Monday, October 2, 2017

You Wouldn't Believe


How can I begin to describe to you what happens in the prison writing workshops? You would not believe it if I told you that we gather in dim light around a harshly dilapidated table to taste the possibilities inherent in a poem about love and the power of creative expression. You would not believe that men who have murdered someone dream only of giving back some polished pearl of peace to those who grieve. You would not believe that beneath the thick necks and tattoos that rise from the collar up to the jaw and beyond that men hunger for words, will buy a cheap thesaurus with their last dollar. You would not believe that they want to turn bitterness into a struggle for justice, a black flower of resolve. You would not believe that they have more to say than means to say it; there is not enough paper on the planet to hold the stories they want to tell. The games that govern prison take a back seat to honesty, sometimes, in the workshops. They become the subjects of talk rather than the rules. All of this sounds impossible, does it not? Well I can only give words to what I see, however flawed that perception might be. When so much is taken away, the alchemy woven into language begins to hum and shine. Words become real, something to hang onto when the only other option is drowning.

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