AN EXPERIMENT in found poetry

Although we are technically ‘off’ from Writing Inside during the summer months, we have managed to go in an average of twice/month to keep the flow going among our writing sisters. Last time we decided to try something new. Instead of my compiling the weekly Found Poem, I brought copies of all the read-back lines from the July 7 circle; and we spent about 20 minutes each writing our own version of a poem from the same lines. Some of us elected not to use all the available lines. The general rules we followed were:

1 – the original ORDER of words had to remain the same; although words could be dropped, none could be added.
2 – the same verb needed to be used but could be changed to another tense if needed
3 – after hearing all the versions, we agreed that a good rule to add would be to change pronouns when it would make more sense

The following Found Poems from the same list of read-back lines were given me to scribe after that session; and I share them here.

RETURN TO LIGHT

Before song, before war
unspoken words haunt my dreams,
the birth of a thought
becoming complete.

The light in my eyes is dim;
a rhythm, the unknown, settles in
just below my chest.
My soul can never be broken.

My voice is lost,
always locked up;
dark has complete control,
my words turned to demons.

The light is trying to get me back,
D’Annu, mother of all.
Will I ever feel whole again,
come home?

The fire in my soul burns wildly
gifting us with light and protection,
cradling life –
the heart of a woman, the soul of a soldier.
- SB

 

I FEEL LIKE MY VOICE IS LOST

I have so many words that are left unspoken.
I have lost my mind, but not my motivation.
The thoughts of the unknown settle in.
I wait for it all to go away.

The dark has complete control over my inside,
while the light is trying to get me back.
I feel like my heart is always locked up,
and all my words turn to demons.

I try to stay strong.
I have the heart of a woman, and the soul of a soldier.
So many unspoken words will haunt my dreams.
When will I become complete?

The light in my eyes is dim,
the fire in my soul is hot, heavy and burning wildly.
I will never let my soul be broken.
I know I have done my best.

I will become complete, a flower of speech
that can come home cradling life with my hands open.
- JH

Heart of a woman, soul of a soldier
the fire in my soul is hot, heavy and burning wildly.
Lost my mind but not my motivation
my soul can never be broken.
Unspoken words haunt my dreams,
heart always locked up;
dark has complete control over her inside.
The light is trying to get her back
before smog, before war –
to come home, becoming complete,
a rhythm, cold sweat.
A scar rests just below my chest
waiting for it all to go away.
I did my best.
- NL
I did my best waiting for it all to go away.
The unknown settles in, becoming complete,
the birth of a thought full of unspoken.
If the words remain, will I ever feel whole again?
All my words turn to demons, words unspoken,
one man on fire. My voice is lost, the light in my eyes
is dim, the fire in my soul is hot, heavy and burning
wildly. My choice is lost, my brother’s voice faint
beneath my screams, unspoken words haunting my dreams,
my urge for revenge, heart always locked up. Dark
has complete control over her inside, cradling life with her hands
before smog, before war. Heart of a woman, soul of a solder,
my soul can never be broken. D’Annu mother of all seems to be
a naked pregnant woman; light is trying to get her back, gifting us
with light and protection, to come home — a rhythm, a cold sweat,
stalk where beliefs grow flower of speech, inquisitive stare.
A scar rests just below my chest, lost  — my mind but not my motivation.
- TD
The fire in my soul is hot, heavy and burning,
my voice is lost, all my words turn to demons,
unspoken words haunting my dreams. The unknown
settles in, a rhythm, a cold sweat. The light
in my eyes is dim, words unspoken. My soul can never be
broken – heart of a woman, soul of a soldier. Heart
always locked up lost my mind, but not my motivation.
If the words remain, will I ever feel whole again?
My urge for revenge, inquisitive stare, waiting
for it all to go away. Dark has complete control
over her inside, stalk where beliefs grow. The light
is trying to get her back before smog, before war.
Becoming complete, flower of speech, gifting us
with light and protection. My choice is lost
to come home. I did my best.
- TB

WHAT I’D TELL TO A POEM

IN response to the prompt (title, above) one of the women writing inside with us at Vermont’s Northwest State Correctional Facility wrote the following words during a ‘fast-write,’ in which she just wrote without stopping or making changes to her words for about 15 minutes. I transcribed her words as she wrote them, breaking the lines to fit the mood and emphasis of her words. After writing, she colored over her words with with soft pastels in strong purple and blue hues.

I’d tell the story of a girl
who woke up hating the whole world
every day,
the way she looked so sad
with clouds blending the gray
in her eyes like the mist
in the night;
until one day
those clouds faded
into skies of fire
blazing and spitting out souls of the damned
condemned by silver bars
cold yet warmed by thoughts
engulfed in metal chains formed
into razor wire that is constantly piercing
her skin, until a drop
of blood falls to a splatter,
a grenade being plunged
into a sea of silence.

That’s what I’d tell to a poem.

- ART

And another woman wrote, within the same timeframe:

What I would say to a poem is how
my life has twisted and turned, never
remaining stable for very long. How
my own inner demons transcended
to my very soul, to live there and fester
until my life began to rot. Of how
I longed for things, things that always seemed
just out of my reach – happiness, love, peace
and contentment. Of how I resented those
around me that had achieved those very things.

Of how my dreams fell one by one
off the side of my reality, drifting away
as if in space, with my heart longing
to reach out and bring them back. But
I could not grasp them. I would tell of how

one day, when my life felt the most lost, I
reached out and asked God to save me,
to give me back my hopes and dreams,
to allow me to feel happiness, love, peace
and contentment. And much to my amazement –
He DID!

- NL

[The idea for this prompt came from "Why Do Poets Write?" by Richard Jones. The last line is 'things I would tell to a poem']

NURTURE COMES FROM THE EARTH

During this writing circle, women writing inside Northwest State Correctional Facility wrote and created ‘soul collage’ to prompts that included the following epigraphs: ‘The body knows things a long time before the mind catches up to them.” – Sue Monk Kidd, Secret Life of Bees; and “Like an unexpected pregnancy, you may be carrying the seeds of something that will change your life and the world. ” — Jean Shinoda Bolen, Urgent Message from Mother.  After the collage images were created, the women were invited to sit quietly with their work and enter into its meaning, to address what wisdom that image may have for them, something to take with them to remember when they need centering quiet.

Rivers and falls, maple and birch –
my shelter, my home

"Wisdom for the Inner Life"

signs and wonder
in one tiny star
and beyond;
her wisdom, her power engage me
vibrant and alive, like I am -
start one way and end up another.

My body knows it’s
lucky to have the experience of life on earth,
strength of women despite our differences;
wisdom of the inner life
to live one’s dreams or choose not to.

I get a second chance,
can feel the changes
ensure a future for us all;
take joy in little things,
remember moments of tranquility -
a beautiful day out picking flowers with my Mom,
make wishes at the full moon -
me, who was forced into someone else’s mold.
I carry the seeds of possibility;
vivid green of hope
speaks to me of new beginnings,
simple, profound lessons:

I am different for wanting it to be different,
feel I am worth taking care of
[constant caretaking sometimes exhausting].
What really matters
is worth the effort:
to go home better people than when we arrived;
know right from wrong,
vibrancy in corners of our soul,
life spun in another direction.

Nature in its many forms
are ones that relax me.
Sitting on this beach, what would you do
if somehow our world changed overnight?
I sit and I stare
writing freely as if I had no cares.

SPRING CLEANING

We used the idea of spring cleaning, based on a poem of the same name by Miriam Dyak, to start our writing this week. In addition, we wrote to the ‘soul cards’ created by Deborah Koff-Chapin — a series of beautiful cards whose interpretation varies with the emotional and spiritual space of the writer in the moment. Combined with the opening poem’s ‘spring cleaning’ theme, the two writings produced some profound insights which the women at NWSCF were very open about sharing with one another. The resultant ‘found poem’ was, as always, created from their own lines read from their writing and then ‘read back’ from the listeners in the circle.

Beginning a new part of my life, I
find things that are hard to let go of –
throw out objects all day long
identify the keeper item immediately.

Spring cleaning is kind of what I’m doing here in prison,
trying to take care of me,
clean out the guilty feelings
all the ugly things swept away –
pain, gossip, fear –
lock that bad person away,
the person I don’t want to be.
Start anew
clean slate, blank canvas,
the courage to move on
a new path in my life.

Time to start anew and see what I can do.

We can be new people –
the artist within will paint
earth’s awakening soul
deep in dirt and desire;
hunger for favorite food,
work through the layers.

I am not here alone,
empty inside. I am
two different people but the same person
at the same time,
anxious and very nervous.
I don’t want to screw up.

You receive answers
one puzzle piece at a time,
tidbits of insight and guidance.
Can you finally trust
there is only love
encircling, protecting, restricting?

Breathe that knowing into your soul
searching the darkness for a face
stretched thin – by what?

Come to me, my arms are open for you;
come, my child –
my love and peace be with you
prayerful, self centered and grounded.
Release your soul;
stay the path of self-reflection,
a coming home.
Above all be still,
be spacious.

Today I Can Be Grateful

Dig in, find who you are -
no one can take that away.
I didn’t see that I had everything,
wasn’t even grateful for who I was.

Look at those less fortunate
who feel blessed,
shedding tears of joy -
not surrounded by insanity,
no longer all that bad -
knowing it keeps me hopeful,
grateful for time.

Someday I will ride my horse into the wind
embrace my naked truth
my belief in time to show us the way,
grateful for hope, for opportunity.
What I had was enough.

Hope and gratitude – cornerstone
of living simply.

Like most of the posts on this blog, these words were written by women “Writing Inside” Vermont’s state prison for women. They were assembled from what we call ‘read-back’ lines — those phrases that resonated with the listener when the writer was sharing her writing during our weekly writing circle inside. After everyone reads, we share these lines in a kind of polyphonic chorus or tapestry. Often they come out not unlike this poem. Read-back lines create a natural foundation for a ‘found’ poem such as this.

The specific mood and focus of any given writing session — and therefore the read-back lines and found poem — are determined by the prompts given in class for the fast write with which we start each session. For this particular class, the prompt was to write freely to one or more of the following phrases, gathered from the opening epigraphs:   gratitude makes sense of the past . . . creates a vision for tomorrow . . . the simple act  of living with hope . . .

A SERIES OF POEMS

This week at Northwest State Correctional Facility, I invited the women participating in our ‘Writing Inside’ circle to select an item from nature that I had brought – items such as seashells of various sizes, a sawed chunk of wood, driftwood, seeds, flowers, a small pine branch, coral, a fossil. Each woman selected an item and wrote, first simply describing the item without reference to anything else, just straight observation. Then she wrote about herself using the language of the item – or as one woman pointed out, wrote ‘as if” that item. A few of the results:

THE FLOWER

The flower is growing, showing
the world how beautiful it is.
Not just on the outside, but underneath
where it’s darker, stronger. As it grows
it becomes more stable. Spreading out
into the world reaching up to the sun.
So happy and cheerful, the rays of sun
all over it.  Younger, it didn’t have
a really good foundation; but
as it grew, it went from bud to blossom.
This flower will make lots of people happy.

When dry, the flower shrinks up;
when it rains, the flower droops.
Mixed in with other flowers
and special food, it thrives.
As wind blows the blossoms,
seeds spread themselves, grow;
spread and grow; and on, so that
we now have a whole world of flowers.

- LH

MY WORDS

at times soft and sleek,
silken and smooth, wrapping
around the listener a fragrant branch
of pine needles wrapping itself around the wind,
twisting and bending a natural lineage to their meaning.
At times bumpy and stiff, they tumble from my mind,
needles to the forest floor. Other times
they flow forth as sweet sap runs.

My words sometimes prick my memory,
days forever gone but in my mind, always close
with their emotions. Sometimes more raw now than then.
The gentle sway of the branch soothing thoughts.
Calming almost hypnotic movement
in my memories. To softly twirl,
twisting into my consciousness.
Words to come forth freely.

- NL

THIS BARK

This bark was attached to its home
years before being freed, allowed to travel.
This bark was different from most of the others
loosely hanging around.

This piece didn’t really fit anywhere;
and because of that, moved around.
Was cut down into smaller pieces, different shapes,
most of the time without any say.
Usually treated less than because it wasn’t a whole
piece of tree trunk or limb.
This piece of wood was wounded.

Finally, this bark was picked by someone
who could use it in a kind way
for at least a temporary length of time.
This piece of wood could have gratitude
at least for now.

- ED

TURTLE

I am a turtle, a hard shell I call my home,
full of what no one knows except me.

My hard back protects me so I can survive
through anything, any circumstances.
It protects my soft heart.

I wonder –
are young turtles mean? or do time
and life make them hard and bitter?
do they get angry when their shell dulls,
elements have taken their toll?
Is it just the turtle alone there inside
the darkness?

My shell appears hollow so I can pull myself inside
and wait. Retreating inward whenever I’m afraid.
Nobody can see me, just my shell.

I blend in, seem to go unnoticed.
I might even seem harmless. But nobody knows
what’s in my shell. I choose who I want
within my shell. Once in,
there’s no getting out.

Life beats on my back,
but it does not break me.

- SS

TOUCH DRAWING AT NWSCF

On Thursday February 24, we took Touch Drawing into the women’s prison.  It provided another amazing and revelatory experience for the women involved. I especially loved watching one young woman who has been inside for a while — and has been in before. She is working on writing her experiences, hoping eventually to shape them into a memoir.  Being both young and a fairly concrete thinker, she surprised me with the grace, eloquence and freedom with which she embraced the painting itself.

About a dozen drawings later, I invited each woman to title her images and to write to them. She literally froze; went into immediate negative comparison mode, insisting ‘they aren’t any THING.’ Which, of course, is the point!!!

She sat and squirmed a bit. Her resistance was huge — not so much to the naming as to the tenacity of her belief that her images were nothing identifiable. As she sat, I noticed her beginning to move toward the images, to engage with them. By the time we were going around the circle sharing images,  she showed her entire series – and suddenly they had names and stories as deep and powerful as anything. I would have given anything to have a camera at that moment, to capture the ‘aha!’ shining through her eyes in recognition of both her uniqueness and her depth of meaning. That sequence of release-and-recognition is at the deep center of this work. It is ever-changing in its manifestations; thereby ever changing the individual within.

My favorite is this interlocking squiggle into the ‘pockets’ of which she had made splotches. While she was holding it up for us to see, she named it ‘family’ for how they are connected but each so separate, on their own, not really together at all. SO POWERFUL!!! what I loved most of all was the look of recognition on her face as she spoke, the realization of the power of this artwork.  I made 5X7 copies of each piece for all the women who participated to have with them in their cells. So they can engage with them more deeply over time. So they can own the power of their own inner wisdom and teaching more fully.  Thanks to Deborah Koff-Chapin for her powerful intuitive work known as TOUCH DRAWING. Do visit her site to learn more, and to enjoy her extremely sophisticated and moving images –  the result of decades of working with and perfecting the fine art of drawing the soul. [http://www.touchdrawing.com]

FORESIGHT, HINDSIGHT

This poem was created from lines written by the women of Northwest State Correctional Facility. The specific prompt for their writing was a string-and-ink drawing made during an evening workshop. After they interacted with the resulting black lines for a while, an image of some sort emerged for each participant. Much filling in with color – paint, oil pastels, crayons, markers – ensued; and then came the writing! Myths, stories, associations, dreams came tumbling out in different styles. Together, their randomly-heard lines read back by one another’s appreciative listening provided the material for this poem:
A huge arc in the sky,
two huge golden paws -
impossibly nameless
freedom and unlocked doors;
we create our own dilemmas,
make different choices;
swim away freely,
seem to come back to life.

Before imagination and beyond song,
the something I’ve been asking for
making possibility real.
His colors gave me hope;
if he sang he would lighten his heart,
give me wisdom and guidance,
the gift to endure,
a new purpose in life.

Reach out and touch him
at the edge of perhaps;
grasp the concept,
how it works
colors in my heart
just as stories go
in the world of peace -
the earth, the sun, the sky.

MAGNETIC WORDS

Once again, the women  writing inside Northwest State Correctional Facility have expressed incredible power, insight and honesty, permitting the creation of this ‘found’ poem from their own written lines – all done within the hour-plus of time for settling in, writing, sharing and reflecting on our process. A full and deeply rich experience for all!! [the opening poem, and writing prompt, was ANNIVERSARY by Joy Harjo, which ends with the lines "And in that manner we became—elegance of fire, the waving grass. And it's been years."]

Wild wind, not love -
his secrets were immense.
I want so badly
to walk into another life,
less witchy, more wise -
to create a life I’ve never known
purified through the elegance of fire.
Quite a task!
Take the dark away from me,
a small but significant step toward healing
always turning another corner;
I can’t force myself to run away from
a sad story of fiction that feels so real.

I’m the shy fish
so tired of paddling up the falls,
fighting away from something that burns,
walking forward through the pain.

I need release,
encouragement that has wings -
as many of those words as possible
gave me hope for myself;
taking in and letting go
somehow very soothing,
something so beautiful
they won’t judge
how hard-headed I am.

Time to laugh,
release the demon,
taste the familiar.
They will understand.

A FIGMENT OF THEIR IMAGINATIONS

In November, we looked at myth and story with the women Writing Inside at NWSCF.  In this first session, women wrote to the prompt “what story did your family tell about you, maybe one that became a kind of myth or label for your place in the family.” The following poem was created from lines they wrote during our circle, lines that resonated with listeners and were
spoken back to the readers following their sharing.

Trapped behind a fence
I’m more of a myth than the stories -
pulling a Heather;
the different one,
the unruly child
delighting in crying ‘wolf’;
the silly one,
the evil child
knocked his front tooth out;
the feisty one
taking care of them;
enigma of a child,
the swim champion in the family.

They spend their lives in the present,
they seem to forget
things right in front of my face -
my heart, soul, pain -
reasons that are hidden at first.

I can see the good in people
find another meaning for things,
but never able to gain her belief in me;
why am I cursed with the gift of forgiveness?

I came out of the womb a mother,
craved the unvarnished truth;
ripped ribbons from my hair,
broke a few records
named the elephant in the room
imprisoned by appropriateness.
lied a lot, so no one believed me.

I’m trapped in time.
If you would love and trust in me,
change as we grow older . . . .
My parents didn’t want to answer.

So many stories, not many are good:
Tell her we’re hungry,
anxious we might not win.