
I was one of — not them, us.
[Poem #10]
when I entered the prison
to work with poets. Only
this day I was late.
It was Visiting Day. I lined up
with others just arriving.
Women mostly: wives,
girlfriends, mothers.
The blonde in uniform
barged through us,
shoving contemptuously hard
with her shoulders and hips.
Glaring, we knew
not to protest.
I realised right then
I was one of — not them, us.
[Poem #10]
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