Extracts

Prison Poems

THE SPARROW

One day, returning from the prison walk

I met a sparrow taking the air too, on my way.

It was pecking at a piece of frozen bread,

a cold crumb lying between us in the snow.

‘You and I are both hungry prisoners,’ I said.

At that, it instantly let go the crumb and flew away,

and I thought, ‘Are you less than this sparrow?

Why don’t you drop the bread too, like this bird?

Why can’t you free yourself from crumbs – and words?’ 

LIGHTS OUT

Weary but wakeful, feverish but still 

fixed on the evasive bulb that winks on the wall,

thinking surely it’s time for lights out,

longing for darkness, for the total black-out.

Trapped in distress, caught in this bad dream,

the dust under my feet untouchable as shame,

flat on the cold ground, a span for a bed,

lying side by side, with a blanket on my head.

And the female guards shift, keeping vigil till dawn, 

eyes moving everywhere, watching everyone,

sounds of the rosary, the round of muttered words,

fish lips moving, the glance of a preying bird.

Till another hour passes in friendly chat,

in soft talk of secrets or a sudden spat,

with some snoring, others wheezing

some whispering, rustling, sneezing –

filling the space with coughs and groans,

suffocated sobs and incessant moans.

You can’t see the sorrow after lights out.

I long for the dark, the total black-out.

LONELINESS

I said: ‘Give me a definition of loneliness.’

You said: ‘When no one’s there beside you.’

I said: ‘What if you’re even lonelier than that?’

You said: ‘Then when there’s no one to love you.’

I said: ‘Define the greatest loneliest of all.’

You said: ‘When no one understands you.’

THE PERFUME OF POETRY

Alone, under the bare branches 

of the pomegranate tree,

I feel the weight of these captive women 

lie heavily on me.

A group of them murmur in a corner 

beneath a broken wall,

while younger ones, distracted, flutter 

to and fro and wail.

One of the captives perches a while

here under my poor shade,  

her fluting notes rise only to fall again

disconsolate and sad.

Others stoop over their laundry, 

do their washing in rows, 

bending beneath the line already bowed 

under the weight of clothes.

Autumn has crept upon us unawares 

and stripped our fruitless boughs,

but the spring of your kind hand still

strokes our wintry brows.

One old woman can barely stand, but you

still rise in her defence,

singing out how wronged she is, how lonely,

bowed by innocence.

But all I do is drown in the drained drops 

of the veins of a girl.

All I can do is dissolve at the losses of one 

too young to be so pale.

And when a woman is forced to stamp 

the warrant with her thumb, 

I forget my own shames, choke at hers – 

humiliated, heart-wrung.

And if another escapes execution somehow, 

the chance of a rare reprieve, 

my heart leaps up at her happiness, thrills

at her cries of relief.

And if a weary addict moans without ceasing, 

moans and cries through the night,

I despair with her, grow ever more anguished 

till the break of light.

And that is why I need a balm to perfume

this camphor-tasting bread,

a light to cast on these yellowed faces, 

a breath to lift these heads.

That’s why I send my waves and ripples 

across this stagnant pond, 

its surface seething, its depths torpid 

with anger, all trust gone  –   

I write if only to stir faint memories of flight 

in these wing-bound birds,

to open the cage of the heart for a moment

trapped without words.

For how can one not faint for these women, 

beaten so brutally?

How can one not fear for them, suffering 

such tyrannical cruelty?

Alone, under the bare branches 

of the pomegranate tree,

I feel the weight of these captive women 

lie heavily on me.

PLACE OF PERIL

What are they doing to us in this perilous place, 

this prison of loss?

But what can they do to a handful of dust 

in the middle of chaos?

If they cut open our veins, red tulips will blush 

like blood in the fields.

If they padlock our lips, the mouths of a thousand

spring buds are unsealed.

If they daub us with mud, the dead will arise

to judge their crime.

If they shatter the water jug, spill the cup, 

the world floods with our wine. 

If they kick in our heads, they crown our brows

with an azure dome.

If they press thorns on our temples, the breath of Jesus 

resuscitates the tomb.

If they dig pits at our feet or throw us in wells

Joseph’s beauty becomes renowned.

There is nothing to fear in their tempests or storms

while the seas are Noah’s own.

Why would we care for cracked earthenware 

with precious gems at hand?

As soon as they chain down our feet, they free

the albatross of the mind!

Bar the road to the old and a thousand youths

clamour at the gates;

if this perilous place is so filled with wonders

they’ll long to join the feast.

THE IMAGINARY GARDEN

There was once a woman 

green as the spring,

who planted her hands in a garden.

And another woman,

red as her heart

who plucked light from the bars of a prison.

And now here I am 

with my own patch of soil,

growing a garden 

in this small cell,

with poppies of love for each pane.

You need just one flower – 

that’s all it takes –

to open the windows of sight.

A single verse 

is quite enough

to illumine the eyes with light.

So I’ll tie my bags to the foot of the breeze

and soar high up to the top of the trees

in my garden that grows inside.

And I’ll spread wings to reach you 

and soar high to teach you

how windows can open wide.

You don’t need much: 

one poppy is all

it takes to be open to love.

One verse is sufficient 

to fill the eyes 

with that shining beams from above.

WHEN SHE DIED

A woman died here, early this morning.

When she died

the waves of her breath beating, 

one by one, against these clammy sands, 

failed at last to pull back all the wet shells piled inside 

and shattered one by one like glass against the shore.

When she died,

the light in her face fading, 

yellow as the blown grass of the wilderness,

dimmed at last, her glance no longer fixed as she gave up 

the task of breathing: one long sigh and then no more. 

And when she died,

a female guard uncaring, 

came at last to stuff her in a bag, indifferent, 

as if she were no more than a branch of pine needles dried up.

It was as simple as that, the morning that she died.

No one asked why the moth’s wings had turned blue;

No one wondered what she had been thinking

or whether the chrysanthemum had murmured to her, 

bending at her ear beside death’s door.

And no one asked who’d lit the candle at her coming 

or if her going had been what she’d dreamed before.

All they said was – well, 

the poor thing is free at last  –

And I witnessed it.

Her bundle of things, so frail, 

an ant could have carried it off like a grain of wheat –

And I witnessed it.

Her food a crumb of bread, so small,

that a worm in the water could have swallowed it  –

And I witnessed it.

But behind her glassy eyes there lay a faint bloom of tranquillity,

and her mouth was filled with the ghazals of humility.

Her lips were lined with the clear azure of the skies

and her cheeks were pale as the moon playing with sunrise  –

And I witnessed it.

Maybe someone was coming to meet her from afar

to greet her with a branch of blossoming light,

for the tips of her fingers had become translucent.

Or maybe someone was taking her by the hand

and was leading her perhaps to other lands,

who knows?  Maybe she found a home at last, 

just big enough for the sense of a prayer.

Or perhaps someone took her to see God

up in the higher realms somewhere.

And maybe He gave her a shelter there, 

a threshold she might call her own,

and offered her just enough shade for joy,

for a mouthful of peace, for the taste of love.

And maybe God, at least, believed in her sufferings.