George Franklin & Selected Student Poets
Poets write about what they know and feel. Incarcerated poets are no different than anyone else in this respect. It is the world they currently inhabit that’s different. Some are likely to remain in prison for the rest of their lives, but even those who are eventually released will carry this experience and this identity with them wherever they go. For us on the outside, recreating ourselves is a normal part of modern life, but for persons who are or have been incarcerated, their identity at what is the worst moment of their lives may be forever who they are. Poetry classes in prison, my classes at least, are not designed as rehabilitation. They are just an opportunity for these students to define themselves differently, for a period of two hours to be poets with names (pseudonyms printed here) rather than a Department of Corrections number and a dormitory identifier.
Imprisoned poets are often known for their work in spoken word poetry, and there is amazing spoken word coming out of prisons. What I find interesting, though, is that some of the best work I read inside appears in the form of villanelles, sestinas, sonnets, pantoums, and ghazals. I don’t know why this is the case, but I’m open to the possibility that my students find themselves most free in clearly structured forms. Perhaps it is the connection to poetic tradition, which is really another way of saying “poetic identity,” being part of a human enterprise that pre-dates writing itself. Whether consciously intended or simply something that happens, these poets are part of that tradition. They are in no way naïve; their poetry reflects a careful study of what words do and how they do it. They follow form, and they modify it. But, most importantly, they each want to give voice to their experiences in words that can reach outside the walls and wire fences. Where they cannot go, the poems will go for them.
The Everglades Poet
Hourly Trains
Hourly trains slowly rumble by cla clink cla clink
underground vagabonds flock like pigeons waiting to be fed
eyes wide open shut, I haven’t slept a wink
After packing up my belongings I go looking for a sink
I don’t have enough money yet to sleep on a soft bed
hourly trains slowly rumble by cla clink cla clink
A fight breaks out, then the noise of handcuffs clink, clink
almost everyone was thrown out including me gray concrete floor turned red
eyes wide open shut, I haven’t slept a wink
People come down to subway tunnel to hand out food I grab a drink
a stranger starts talking to me his name is Ted
hourly trains slowly rumble by cla clink cla clink
I start rubbing my sore neck I think it has a slight kink
I told the guy who talked to me I don’t remember what was said
eyes wide open shut, I haven’t slept a wink
The Philadelphia Daily News reads the Eagles are playing at the line,
trash filled tracks, rats are crushed all are dead
hourly trains slowly rumble by cla clink cla clink
eyes wide open shut, I haven’t slept a wink.
Cornelius Knight
Philadelphia
No yellow moon shooting stars into the night
beneath snow flakes sidewalks disappear
glass towers spiral into the sky.
Hustlers yellow cabs line the street
trumpets saxophones blare from crooked doors
1:00 am in the city of brotherly love.
Jukebox playin, woman dances alone aches for love
Smoking Joe Ali rumble in the jungle that night
tuxedos evening gowns limousines suicide doors.
He takes in a scene from a Monet watches the girl disappear
chases her green dress loses her in the street
she vanishes like the yellow moon from the sky.
Her face painted on a billboard in the sky
he will never die blue she is his first love
He raises the collar to his ears, wades into the street.
Finds a dice game three – card – molly in an alley at night
cheaters roll their loaded dice will soon disappear
his toe tagged face up on a slab behind morgue doors.
Piano cords guitar riffs vibrate through club doors
snow flakes fall heavy from the moonless sky
hustlers broke players pimps disappear.
At the Savoy lonely people pretend not to look for love
they chase fantasies windmills into the night
brush past strangers avoid their eyes on the street.
Barbershop quartets singing acapella on the street
angry lovers jump out of cab slamming doors
he drinks bourbon on the rocks into the night.
No yellow moon shooting stars light up the sky
it was the coldest day of his life jilted by love
standing in the shadows he watches the train disappear.
She holds his hand watches the flame in his eyes disappear
twilight sits at the edge of night snowflakes litter the streets
people of the night vanish in the city of brotherly love.
Silence fills the walls behind club doors
pale-blue snow clouds fill the sky
day begins a new chapter for the people of the night.
They curse the night make their indiscretions disappear
confess their betrayal of love with the stranger on the street
bent knees behind church doors look to the sky.
American Sonnet after Terrance Hayes
[ “Inside me is a black-eyed boar” ]
Inside me is a black-eyed boar
crouched in a small cage. As if a panther
would be free without the jungle.
A thousand seconds of terror. A dog’s teeth
cut my flesh like razors. I wait for the
explosion of the gun stuck in my temple—
as if a thousand dreams could set me free,
I run late at night through tall grass /
jungles of palmettos. Inside me is an
Arabian stallion prancing through deserts.
I was born into black skin. Dying there is certain.
I’m just a face painted on with smiles.
I leave no legacy for the family tree.
I was a star shooting across the night sky.
SHEMPOETRY
“DOG TO THE BONE”
Cold hearted, unempathetic, dog to the bone,
Selfish and greedy, quick to steal paper.
Off the chain, always doing the yard so wrong.
Broken promises, betrayal, another boring song,
On to the next one, a player’s nature.
Cold hearted, unempathetic, dog to the bone.
New laws, more prisons, the crime rate’s grown,
Chasing bitches and cars, a doggish behavior.
Off the chain, always doing the yard so wrong.
A pile of shit on fresh grass smells so strong,
Flies swarm giving thanks for the favor.
Cold hearted, unempathetic, dog to the bone
Roam and play in the streets, caged savage at home,
Barks and growls now, bites and screams later.
Off the chain, always doing the yard so wrong.
Ban the books, give us guns, the war goes on,
Disturbing and spreading the garbage of neighbors.
Cold hearted, unempathetic, dog to the bone,
Off the chain, always doing the yard so wrong.
WEED & CIGARS
It was angel’s idea to drink thunderbird,
We stole from whipple’s – the local corner store,
But paid for the grape kool-aid and el producto cigar,
Needed the leaf for the five dollar bag of weed
Me and rell had gone half to get.
To us, as young teenagers, every day was a party.
Thoughtless, living lawless, life was a party.
Didn’t need words to give the world the bird.
And the girls? How could i ever forget.
They always knew what was in store.
Sex, alcohol, and weed.
Rell liked watching tasha lick the cigar.
That day tasha puked all over our only cigar
We didn’t trip, because she was always down to party,
Used her grandpa’s tobacco pipe to smoke the weed.
Tasha barely remembered, she was high as a bird,
Eating little debbie cakes we stole from the store.
Always got the munchies, so we got all we could get.
Later, stole a car, had a time i won’t ever forget.
Found some reefer and enough change to buy a cigar.
The night shift didn’t slip, couldn’t steal from the store.
Joy riding, took turns driving, having a fast car party,
In a pontiac grand am racing my cousin q in a stolen firebird.
Blew our high with excitement, needed some more weed.
Prowling through saga bay figuring we’d
Break in a few cars, see if we could get
Lucky like lil daffy who’d once stole a bird-
A whole key of coke he blew like a cheap cigar.
Sex and drugs, life was a party.
A collection of adventurous memories to store.
Dope boys, alcoholics, crackheads stole from whipple’s store.
But me, rell, and angel were inspired by the weed.
Car thieves, came up on a lick at a house party.
It was a white fleetwood cadillac we could get.
The interior held the scent of a sweet rich cigar.
Felt cool, soft, cozy – a perfect nest for baby birds.
Saga bay’s crime watch party ruined what we had in store.
Trapped birds, land mammals tangled in seaweed.
Set to get sent to juvy, no marijuana and cigars.
Tristan Kayden
Only Death Pirouettes on Granite Head Stones
Only death pirouettes on granite head stones
Twirling to the symphony, evening rain
Waking the rolling greens, ashes and bone
Blazing sky, thunder cracking, maple tree moans
Eyeballs in shadows reveal something remains
Only death pirouettes on granite head stones
Residents flee into refuge of their homes
Deafening horns, vibrations, barreling train
Fumbling with the lock, the old wood door groans
Crying out, “Who is that?” questioning in vain
Only death pirouettes on granite head stones
Flashlights flickering windows, blackout zone
Muffled voices, pounding, crashing picture frames
Waking the rolling greens, ashes and bones
Please state your emergency, repentant tone
Dim figure in the den, muddy footprint stairs
Only death pirouettes on granite head stones
Waking the rolling greens, ashes and bones
Rayon Blankets
August sun bakes concrete walls.
In a sweltering cell, two convicts
sit on mattresses, rayon blankets,
beside a pin-hole window.
Chess diverting, Sudoku frolicking on tablets,
breathing in, breathing out sticky air
Both ache for spring, fall’s crisp air
that seemingly permeate walls.
They view tropical beaches on tablets,
dunking heads in ocean before convictions.
Now residing behind cell window,
suffocating in summer, lying on fire-retardant blanket.
“I remember my down blanket,”
says one inmate, “no matter how cool or warm the air
it regulates the temperature like French windows.”
“We can draw falling snow on the walls,”
says the Bostonian convict,
staring at snow covered trees on his tablet.
“No, South Beach,” says the other, palm trees on his tablet
imagining his wife posing on a blanket,
tempting him, the way she used to, before he was a convict
Her lavender, lemon scent still lingers in air.
“I love you Catalena,” speaking to the wall.
“I love you Catalena,” crying out the window.
His voice deadened by webbing in window.
Fingers tap screen of his tablet,
humming their song, “Love Brings Down All Walls.”
She covered herself, cotton blanket,
hips swaying, taunting, arms twirling air.
“You hear me,” says the Bostonian. “Wake Up Convict”
Her hands trembled. “What if you’re convicted?”
“I’ll scream your name every day from a window.”
She smiled. “And I’ll scream your name back into the air”
“And I’ll write every day,” she pulls out her writing tablet
She is no longer wrapped in a blanket,
He cannot foresee imposing walls.
Unforgiving air chokes convicts.
They cannot see beyond cinder block walls, shower drain windows
Christmas, birthday cards only viewed on tablets, charcoal gray blankets.
Incoherent
Incoherent thoughts, racing in the morning
Bracing for rest of the day, temples throbbing
Struggling to breathe, concrete in cell absorbing
My life, shadows and dust, still, freedom longing
Bracing for rest of the day, temples throbbing
Grasping for water, dribbling rust from faucet
My life, shadows and dust, still, freedom longing
Thinking all is forgotten, pictures in pocket
Grasping for water, dribbling rust from faucet
Heart breaking from losses, falling from castles
Thinking all is forgotten, pictures in pocket
Clinking, clanging, rusty links of a shackle
Heart breaking from losses, falling from castles
Staring at the toilet, slouching on locker
Clinking, clanging, rusty links of a shackle
My bunkmate, gray-haired, convict with a walker
Staring at the toilet, slouching on locker
Struggling to breathe, concrete in cell absorbing
My bunkmate, gray-haired, convict with a walker
His incoherent thoughts, racing in the morning
Tongue Ghazal
Mother’s words of wisdom, stale beer, her drunken tongue
Bursting crimson tourniquet, open mouthed, my bleeding tongue
Weeping unmailed letters, distraught in sealed envelopes
Names scratched into footlocker, the gift of tongues
Rusting razor wire, despairing deja vu
Confined to concrete blocks, proving my prophetic tongue
Congregating buzzards on gun tower, anticipating dying prey
Passing gray-haired convicts, shoos from their prison tongue
Fading face on prison badge, a nameless photograph
Goodbye or adieu Kayden. Forget your namesake tongue
