Speaking in Poems

Spoon Jackson, photo by Albin Biblom

Shortly after I came to prison, I realized that I was on some kind of journey, though I had no idea where it would lead. I knew that silence and knowledge were my teachers, and I decided to become a student in life. I checked out books from the prison library and education department, and went into the cell on Friday afternoon and read and studied until Monday morning. I feasted on knowledge and wisdom. I had to know and grow in all the areas I could grasp, and to ponder at every moment.

I dived into philosophy, religion, psychology, sociology, ecology and any “ology” I could get my mind into. I pondered and debunked and peeled off layers of false history and propaganda that clogged my heart and soul, those misguided histories I had been force-fed like a motherless lamb.

On a whim, I signed up for two poetry classes. I had never read or pondered any poetry before, nor did I think I would like it. I had mistakenly thought that poetry was beyond me, and only for women, squares, nerds, weirdoes, professors, and high-brows: people caught up in some unreal academic world. Being incarcerated, I looked upon poetry as a weakness, as was the expression of any feelings. I thought nothing real could come of it.

I would come to see that it took more heart to be a poet in prison than to be a gangster. When writing from a real place, even the appearance of poetry as soft became a strength and wielded a power that opened doors. Now I know that not only do other prisoners respect poetry, many long to be poets and to read and write poetry themselves.

In my first San Quentin poetry class more than twenty years ago, the teacher — Judith Tannenbaum — suggested I jot down my thoughts and feelings, however those thoughts and feelings wanted to come out. There were no “shoulds” or “should nots.” I did the exercise, but kept the writings to myself. I was into silent observation and learning. But with each class, I felt something freeing up inside me. Some emotion, some heart — some wild unbreakable stallions that had been trapped in stalls were freed to roam the earth once again.

Having the doors of poetry opened to me by a woman, I think, was very important. As men in prison, we are caught up in a macho, masks-always-on non-feeling world. In this setting, deep in one of the basement classrooms at San Quentin, having a woman mentor/educator/artist teach me poetry was, at times, surreal. It allowed me to show full integration and expression of self through the poetry.

As a youngster — like a lot of young people in the free world — I lived on the edge of society, with no forum, form, or way to express what was on the inside and real. I felt unexpressed during all my years in school in the outside world. I felt out of place, unheard and unseen, and that I had no niche.

Judith allowed me to sit, listen, and absorb what I needed from the class in silence. For over a year I came to her class in silence and with dark shades on. Judith allowed me to listen in the ways I needed to listen, to slowly transform inside. It was like setting a plant in a saucer of water to soak in what it needs for that moment. I do not know how she knew to leave me in silence, but still somehow include me in the class. It might be her innate skills as an artist teacher to gauge and engage within each student their own inner voice or artist. She knew what books to turn you on to, the book that would enlighten you as a poetry student. I learned that universal truths that touch souls and hearts (which is what poetry must do) are personal.

Judith often brought up a topic or current event or incident for group discussion; topics from justice to injustice, from sexism to racism, from left to right. The topics often produced heated debates and heated poetry.

Judith also did individual poetry consultations where she went over students’ poems or ideas. She and I often had deep one-on-one conversations that I called diving. Often, after one of our diving sessions I would show up at Judith’s office the next day with a new poem. She made it clear that everything was not poetry, but could be.

I had begun to read all the poetry I could get my eyes on, particularly well-known and classical poets. But I had never studied technically how to build a poem. I never studied scansion, meter, form, or structure. When I transferred from San Quentin to Folsom State Prison, though, I entered Dianna Henning’s poetry class, a class she ran in a formal college-type manner. Dianna gave out outlines for the class, and a definitions booklet that defined all the terms and inner workings of a poem. She had us do at least one or two annotations each week on selected poems. We turned in poems one week, and the next week Dianna gave them back with comments and suggestions. I do think good artist teachers inspire their students, and have some kind of muse or magic working with them or from them.

Now I’m at New Folsom — California State Prison–Sacramento — where I run two poetry classes for Arts-in-Corrections. I also teach writing workshops in regular educational classrooms. It always amazes me how shocked and inspired fellow prisoners are by the poetry readings and workshops.

It is easy to know when a guy in a workshop cannot read or write, because the student will often be very outgoing and will encourage others to read or write without writing a poem himself. I learned somewhere how to do group poems. I give out a subject — say, love — and we go around the group and have each student say a line. Either I write each line down in a poem, or some of the students write the lines down on a piece of paper. Then someone reads the poem that we created back to the group. This gives the student who cannot read or write a chance to be part of the workshop.

Both Judith and Dianna taught me that I must gather all the tools available to us as artists so that we can embellish, or not embellish, a rule to make or share a point or idea. Some natural ability comes into play as artist teachers, and that comes across when we share our voice and style.

One of the techniques I use now to help a student write a poem I learned from Judith. I call it “Guided Tour.” Judith showed me that we often speak in poems but are not aware of it. By “Guided Tour,” my poem “Heart of the High Desert” was created. She asked me questions about where I was from and other key questions — almost like improvisation — and she wrote down word for word what I said and described. What came out was poetry:

Heart of the High Desert

Stretched out here on this bunk
my mind drifts and dreams
within itself
searching for a poem.

Ocean winds
gentle breezes
find their way through the bars.

Though the bars
a sparrow sings
and its mellifluous melody
is all about love.

Ninety degrees hotter
I’d be warm.

A wildflower takes its
first breath of air
after a generous rainfall…

I grew up in the Mojave
in a small town
the heart of the high desert.
The only place I’d been
till they brought me here.
I’d stand on Crooks Street
and look at the mountains that surrounded me.
They appeared to be the whole world.
How naive was I.

I was nineteen when I got busted.
That same day
I’d signed up with the Marines.
Wanted to see the world.

They kept me in a cell
on the corner
off to myself.

The City Jail’s across from the high school
and I couldn’t see
but I heard the sounds of the games
those football games I’d gone to
my whole life in that town.

My nephew wrote me a letter
first time in the ten years I’ve been here.
He wrote he remembers
I taught him to drive,
to whistle.
He remembers us washing my car.
He wrote, “Dear Uncle Stanley.”

Stinging memories that had been lost.
Sadness of the heart.
Frowns of the face.

Every wrinkle on my face
is but a harbinger
of joy fighting
to overtake the sadness
of the heart…

It amazed me that I spoke in poems, and in a natural way. I began to see I was an organic poet.

Now I surprise my students with word-for-word poems spoken from their mouths. I can see that awareness awaken something real inside them. I apply a slightly altered form of Guided Tour with the students I mentor through my letters. I find that some correspondents have written or started a poem in their letters and were not aware of it.

Spoon Jackson, photo by Albin Biblom

We are all students and teachers in life, something I knew, but came to believe after being in Judith’s class and having her as a mentor. I came to know the teacher and artist inside me. I had already discovered the student inside me; I knew that listening and silence are often best for learning.

I like making my students aware of the figurative language available to them. I want them to know that poetry is not all mystery, and so I make them aware of the colorful poetic speech they already use. The speaking in poems.

It is important to teach the fundamentals, and to encourage exploration at the same time. How one encourages this is a moment-to-moment thing, like jazz. A teacher must listen and assist the student in uncovering his or her voice, though sometimes in the teaching, you get caught up in the moment and it gets hard to listen.

I have what I call shotgun poetry sessions, where I have my students read their poems back-to-back without a pause and without comments. It gives the half-an-hour or hour shotgun poetry reading a jazz-like effect. Other times, when a poem is read in class and someone claps or snaps their fingers to show that they like the poem, I have the student verbalize (using the poetry terms definition booklet I kept from Dianna’s class) what makes the poem work. I also have my students do in-house annotations on poems.

I have students from Sweden I mentor through the mail. Every now and then, because of Judith’s book, "Disguised as a Poem", which is used in college classes, I get a letter from a shocked American student. These students don’t ask for mentorship, but they want to see if I am really a published poet in prison.

Poetry can go through walls, even prison walls, academic walls, gang walls, lost walls, poor walls, lonely walls, street walls, rich walls, to share freedom.

Will the Rain Come?

Dark clouds fill the sky
Yet it does not rain
Today I got a poem
in the mail from a friend, a sister

I am like a man in a cell
dying of thirst
when the waters are only
one hundred feet away

Over two years ago
I knew nothing of poetry
Didn’t read it, didn’t like it

I never had any aspirations
to be a poet, no rhythm, no rhyme
no timeless memories
no dreams full of life
no sorrow full of tears
nothing I wanted to share

I had a lot of love
Couldn’t share it
nor find any, anywhere

I knew nothing of poetry
How it allows a huge part
of me to be free
How the truth in it makes people feel
How it allows me to grow and expand

How it allows me
to feel love and sorrow
like a great earthquake
starting from
so deep
within

Sometimes I don’t write
I seem to be full of fright
and the dam of feelings
is ready to burst
For I must write

Now I am an actor
and to be one I know
I must call upon the realness
the openness, the naturalness
an artist must have to flow, to grow
to feel where only truth and spirit may go

Deep to touch the soul
the heart that has no beat
Will acting flow from me naturally
like the poetry?
Will the rain come?

For, yes, the dark clouds roll in
nourished, yes, created by the sweet
waters of the sea

Spoon Jackson, currently in prison at California State Prison-Sacramento, teaches two poetry classes to other prisoners. His own poems are included on the CD “Freedom for the Prisoners.” A book of his poems, "Longer Ago," will be published soon. He also longs to work with someone to develop the plays he has written. For more about Spoon, see www.spoonjackson.com. You can write to him at: Spoon Jackson B-92377, CSP-Sac C8-125, Box 290066, Represa, CA 95671-0066.

This article first appeared in the Teaching Artist Journal, Volume 5, Number 1. Copyright © 2007, Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Inc. TAJ is a quarterly print journal for teaching artists — professionals with skills in both teaching and the arts — and those who employ and train them. It describes itself: "Neither a traditional scholarly journal (although it includes scholarly articles) nor a traditional professional publication (although it includes articles describing practice), TAJ is a broad, jargon-free, imaginative, direct, and heartfelt peer-reviewed publication addressing the fullest range of practice, research, theory, opinion, and issues related to Teaching Artists." Edited by Nick Jaffe.

Published on CAN with the permission of the author.

Original CAN/API publication: May 2007