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Today was the fourth of 7 poetry sessions with a group of incarcerated young men.

The goal for the session was to end up with at least one poem or near poem that I could bring home, type up, and take back from them to revise on Friday. I wanted them to see their words printed out in the hopes that it might encourage them to want to revise, to try to improve their writing. What can I say, I'm a bit of an optimist when it comes to that sort of thing. Plus I love revision.

The group, however, does not share my opinion. In fact, several of them told me outright that they wouldn't do it. When I asked the teacher if they had ever revised anything she said no. Sigh. Friday is going to be a rough day. I suppose I could not push the issue of revision but I am hoping that when they see the words printed out that they will realize some of the sentences could be more clear, more detailed, more specific.

They were fairly attentive this time and we started off with writing a bio poem about a member of the family.  The only rules I gave them were no booze, no drugs, no swearing, no gangs. We did a model poem together on the board and at every line someone mentioned beer. It's to be expected. It's so hard to get them to try and think outside their boxes.

Surprisingly they all went straight to work on their own poems. One started off just writing about drugs and booze. I reminded him of the rules and he told me that he couldn't help it. It was all he thought about, the only life he knew and the one he missed. He knew he was going to be in jail for years and he didn't see that it mattered what he wrote. He said, "We're all just prisoners here. Who cares what we write."

I told him I cared. 

I asked him to just try a little harder and see what else he could find inside. I told he could write about someone other than himself if he wanted.  But he didn't. He sat for all long doing nothing and then.

Then he wrote. About himself. About the good and the bad. He wrote one of the strongest pieces of all of them so far.

The boy with meager English skills wrote in Spanish about his aunt who wants him to come live with her when he gets out.

The class clown wrote about having no friends.

Another chose a seemingly simple phrase "I am the only boy in my house" and repeated it through the poem about his family and the things he had done that brought him to where he was today . Powerful stuff.

Some of them wrote poetry today.

And they don't even realize it.

Yet.


*** Click here to read all the posts in this series.
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There are so many stories only you can tell.Tell them, please.



Comments

( 6 comments — Leave comment )
hulabunny
January 22nd, 2009 08:03 am (UTC)
That is awesome! I think you are doing a great job. I hope you will go easy on the revision on Friday and go easy on yourself if they are not up for it. Maybe you could bring something in of your own and revise it with them. Good luck on the next class!
annemariepace
January 22nd, 2009 01:31 pm (UTC)
I read HATE THAT CAT last night, LOVE THAT DOG being a favorite, and I'm thinking you're going to see some similar epiphanies with your boys.
kellyrfineman
January 22nd, 2009 01:54 pm (UTC)
That's so excellent. Your saying that you care is just the sort of things those lost boys need to hear.

Hugs to you.
roseyniswitrin
January 22nd, 2009 02:03 pm (UTC)
These posts are so inspiring. You should be very proud of the boys, and of yourself, for being able to urge those words out of them. I'm not sure I could do what you're doing...but I am thrilled to read about their progress, and yours.


janni
January 22nd, 2009 02:42 pm (UTC)
I'm glad you're there with them, Susan. You never know who it will turn out was listening all along ...
beckylevine
January 22nd, 2009 08:35 pm (UTC)
You are making a connection here.
( 6 comments — Leave comment )
WHO AM I?



Who am I?I was born on the Cancer/Leo cusp and share a birthday with Ernest Hemingway and Robin Williams. The similarities don't stop there as I can go from depressed to ecstatic without ever passing go. I feel scared most of the time though my friends call me brave and I find it easier to believe in my friends than to believe in my own abilities to make what I want out of my life.

Who am I? A wife, a mother, a daughter, and even, gulp, a grandmother.

Who am I? A writer who never gets tired of playing with words, even when the words are hard to find. A writer of books for children and articles for grown-ups and many things in-between.

Who am I? A motivational speaker, writing instructor, workshop leader and full-time follower of dreams.

Who am I? Read and find out.






Susan Taylor Brown

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"Successful writers are not the ones who write the best sentences. They are the ones who keep writing. They are the ones who discover what is most important and strangest and most pleasurable in themselves, and keep believing in the value of their work, despite the difficulties."
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--Anne Rice

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