The Power of Poetry

"Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words." 

—  Paul Engle, from an article in The New York Times

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Addendum for the previous Shiv Story:

The previous chapter/episode was a gut punch for many readers. I am not perfect. I am not a saint. Like all of us, I have done some things that I am ashamed of— things that I want to avoid acknowledging, remembering, talking about, or (for God's sake) putting down in writing.

Writing this journal/story is part therapy and part self-assessment. It should include some improvements and real-life changes.

I also wanted to express my gratitude to a fellow writer named Cindy. I won't use her last name because I don't wish to embarrass her. I call her "dream-weaver" because her dreams inspire her writing. 

I was full of self-doubt and couldn't decide whether or not to continue with this story. Cindy sent me a very kind personal message at just the right time to motivate me to continue. Thank you, Cindy, and keep on writing those dreams.

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I only started writing once I began teaching in the prisons, but now- I cannot stop. The method of communication I feel most comfortable with is poetry or a prose/poetry combination of free verse, which I have heard referred to as proems.

This story is a collection of poems and short stories created to communicate a perspective of my life experiences. 

Is it imperfect? - Yes, of course, it is. 

Will everyone who reads it see what I want them to see and feel what I want them to feel? -   No, of course not. 

But it would be worthwhile if I could convey a small part of the emotional impact of the prison system.

Someday, I may write a serious novel about my prison days. But for now, my comfort level is poetry, prose, and an occasional short story.

I have known all my adult life how powerful poetry can be...

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From the author... 

There is a common thought inside prisons—a knowledge or realization, if you prefer—that a prisoner controls how hard their time will be. I believe this to be true. Serving time can harden any man. But I have personally witnessed felons who cut themselves off from any human contact. They become cold. They become a prison of one. 

Their goal is to ensure that no one can get in and hurt them. The downside is that no one can get in to help them either.

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The following prose poetry or proem, Choices, describes an example of a different prison: a prison of one, one alone, one unreachable.

Choices

The Preacher comes to visit- 

once a week. 

Passing through the gates- 

and barbed wire. 

He wants to speak with me-

about the poor Choices- 

that I have made-

that put me here.

I said- 

we all make mistakes. 

He should- 

believe in redemption-

and second chances. 

He gets angry. 

He tells me- 

I am responsible- 

for my poor Choices. 

Not him. 

Not Society.

I tell him- 

I believe you. 

Therefore, after today- 

I Choose- 

never to meet with him again.

*

The Lady- 

from the community college- 

comes to educate me. 

She wants to 'give back. 

She believes I am here-

for my own good. 

I need to be rehabilitated- 

and corrected.

I explain to her-

the long arm of the law-

 is broken. 

I am actually here-

to be punished. 

She gets angry. 

She tells me- 

I am ignorant and illiterate. 

I Choose to be this way. 

I tell her- 

I believe you. 

Therefore, after today- 

I Choose- 

to never meet with her again.

*

My Lawyer came to visit me. 

To prepare for a judicial. 

A slim possibility- 

of leaving this place. 

He says I can improve my- 

chances for an early release. 

By making better Choices. 

Like seeing the Preacher-

and the education Lady.

I told him- 

I Choose- 

never to see them again.

He gets angry with me. 

He tells me- 

I am Choosing-

 to be a bad client. 

I don't deserve-

his probono services.

I tell him- 

I believe you. 

Therefore, after today-

 I Choose- 

never to meet with him again.

*

I Choose-

to serve the remainder-

 of my term. 

After serving two dimes. 

Twenty years. 

I must serve- 

life without parole. 

I still Choose- 

for myself. 

Life without- 

the Preacher. 

Life without- 

the education Lady. 

Life without- 

my Lawyer.

 I Choose- 

what my prison-

will become-

 for my remaining time. 

They will all learn- 

to respect me. 

I Choose. 

Not them. 

Me. 

I Choose...

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Next episode... Sex

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