Today was the eighth of twelve sessions teaching poetry to a group of incarcerated teenage girls.
It was a good day. I expected it would be. It happens in all the residencies I teach in detention facilities – a really bad day gets a few kids in trouble and then the next time I come in they do pretty well. I have four sessions left and the last three, I just found out, will be with a substitute in the class. That makes things really tough. Substitutes usually bring out the worst in them.
One girl got out yesterday so we had a new girl today. Pretty low key though she participated right off the bat. That doesn’t usually happen. It’s so hard to look at these kids and not know their stories, what brought them to such a place.
The word for the day was TRUST. Here’s their group poem:
TRUST
Trust Feels like an unbreakable bond, like someone catching you when you fall.
Trust looks like two lovers holding hands and it sounds like best friends gossiping on the phone.
It smells like incense in church.
Trust tastes like leftovers your mom made and tears.
They wrote individual poems about trust and a few of them shared their writing. We did another group poem, a sort of mad lib.
This is the poem
that goes in the place where you have to stay on your toes
that flows because it runs through our veins
because we said so
and when thugs cry at night
happy, alone, solid,
this is the poem
that runs from the ground up to our soul.
Another warm-up we did was envelope poems. I have a stack of envelopes, some have cards in them, some have paper folded up. Some just have a postcard. The envelopes are sealed and they are all different. Different colors, shapes, sizes. Some have stamps. Some don’t. Some look like they’ve been folded in someone’s pocket for a long time and some have words written on the outside. The idea was for them to have written a poem that is inside the envelope. Some of them did pretty well with this. Those that didn’t, well, I think I need to do a better set-up to invite them to write.
I handed out copies of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s How Do I Love Thee? I tried to get a discussion going about what they thought meant but that fell flat. I ended up just reading them the analysis. Then we brainstormed various ways you could let someone know you loved them without actually saying the words, “I love you.” They were slow to get started but eventually filled the board. From there I had them write their love poems that never used the words love. Again, only a few girls shared.
I handed out a copy of the poem You Learn (which I have attributed to Jorge Luis Borges) and this poem they felt more able and willing to discuss. They liked it a lot, especially the last line, “with every goodbye you learn.” Then they wrote their own versions of what they had learned and they wrote some marvelous poems. Really good stuff.
I read them the last pages of Hugging the Rock which then lead to a discussion about how come writers don’t make very much money. As I gathered up the folders one I asked one girl if she was doing okay because she didn’t share anything today and she usually does. She said, “I’m okay. But I don’t know what wrong me lately. All of the sudden my poems getting personal and stuck under my skin.”
I told her good. That means you’re a writer now.
So Impressed!
My bat is off to you because I know how difficult this job must be at the same time, so rewarding! Prayers for you and the girls.
Re: So Impressed!
Thank you!
“She said, “I’m okay. But I don’t know what wrong me lately. All of the sudden my poems getting personal and stuck under my skin.”
That’s success, in a nutshell.
I know. It was SO cool!
Sounds like you had a much better day today good.
Trust though, would have been a very hard word for them I expect. I imagine that most if not all have trust issues.
I must be “A Writer” too even though sometimes it is too hard to imagine but I can totally relate to that last girl you spoke to. I have felt that feeling when things just get under your skin. You have so much in your head. You want to write it all down but you can’t because like she said some things become too personal.
Funny thing is though if we could bring ourselves to write these things, they are the stories that most people could relate to. It is my opinion that a true life story is one of the best that you can read. No frills, no fantasies just honesty.
They are also the hardest to write though I think because you would know that anyone reading it would know it was about you. You can’t write it because you would wonder if those that you know would ever look at you the same way again. Or look at you with some sense of pity over what you have been through.
So what do we do but keep all the best stories locked away as I do organised in my little boxes. Of which I wrote this poem
MY BOXES OF MEMORIES
There are three kinds of boxes
I use to organise my mind
The first is a big black steel box
to put all bad memories I find
The box has no key it only has a slot
In here I place thoughts
That need to be forgot
I need them no longer
They only cause me pain
By dwelling on them
I have nothing to gain
I push the box to the back of my mind
to remain there forevermore
I can add to but never release
For these things have gone before
The second is my silver box
For the qualities I hold dear
Courage, wisdom happiness and love
with them close, I need not fear
I collect these, so hard to find
From people I most admire
I add to the box to help me through life
To grow as I desire
I place this box on my shoulder
To keep those things inside
For I no longer feel frightened
Nor need to run and hide
With this box close by
I can face anything life has in store
The box can be opened freely
to be used and used some more
The third is my golden box
It opens with a big gold key
To place memories of people
that will always mean so much to me
Those that have passed on
People I have met along the way
These are close to my heart
In the hope they won’t fade away
I feel by having the boxes with me
I can see things more clearly
To open my eyes to remind me
what it is I hold dearly
I hope to always keep these boxes
They are always close by
To hold those special memories
Until the day I die
– Anne McKenna
There it is out there for all to see or at least anyone that chooses to read it anyway. You know how hard it is to share things. Sad when this should be one of the most natural things to do.
– Anne McKenna
Thank you, Anne. Your revision really polished it up nicely.
This poem is beautiful! Thank you for sharing it!
this is the poem
that runs from the ground up to our soul
I LOVE this.
They’re really coming alive, aren’t they? Digging deep and writing amazing poetry. Brava to you all!
Awesome connection with that one girl at the end. And I’m glad the new girl was participating right away.
I really admire you working with these girls. You have a good heart. I like poetry, but have never been able to write good poetry. I’m not familiar with the different forms and the rules, but it would be fun to learn.
I loved your book Hugging the Rock! I hope they liked it too.