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Prison Poetry Chapbooks


"The only end of writng is to enable the readers better to enjoy life or better to endure it." -Samuel Johnson

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While Betty Sat Alone
A selection of student poetry
(PWR 213 Poetry Writing, SUNY Cortland, Fall 2005)

 

 Selected Poems


Song of Nature

He sits by the fire so
Quietly anyone would think
That he was dead or dying
But I don't because I've
Watched him by this fire
Before and I know what
Happens next after he is
Done meditating he will rise
Up and begin to dance
Around the fire slowly at first
But gradually he picks up speed and sings
Softly as he sways to the rhythm
That only he can hear, even
Though I try so hard to
Hear that music but I
Never can so I just sit and
Watch the moon caress his
Skin and earthy hair that
Gracefully twists down to his neck
The neck that I had kissed
Just a few nights before.

                          -- Elizabeth Barden

Drumfires

This field, where once a simple youth
Fiddled a courtly tune, his
Eyes flashing up at her from just
Above the bridge; she died a little with
Every lilting note; otherworldly, as if a
Ghost-hand caressed the hand that
Thrust the bow that stroked the
Strings that coaxed the ashes
Once sprinkled about to
Spring forth, dancing back to life; the
Filed where his music was a
Fire, swallowing whole the
Ancient echoes of drumfire, the
Clutching cries of all the past.

                                  -- Christopher Cesar Garay
Photo, c. early 1900s

I only recognize the man on the left
the rest of you are ghosts
nameless in your tuxedos
and wedding gowns

Floating gauzy billowy death-wear

I recognize the man on the left
if you weren't standing eyes open
you would look right at home at the funeral
the man on the left dies by lightning.

                                      -- Andy Kelly


Evan

The delicate fingers of a strong hand
rest gently in small arches
across a landscape of a
flat chest that smells of
cinnamon and musk and
that, in the golden silence
and glow of after, the left
side of my face knows
so well, heaving only with
the pulse of lovers exhausted
and the slow, steady tide
of breath that takes you
to another world as
lashes flutter and draw
close the curtains that
separate life from dreams,
but at the moment, the
distinction is wonderfully blurry.

                              -- Rae Parlett-Avery

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 E-mail: mitchellh@cortland.edu

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     
     
     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Disclaimer
The views and opinions expressed in this page are strictly those of the author.
The contents of this linked page have not been reviewed or approved by SUNY Cortland.