Looking out: Gushing with gratitude
By Brandon Astor Jones and Karen Illingworth
"Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat [in much the same way that friendship] ... is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes ... pressure off the second." — Robert Frost (1847-1963)
Incarceration, more often than not, deprives humanity of its need to drip. The only way to cope with the madness we prisoners find ourselves in the centre of is to quietly dwell, for a time, in what little humour can be found — or produced — around that madness's periphery.
The quote that heads this article is from Robert Frost's preface/comment in Collected Poems [1939]. It eloquently conveys Frost's serious state of mind, it would seem, at the time of composition. I chose it because I hope its seriousness, by sharp contrast, will lend greater force to the intentional frivolity about to be presented. You see, the pressures of my particular circumstance are such that if I do not find a degree of humour in them, now and then, I would soon become a part of the madness.
It is good to have friends who can, and do, empathise with the nature of my confinement — who often take the time to remind me that I sometimes forget to laugh. Recently, one of those friends sent me a poem from England. Karen Illingworth's poem, composed on October 10, arrived without a letter, but after reading it you will know that no letter was needed. With each reading the pressure began to release ... drip by drip. To all of my friends in general, and to Karen in particular, thank you. As you read on, know that I am now gushing with gratitude.
Early morning blues and later night rambling
By Karen Illingworth
At 4 o'clock one mornin'
The guards, they came a callin'.
They gave a great shout
Of "Brandon, get out!
It's time you were a goin'".
At 4 o'clock one mornin',
They came without any warning.
They hauled you from bed,
Said "No time to be fed.
And lets have less of that yawning".
At 4 o'clock one morning,
Just as the day was dawning,
They took you away,
Without much delay,
But with an awful lot pawing.
———————————————————————-
Brandon, keep your cool.
That guard — he's just a fool.
Just give him a smile
And think all the while
"Hey pal, you're nowt but a ghoul".
I'd like to bring in Reidsville,
But my poetry is dreadf'll.
I'm having a try,
But my brain has run dry,
And now my glass needs a refill.
Brandon, this is such fun,
The words they just seem to come.
It's a shame they're not better,
but it's a change from my letter,
And now it seems to be done.
BRANDON, I had no idea!
The words, they just seem to appear.
Now they won't STOP,
My head's going POP,
And I'd like to finish now, Dear
BRANDON, I CAN'T GET AWAY!
The words, they're having a play.
If I put down my pen
It comes right back again
I think I'll be here the next day.
Brandon, I am going to go.
I hope you're not feeling too low.
Please give me a smile
And think all the while
"That girl, she's the daftest I know!"
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G2-51, Georgia State Prison, HCO1, C-1-30, Reidsville, GA 30453, USA. Australians Against Executions is raising funds to pay for a lawyer for Brandon's resentencing trial. If you can help, please make cheques payable to the Brandon Astor Jones Defence Account and post to 10 Palara Place, Dee Why NSW 2099. Donations to the Brandon Astor Jones Defence Account may also be made at any Commonwealth Bank, account No. 2127 1003 7638.]