The Poetic Sentence

by Sue William Silverman

Theskin on the men’s forearms appears tender. Over-exposed. Frail. Chaffing against starched orange jumpsuits. The men, about fifteen of them, sit at school desks in a room called the Library, though few books line the shelves. Here, in the Floyd County Jail, they seem scared of me, afraid to make eye-contact, though I’m only armed with paper and pencils. And a poetry anthology.

The inmate population is always in flux. Therefore, every Tuesday evening when I arrive, I introduce myself, first name only, as instructed by the warden—a man who doesn’t want me here in any event.

He believes poetry—he says the word with an emphasis on “po,” without the “e”—is a waste of time on these “crimnals.” You got nothin’ better to do than waste time teachin’ potry to crimnals?

Which leads me to consider why these men committed crimes that landed them in prison in the first place. Because no one taught poetry to them in this poor Georgia county? Because of emotional poverty? A poverty of love?

when i first asked the warden permission to teach, he accused me of being “a bleedin’-heart, do-gooder liberal.” I nodded and let it go at that, though my decision to apply was spur-of-the-moment. I’d been aimlessly driving around the countryside, along Calhoun Highway, when I spotted a trail of orange jumpsuits behind a razor-wire fence. I parked my car, entered the lobby, and asked to speak to the warden.

And while I am a bleeding-heart liberal, especially in this conservative county, my reasons to teach here are more complicated. I’ve seen these men on the outside. Not these particular men, of course, but close enough. I’ve been robbed at gunpoint on a late-night street in DC. I was threatened by a man and his knife in Boston. I was assaulted under a boardwalk at the Jersey Shore. Those men were never caught, never locked away in prison. Maybe this will give me insight, understanding. i teach during magnolia springs, rusty autumns, humid-green summers, but seasons are obliterated by cinder block walls, sweat, and unrelenting fluorescent lights too scared to flicker. Most of the men attend class to see a woman—any woman. Others, because it’s slightly more entertaining than the desolation of their cells. i begin the evening by reading a poem. I ask them to tell me what they like, how it makes them feel. In truth, they don’t like any of the poems. They shuffle feet in their white paper slippers as if they are scared of me. Scared that I am a woman who understands jagged lines of words? Scared because, in their macho world, poetry is, or should be, at best, a jingle on television? Or a love song on a three a.m. country-western radio station? as much as the men don’t understand their actions on the outside, I’m not sure I understand mine here on the inside. I don’t know the answer to the warden’s question: nothin’ better to do? In addition to padding my résumé, am I here because I feel satisfaction witnessing dangerous men locked up? Maybe, used to violence, I deliberately seek it, or its origins? Is it curiosity? Who are these men who cause such mayhem on the outside? Do I want to see them here, where I hold the power, and they have none? do i actually think a few poems will make a difference? the men are more interested in me than in poetry. Every Tuesday they ask questions about my husband (they’ve noticed my wedding band), whether I have children, where I work, where I live. Their voices, unlike when struggling with poetry, are animated and desperate—desperate to hold on to what I represent: the outside world.

Besides, teaching a poetry class will help pad my thin résumé. “Right,” I replied to the warden. “I don’t have anything better to do.” I smiled, waiting for him to not smile back.

Or are they scared because I don’t seem scared of them?

After a halting discussion littered with silence, it’s time for them to write a poem attempting to replicate an image or feeling from the one I read.

As the men struggle to compose their confused feelings, eyes mist. They stare at the ceiling; they bend over pieces of paper. Each grips a pencil as if never having held one before. Or never held one to write about them, themselves…who they are.

Or who they want to be.

Who they will or won’t be after steel doors finally slide open. After they’ve served their sentences.

Regardless of whether I recite Emily Dickinson, Amiri Baraka, Ralph Ellison, Lucille Clifton, or Walt Whitman, their own poems are tattooed hearts pierced with arrows.

These men—drug dealers, embezzlers, rapists, murderers—all miss girlfriends, mothers, children, wives.

Or do they?

Sure, guards watch us, but what would happen if the inmates lunged at me? All I carry is a little pink briefcase containing ungraded essays and books for the community college where I teach part-time. I am always checked before steel doors slide open, then clang closed behind me.

I have no mace or pepper spray, no knife. But here, in this finely calibrated ecosystem—a balance between victim and predator—if one inmate makes a move toward me—roles switch. He would be doubly punished.

But that isn’t what I want.

The warden forbids me to respond to anything personal.

Still, they ask.

And every week the men urge me to mail their poems to girlfriends, mothers, children, wives.

Just send it this once to my baby’s mama.

They know I’m not allowed, but maybe they hope this time a reprieve will be granted. As if thin pleas with smudged words of love could fly out into the world.

“No,” I say, my smile momentarily freezing. As if I’m saying no, don’t, get away from me, stop. “You know I can’t.”

Maybe I come here seeking my own reprieve, a release from anger and fear that tattoos my own heart. A commutation of my own sentence.

Toward the end of the evening, some of the men read what they’ve written. Their words, spoken aloud, do not exactly confess or ask forgiveness, but come close as they dare.