Back in March, we began participating in the Poetry Coalition's March theme: "I am deliberate / and afraid / of nothing: Poetry & Protest." The line is from from "New Year's Day" by Audre Lorde. The theme was inspired by a number of occasions taking place next year, including the 100th anniversary of the 19th Amendment granting women the right to vote and the 50th anniversary of the tragic shooting of student protesters at Kent State University. It also speaks to the role poetry has played in encouraging civic and grassroots engagement, and contributed to public debate and dialogue. Much has changed in the world since then, and we are happy to finally be able to present the rest of the winners of our contest for incarcerated writers.
Last fall, volunteer mentors who currently participate in the Poetry Center's workshop, FREE TIME: Building Community for Incarcerated Writers (part of our Art for Justice project), solicited submissions from prisoners across the country to enter into our POETRY & PROTEST contest. By our February deadline, we had received close to 100 poetry and prose submissions from writers on the inside on "the inequities and unsustainability of the American legal system and mass incarceration." Both the poetry and prose winners have been published here on the Poetry Center website. They will also receive cash prizes.
Click here to read the Poetry Honorable mentions.
Click here to read the Prose Honorable mentions.
Click here to read the Prose Winners.
Today we are thrilled to feature the Poetry Winners.
HOMOGRAPH (3RD PLACE WINNER)
by Sean J. White
how did I wind up [ay] here wind up [ay] informal end up in
a particular state situation or place SYNONYM breath informal
puff breathe all alone a high picture window
with the view of another window frosted revealing only day and night
it doesn't matter what wind [ih] carried me I already indeed
the responsibility tightly wound [ow] seeking time in a world
without clocks pace the floor to pass the time
how many names can we devise for the wind [ih] nomina agentis
winders [ay] despooling hours and minutes moments heaped in silos
winding [ay] razor wire malignant polyps infecting Interstates
diseased homonyms words spelled differently but sound the
same (but what are words spelled the same but sound differently)
the wending walk of shame I walk unrepentant the aggressive
interrogation of a clown tickles my ears the painted smile
you can't expect me to take seriously my own smile and a belly
full of wind [ih] I wrestle laughter handcuffed carried by the blue agents of Zephyr
a walk to a metaphorical needle full of strange chemicals shot to stop the body
fear worse than the prick silent bricks and tiles jail within a jail
here I lacked [past completed] the humanity of watching shadows
seventh floor swallow across the street buildings pace the floor
to pass the time to count the hours and minutes wound up (ow)
that hurts what a wound [oo] the illusion of
control a light switch my finger's whim on and off the other
side of the sliding cell door thick steel overpowered the winds (ih] of mercy
better than benighted Alcatraz cell sight removed popping buttons
to play hide and seek the wounds [oo] darkness strikes our toes
binding feet in fear and ratty deck shoes all the buttons stripped from my soul
replaced with an o range jumpsuit blazing anger to wind [ih] is to make
someone unable to breathe easily for weeks at a time once upon a time
punishment stripped of my clothes my humanity lay crumpled on the floor
outside the cell and I became [past] the animal and in the quiet
under the camera I thought [past] about a woman I had known
and shot my load against the wall and lying again on a deli-thin mattress
I think about thinking about that woman the ease with which I found myself
in the hole the sounds of isolation the wind [ih] of a vent and later
what is the sound of one man screaming three cells down if no one cares
pace the floor to pass the time delineating the graphic detail of sensory deprivation
step by step the hours and minutes unwinding [ay] thread by thread
sailing close to (or near) the wind [ih] informal come close to being
indecent dishonest or disastrous bare feet blackened from miles
met five steps at a time I wend alone winding [ay] twisting turning
bending looping curving a zigzag meander verbalizing a nominal
tigering my enclosure the invisible uncountable degrees of an arc
poke and prod the threads of my sanity and the winded [ih] growl of my eyes
disembowels every uncommon passerby agent of Zephyr pace the floor
to pass the time little window and locked glory hole brush-bottomed doors
to slow the casting of lines night fishers of strange waters their voices sail
cell to cell cargoes of trauma carried to other victims an exchange of winds [ih]
that will continue long after my departure a continuous reenactment
of the Twilight Zone episode with the toys trapped in a bucket
and the molting seabird days plume routine three times a week
showers and exchanges of clothes sleep and sleep
breakfast lunch and dinner now and again
piss pings the streaky stainless steel
waves roll on the wind [ih]
pace the floor to pass the time
Sean J. White was awarded second place in PEN America’s 2018 Prison Writing Contest. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in numerous journals, such as Xanadu, Natural Bridge, and Connecticut River Review. He enjoys the discipline of writing daily haiku and haibun. Sean is serving a life sentence in Wisconsin.
AND— (2ND PLACE WINNER)
by Joseph Cala
And— And— And—
And I’ve been good this year!
And I’ve taken all your programs…
And yet you gave me a (three-year!) set-off.
And— And— And— And so no parole again.
And— And— And—
And I’ve got a wife and kids!
And they need me to support them.
And I need to help raise the children.
And— And— And— And I love them.
And then it’s, “Talk to the ‘and.’”
And so no parole again.
And— And— And—
And my father died last year.
And my mother’s sick and old.
And my mother needs me now.
And— And— And— And she may die soon.
“And? Your point is?”
And so no parole again.
And— And— And—
And then my mother died.
And then my wife divorced me.
And then my kids disowned me.
And— And— And— And now there’s no one left but me.
“Oh well. I guess there’s no one who will miss you then.”
And so no parole again.
And— And— And—
And I’ve done 85% of my sentence!
And I was supposed to parole at 50%!
And I’m sixty-five years old now!
Can’t you see I’m rehabilitated?
And— And— And—
And what is wrong with you?
Just give me a chance!
Have you no compassion? No mercy? No soul?
Don’t have half a conscience?
“You don’t. Not with that kind of language. Ands only.”
And so no parole again.
And— And— And—
And so no second chances.
And so my life is over.
And I had so many plans.
And I didn’t get to raise my kids!
And— And— And—
And I wanted to make the world a better place.
And I wanted to be happy and free.
And— And— And— And they don’t want me to be free.
And there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing!
And— And— And—
And they’re still intent on judging me.
And they will never forgive me.
And they think they need to punish me.
And why? Why the maximum penalty?
And— And— And—
And I think I’m going crazy,
because the guilt is killing me!
And I hate myself – I hate myself!
And I wish that I was dead!
And— And— And—
And you promised! You promised!
The statutes say I can make parole now!
And I did what you wanted! Just tell me what you want!
What the hell does it take to make parole?!
And— And— And—
And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
And I really regret what I’ve done.
And I swear that I’ll be good.
And— And— And— And I promise I’ll never do it again.
“Well, of course not, silly. We’ll make sure of that.”
And so no parole again.
And— And— And—
And so what is the meaning to life
when you no longer have one?
No family And no friends,
no money And no privacy,
no possessions And no goals,
no potential or accomplishments,
no rights And no freedom,
no smiles And no laughter,
no good times And no dreams,
no tomorrow And no hope.
No way out –
(And— And— And—)
– and no end.
And— And— And—
And someone please help me, please try to understand:
I’m a pretty good person.
I love dogs And cats And butterflies.
Doesn’t that count for something?
Because I can’t stand all these “Ands” anymore!
Again And again And again! And! And! And!
And infinitum!
And nauseum!
And then it’s all right,
because I’m not like you.
You keep going your way –
and I’ll keep going mine.
Keep tacking on those Ands –
keep stacking on those years.
And I will still forgive you.
And I will still love you.
And— And— And—
And forever.
Joseph Cala writes fiction and poetry, describes himself as a “happy person,” and does yoga and meditation to stay positive. He has written a detective story called “Eureka,” a 45-page, sci-fi novelette titled “Sinergy,” and two children’s stories: “The Santa from the Planet Atlantis” and “Down Deep, A Pirate Story”. Joseph is serving a 30-year sentence in Texas.
untitled (1ST PLACE WINNER)
by Adam Zachs
I asked the state for clemency
They offered me a vegetarian diet instead.
Very fancy indeed, no blood no guts
No mechanical deboning of any sort.
Just like a Beverly Hills restaurant
without the avocado toast.
The official menu says we shall receive
peanut butter, 4 ounces each
and every day. I only get 3 ounces and a
plastic spoon.
By the year 2199 they will have shortchanged me
65,156 ounces of peanut butter
but the joke is on them.
My sentence ends in 2198 and then
I will be able to stop wondering
“Hey, where the heck is the jelly?”
and “where the hell is the bread?”
Adam Zachs is serving a 60-year sentence in Connecticut.