project partners:
supported by:
BOB AND ROBERTA S M I T H
Published to coincide with SN AIL POR R IDGE , curated by Bob and Roberta Smith, The Koestler Trust 2014 Exhibition for the North West.
A Shining Future
Writing and Prints from Prisons and Secure Hospitals in the North West of England
The Granada Foundation
Koestlertrust.org.uk Charity no. 1105759
u Cane Road
AFFI STAM R
Koestler Trust 168a Du Cane Road London W12 0TX
Koestler Trust 1 8a
ondon W1 0T
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A Shining Future
Front cover: repeat of Dazzler, James, and Tidal of Tears, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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A Shining Future Writing and Prints from Prisons and Secure Hospitals in the North West of England
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First published by the Koestler Trust 2014 to coincide with its North West exhibition, S N A I L P O R R I D G E held in partnership with Castlefield Gallery, Manchester www.castlefieldgallery.co.uk 9 May – 15 June 2014 Koestler Trust 168a Du Cane Road London W12 0TX Koestlertrust.org.uk Charity no. 1105759
Project partners:
With thanks to project supporters:
BOB AND ROBERTA S M I T H
The Granada Foundation
Designed by Keith Sargent ISBN: 978-0-9574101-3-8
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The North West Awards were selected and judged by Peter Kalu, artistic director at Commonword, and Alicia Stubbersfield, poet and lecturer in Creative Writing at Liverpool John Moores University.
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This anthology reveals young people’s responses to some of the ingenious, moving and witty writing generated by the Koestler Awards in the North West. In the spring of 2014 the Koestler Trust and Castlefield Gallery worked with a group of young people from HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross in Warrington, engaging them with poems and stories by people in other prisons and secure hospitals in their local area. Through workshops, kindly funded by the Paul Hamlyn Foundation, the group read and discussed the writing. They then learned linocutting techniques and used these to engage and respond to the texts. This anthology shares both the resulting linocuts and the writing that inspired them. In addition to awards for work from the North West, writing selected for this anthology has been considered for the UK Koestler Awards against thousands of pieces from across the UK. We are grateful to those individuals and organisations who have named UK and North West Koestler Awards, some of which have been awarded to texts in this anthology. Each year the Koestler Awards inspire thousands of people in the criminal justice system to create art spanning over 60 visual, performance, craft and writing categories. The opportunity to enter the awards, receive feedback on their work, undertake mentoring and have the chance of publication or exhibition has a huge impact on these artists’ self-esteem, skills and motivation. The achievements and engagement we foster can improve confidence and employability, which in turn can aid rehabilitation and reduce reoffending. Koestler exhibitions and publications show the diverse talents of those in the criminal justice system to the public. As part of this engagement, we invite you to join the conversation by responding to your favourite linocut, poem or story in this anthology. We have included a postcard in the back of the book so your words can be passed on directly to the artists. Turn to the back of this book for tips and ideas to help you create your own poem, story or artwork inspired by the work in this anthology!
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Contents
1. Man Who Couldn’t Smile, Sohail, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
19. Paddy’s Lament, Gary, HM Prison Forest Bank, Manchester, North West Commended Award
3. My Unforgiving Face, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
20. Stuck in a Life of Whisky, Ryan, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
5. My Unforgiving Face, Ken, HM Prison Kirkham, Lancashire, North West Platinum Award
21. Second-hand, Gary, HM Prison Forest Bank, Manchester, North West Commended Award
7. The Tereagrammaton as Used in Scouse Dialect, Mark, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Commended Award
22. Burning Flames, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
8. I Don’t Think, John-Paul, HM Prison Liverpool, Random House Group Silver Award for Poetry, North West Commended Award 9. The Back Garden, Poetic Licence Project Group, HM Prison Forest Bank, Manchester, Silver North West Award 11. Garden Tea Party, Mohammed, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire 12. Angels, Michael, HM Prison Kennet, Liverpool, North West Gold Award 16. Black Angel, Mohammed, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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23. Runaway Sausage, Sohail, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire 24. A Letter Home, David, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Highly Commended Award 25. My Love is like an Angry Scotsman, John-Paul, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Commended Award 26. Tidal of Tears, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire 27. 852 Daughter Less Days, Ken, HM Prison Kirkham, Lancashire, North West Highly Commended Award
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28. Dazzler, James, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire 29. The Adventures of Simpkins and the Cat, Anon, Ashworth Hospital, Liverpool, North West Highly Commended Award
48. Not Alone, Josh, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
34. Cat and Milk Float, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
49. Home Sweet Home, Mark, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Commended Award
37. The Colour Green, Brian, HM Prison Kennet, Liverpool, North West Commended Award
50. HMP, Sohail, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
39. Shock and Awe, John, HM Prison Wymott, Lancashire, North West Highly Commended Award
51. The Best Feeling, Brian, HM Prison Kennet, Liverpool, North West Commended Award
40. Burning Down my Cell, Life’s too Hard, Ryan, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
53. Runcorn Bridge, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
43. Let them Act, Matthew, HM Prison Preston, North West Highly Commended Award 45. WWI, Mohammed, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire 46. Over the Top, David, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Commended Award
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47. Aliens, Poetic Licence Project Group, HM Prison Forest Bank, Manchester, North West Commended Award
54. Faces, Mohammed, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire 55. Ideas on creating your own poems, stories or artworks inspired by this anthology Back cover flap includes: Feedback Postcard
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1.
Man Who Couldn’t Smile, Sohail, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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2.
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3.
My Unforgiving Face, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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4.
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5.
My Unforgiving Face
My unforgiving face has been my downfall. Happy thoughts don’t quite make it To my fizog, the criss-crossed scar field The battle wall terrain of uneven features. Too many bangs to the nose and cheeks Bones once chiselled, now pulped Over time, I have tried to smile In photos, it appears I am ready to kill something. My eyes smile, inside I am smiling lots, The transmission misses my mouth by a mile. My forgiveness of you, appears as a grimace Makes you believe war has commenced. My children, thank god, have become cheerily accustomed To my desperate attempts to show happy My wife once likened me to ‘tombstones trying to be funny’ she was clever like that. My heart is free of vengeance, I forgive accusers I practice in the mirror until my jaw aches To no avail, I fail. My hated face, refuses blankly to co-operate.
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6.
In dreams I chat and smile away Show my beaming kindness and intelligence Through my even toothed, full mouthed grin And the crowd gasps and returns the compliment. In truth, my efforts probably pass for consternation Or even warrant a case of troublesome constipation The gnarled sinews and tendons grind away Failing, sadly failing every time to smile like you. Sometimes, by accident, I am sure It all comes together, the syncromesh gearbox Slips in planetary alignment, effortless People smile back, though this has never been caught on camera. So I must write it, not smile it. I forgive you, as you forgive me. My face cannot show it, but you must know it’s true I’m writing my smile from my face to you.
My Unforgiving Face, Ken, HM Prison Kirkham, Lancashire, North West Platinum Award
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7.
The Tereagrammaton as Used in Scouse Dialect
‘YHWH’ The name of the ancient Hebrew God, translated with extended northern vowels and a Gentile portion of doubt as: ‘YEHWAH?!’ … which according to the velocity of delivery, can mean anything from ‘Excuse me, I couldn’t quite make out what you were saying…’ to: ‘F*** off and die, you complete and utter c***.’ And the ability to determine the former from the latter separates the devout from the devoid and can make every difference between a friendly smile and a headbutt. It is best heard between midnight and 6 a.m. Sunday along the echoing cavern of Dale St by one of Bottle’s premiere disco divas … telling you that you are way down the queue to gain admittance to her most minimal of knickers.
The Tereagrammaton as Used in Scouse Dialect, Mark, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Commended Award
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8.
I Don’t Think
I don’t think of how she laughs Turning somersaults in the air Her laceless big-boot swagger As it stomps me up the stairs I don’t think about her eyes The shrewd beauty I found there And the danger loving sparkle Of a life lived without care I don’t think about these things They might be more than I can bear I don’t think about the rain Cascading off her laughing lips Or the way I can read her moods By the swaying of her hips I don’t think about her pants And those ten-thousand metal zips And the way that she would hold my hand Just from the knuckle to the tips I don’t think about these things With which I fail to come to grips I won’t think about past times Impossible to regain Or how I’m not sure without her I’m the same man that remains I don’t think about her loss Was it really to my gain? I won’t think about her now Lest it cause me any pain As soon as I complete this rhyme I won’t think of her again
I Don’t Think, John-Paul, HM Prison Liverpool, Random House Group Silver Award for Poetry, North West Commended Award
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9.
The Back Garden
From red, to amber, to brown Dead leaves dance lightly, scraping the footpath as if controlled by strings of an invisible puppeteer This play must be a comedy, it took my mum ten minutes to rake them into a pile It’s peaceful watching her potter about while she hums a nameless tune I’m glad of this folded fleecy blanket; my bum usually goes numb when I sit on this wooden bench for long periods Wind blows coolly and I can smell earth and rotting vegetation Unconsciously, I look to where the yellow-jackets are getting drunk from the pulp of month-long fallen apples Silent prayers are sent that one doesn’t fly over to pick on me while I’m so content I think my mum matches the garden, it’s like she is at the start of autumn too
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10.
I realise I’m reflecting and feeling melancholic - I like it Like the fine light drizzle that comes with gentle gusts of the breeze, I feel it all over my skin as it seeps through my clothes and into my bones I shiver, goose pimples rising all over my arms A blackbird bobs its head from some brown and beige ferns as a blue tit drops seed from the feeder above The blackbird seems content too, digging about in the turf and soil I best offer my mum a cup of tea now because I’m getting the feeling that she’s going to make me do something like rake the leaves into a pile. I don’t mind doing it of course, I’m not lazy, I just think that it’s funny watching her do it as I just sit here enjoying myself, as life goes by.
The Back Garden, Poetic License Project Group, HM Prison Forest Bank, Manchester, Silver North West Award
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11.
Back Garden Tea Party, Mohammed, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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12.
Angels
Miss Tennant sits alone in her classroom, arms fully stretched out in front of her, flexing her fingers simultaneously like a demented pianist. Shuffling her feet, uncharacteristically nervous, underneath her creaking chair. Her internal volcanic rage subsides as, one by one, the pupils of class 6A file into the room. The sixteen pupils quietly took to their stations without any guidance, just one of the traits Miss Tennant was proud of. Though not today, no, she had no interest whatsoever in the forthcoming events. Her only thoughts settled on the previous weekend and nothing but. The pupils sit, arms folded, shiny, clean faces from their Sunday evening baths, all wanting to look impeccable for Miss Tennant. The pupils anxiously look around at each other, some holding their breath, others suppressing childish giggles of laughter but all awaiting those famous four words from Miss Tennant. Their four words from their Miss Tennant. Four words they hear twice a day that no other class will hear. It was their mantra, not the school mantra, words just for them. A longer than normal pause. Was Miss Tennant okay? But Miss Tennant is never ill. She is… well she is… Miss Tennant. Deep, deep slow breaths. It’s as if she was cocooned in a room with no atmosphere, everything was on mute and in slow motion. All so surreal. All she could hear was the sound of her heavy, laboured breathing, she felt like she was drowning. The breathing got more sporadic, it was the only sound in her head, along with an unanswered question. What made her do it? Miss Tennant, weary through lack of sleep, stood behind her, asever impeccably arranged, desk. She did not suffer from OCD, she was just infuriatingly neat, proper and perfect in all she did. ‘Good morning, my angels.’ And there they were, those four words. ‘Good morning, Miss Tennant,’ came the heartfelt reply in unison from all pupils bursting with pride that it was they, Class 6A, who were in fact her angels. Her left hand pressed against her temple. She could feel the thumping pulse, as if beating to the lead drum at the head of an Orange Lodge procession. Her right hand hovered over the register. Red pen clenched so strongly in her grip it merged into her fingers so red, the ink could have been blood. ‘Elizabeth Adams?’ she started. Elizabeth’s arm shot into the air as if trying to reach the classroom ceiling. ‘Present, Miss Tennant.’
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13.
Spoilt Bitch thinks Miss Tennant. ‘Brian Collins?’ ‘Present, Miss Tennant.’ Fat Arse crosses her mind. ‘Eammon Fitzpatrick?’ ‘Present, Miss Tennant.’ Tenuous links to an IRA Bomber no doubt, she muses as she stares into his eyes, still smiling, and looks down to the next victim pupil. ‘Jillian Gates?’ ‘Present, Miss Tennant.’ Again her head raised to see Jillian’s extremely freckled face, smiling like a young Bonnie Langford back at her. Once an ugly duckling always an ugly duckling, Jillian, was all that filled the teacher’s mind. And so it went on… Monday morning always started at a sedate pace, it was as if she had planned that routine for this moment. As the children chose one reading book each from the well-stocked plastic bookcase – shaped like a large book and purchased personally herself – Miss Tennant stood looking out of a classroom window. ‘Those windows are desperately in need of a clean,’ she mumbles to herself. As she opens the window slightly, beads of sweat appear on her furrowed brow, a light breeze drying each diamond. Her eyes climb the glass building, constructed more like a high street bank than a junior school from the ground area to the roof top. Standing, motionless other than a very slight sway, a thought enters her confused mind. She would gladly take her angels onto the roof of Kennet Primary School, rip their wings off and kick ‘em one by one between the shoulder blades to a very premature but ultimately colourful death. No, no, no, this is all wrong, these were all internal feelings. The children had done no wrong and luckily they could not see anything was amiss with, well, a Miss. She continues the morning lessons, art work – paint and mess, bloody mess. Then followed arithmetic before lunch. Numbers, bloody numbers. Questions continually going through her mind as she ambles around the classroom, bending over various pupils’ shoulders, taking in their work with no interest whatsoever. This has to stop. She knows this. Although she’d had the opportunity to do it before, she had never bothered. God how she wished she had the same mind-set just a few days earlier. The topic had come up from time to time in the staff room but she had
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14.
never joined in the banter. Do I tell my colleagues? What is the point? Would they believe me? Do I care? She hadn’t slept for two nights over the weekend, she hadn’t replied to any text messages or emails. She will tell the senders she had technology problems, easy enough, don’t forget: ‘everybody believes Miss Tennant’. She never lies. Miss Tennant found herself standing next to her array of mugs in the staff room, lunch time had arrived without her realising. She would struggle to describe the first three and a half hours class session though if asked to recall the events of the weekend the detail would be minute and eerily accurate. Her mugs, some four of them, sit on her tray. These all detail various messages: I Love My Teacher, #1 Teacher and so on… she had at least another nine mugs in a box in her garage along with various presents from her pupils and one marriage proposal from Paul Williams, aged 7 years old. Her nemesis stands opposite her, Mr Sykes. Leaning against a wall checking his mobile phone, pretending to read text messages from friends. As if he would have any friends, she often thought. Mr Sykes always looked as if he had just come in from a snow blizzard. Such a cold, under nourished and unkempt looking man if the truth be told. The knot of his brown tie far too tight under large collars of a green shirt at least two sizes too big. Who dressed this man – bloody John McCrirrick? He seemed to hate the world and everything it stood for – at last she had something in common with Mr Sykes today. He had never received one mug or gift in thirty-six years of teaching. Other staff members put up with him instead of getting on with him and he’d taken an instant dislike to her from day one. Not that it bothered her. He’d once told her that if she was forty years younger, Doris Day would have approached her for hints on cuteness. For him, she was over friendly with her pupils, he despised her ‘angel’ line, though her methods produced outstanding results. Her last three parent evenings had brought in 100% parents – a school first. Seated, hands clasped round a steaming hot coffee which she had no intention of drinking, she stared deep into the dark typhoon she had created by her overvigorous stirring. Her mind wandered back as she visualised the events of the previous weekend… She had double checked the cleanliness and security of her classroom before leaving last Friday. The school cleaner often told her she would put her out of a job, even Miss Tennant’s cleaning utensils put her own to shame. Home-time brought the usual chit chat with other staff members and a casual glance of the Year 7’s football training in the playground. She adored one
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15.
child in Year 7 – Thomas Lyons. An inscrutably cute deaf child with his slightly oversized hearing aids, whose highlight of the week was putting on the yellow bibs and feeling like a ‘proper footballer’. After an hour or so shopping and browsing through magazines, she found herself at the back of a long queue at aisle 14 of her local ASDA Superstore. No problem, she flicked through her diary, checked her phone texts and e-mails she hadn’t replied to and any other time-wasting distractions as she shuffled slowly nearer the cashier. She had even filled out a Euro Millions lottery slip she’d picked up whilst placing change into a local charity collection box for the deaf. Thomas Lyons was obviously still on her mind. She had filled in the slip using a pen which was a gift from Elizabeth Adams – the ‘spoilt one’, who had been on the QE2 the previous summer. The end of the pen had a replica ship which floated down as you used it. Tacky. In her shopping trolley were the ingredients for Thai-style fishcakes with sweet chilli sauce. Skinless white fish fillets, peeled prawns, coconut milk, lime, coriander, ginger and chillies together with her dessert ingredients. She made a weekly dessert which she shared with her mother on Saturday afternoons. Red fruit salad in red wine syrup which basically consisted of 250g of raspberries, cherries and wild strawberries and a half bottle of red wine. To go with her fish, she had purchased a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. A bunch of daffs for Mum sat alongside a box of Whiskers cat food for Morgan. The weekend was to be a normal, some might say mundane, affair. A Saturday morning jog with Melanie then await Mum’s visit mid-Saturday afternoon. She would face her weekly inquisition about ending up on the shelf like ‘one of those tins of Carnation Milk nobody buys’. She meant well, but Mum’s tactfulness certainly wasn’t her greatest virtue. Friday evening went to plan, she even commended herself by telling Morgan how Jamie Oliver would be envious after tasting Tennant’s Thai fishcakes. A hot shower preceded feeding Morgan. After enjoying her meal and a glass of wine, Morgan had snuggled onto her chest and the cat’s heavy purring had resulted in the two of them falling into a light sleep. She awoke abruptly. It was a startled awakening she remembered, almost as if she had woken due to the presence of someone or something in the room. Morgan had long since departed to lie in front of the vacant cat pillow which she refused to sleep on. The television, on a low volume, lit up an otherwise darkened room. Her eyes gazed from the TV screen over to Morgan and then to her large square empty plate, yearning for a second helping. The wine had given her
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16.
Black Angel, Mohammed, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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a larger appetite than usual although she didn’t do gluttony. And there it was: The News. The Evening News. The News that stopped her in her tracks. Was she still dreaming? She fumbled for the remote control in the dark to turn up the volume, as if this was going to change the broadcast in any way. Monday afternoon, Miss Tennant is back sitting at her school desk, staring out of the same window. This time all she sees is a beautiful blue sky, the window framing a gaggle of flying geese. The children have returned from lunch break with the majority of the boys being red in the face after playing football, fringes slapped to their foreheads through perspiration. Any noise quickly descends into a calm hush as thirty-two innocent eyes are trained on Miss Tennant. ‘Good afternoon, my angels.’ ‘Good afternoon, Miss Tennant.’ She lowers herself into her chair, taking in the faces, the happiness and the love of her sixteen pupils. A shake of the head, practically non-existent to the human eye. Oh my God, what was I thinking? These poor innocent children. She wants to take them to the roof of the building and let her angels fly free, from hate and despair and especially from her with those thoughts. A feeling of self-loathing courses through her veins. She bends over and picks up her hand bag and places it onto her desk. Unzipping, she opens it up and the sunlight pours in, lighting up its contents. She had almost forgotten about the unopened packet of ten Embassy filters, the events of the weekend had driven her to purchase a packet for the first time in years. Lipstick; small mirror; make-up and brush; phone; diary; nothing of note. And there it was in the dark corner of the bag, standing to attention, almost laughing at her, goading her… the folded lottery slip. Something which had been scrutinised over a thousand times since. A Euro Lottery slip. A Winning Euro Lottery slip. A Winning Euro Lottery slip that had been neatly folded when paying for her shopping and mindlessly placed into the right hand pocket of her overcoat. If put on, it would have netted Miss Tennant some £27 million.
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She stares at the slip, afraid to pick it up as if it would bite her fingers off. She throws her hand into the bag and snatches out the ticket and screws it into a ball. Leaning back slightly in her chair, she launches the paper ball towards a plastic waste paper basket. A few of the children watch the journey of the paper ball, though not with much interest, not as intently as Miss Tennant. She is watching what could have been – hers and many people’s futures – travelling towards a plastic wicker bin. She is also watching a ball of guilt and disgust leaving her body. The ball of paper hits the rim of the basket and falls in slow motion to the floor. James Moss shouts out, ‘Ooooh! Unlucky Miss.’ ‘Yes, James,’ Miss Tennant replies, this time with a hint of laughter and realisation in her voice. ‘So unlucky…’
Angels, Michael, HM Prison Kennet, Liverpool, North West Gold Award
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19.
Paddy’s Lament
Streams of whisky, streams of tears Drown your sorrows, your hopes and fears Three-day binges, waking in blood Three days sober I would if I could. Drink for the pain Drink for the pleasure Drink under pressure Repent at leisure. Streams of whisky, streams of tears Drown your sorrows, your hopes and fears Waking in dirt, stinking o’ piss There’s got to be more To life than this.
Paddy’s Lament, Gary, HM Prison Forest Bank, Manchester, North West Commended Award
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20.
Stuck in a Life of Whisky, Ryan, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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21.
Second-hand
The strings on the guitar were rusty and frayed But the sound you made was as haunting as the way you played As flames licked the embers I was mesmerised by your aura, Long auburn hair and a daisy-flower crown: Lit by the moon with a second-hand guitar And a San Francisco sound.
Second-hand, Gary, HM Prison Forest Bank, Manchester, North West Commended Award
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22.
Burning Flames, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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23.
Runaway Sausage, Sohail, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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24.
A Letter Home
Apparently superficial
Got your letter, thanks. Missing you lots.
and anodyne
How did Robbie do with his swimming? How did Kelly get on with Zumba?
and inoffensive
It might be a desert but it’s cold here and we’ve had to make duckboards to cross the puddles in the tents.
and inconsequential
Big trouble last week, they ran out of sausages.
and reassuring and uninformative
Don’t believe all you see on the telly. We’ve seen no fighting here in the middle of nowhere. We’re mostly in camp but we’ve seen a few Afghans and they seem very friendly.
but a glimpse of a man escapes
Well that’s another week. Only a month now and then we’re out and I can show you how I really feel.
All the meaning sub-text, mostly hidden, and lightly sowed But he’s covered the topics of extreme importance Without letting on if you don’t know the code.
A Letter Home, David, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Highly Commended Award
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25.
My Love is like an Angry Scotsman
My love is like an angry Scotsman That’s newly sprung from jail: My love is like the generous judge That sweetly granted bail. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in my cups am I: And I will love you still, my dear, ‘Til the gangs drink my whisky dry ‘Til the gangs drink my whisky dry, my dear And the rocks all melt in my drink: I will love thee still, my dear, ‘Til I vomit in the sink. And fare thee weel, my only love, ‘Til you come back from the shops! And you will come some more, my love, When I’ve drunk another few drops.
My Love is like an Angry Scotsman, John-Paul, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Commended Award
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26.
Tidal of Tears, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire Inspired by ‘The tidal tears’ in 852 Daughter Less Days
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852 Daughter Less Days
852 days and nights since, in awe, I knelt and watched my daughter sleep 852 days older than the last time, I heard her laugh, and launch up into my arms. My daughter is now 8 years old. As beautiful as her mother, hazel eyes Like cut diamonds in a chocolate cake Of me, she has, I am told, only a quiet determination. She is my darling girl, tall as a deer Blonde highlights, sunlit naturally, and no angel My Anglo-Irish, Germanic, one quartz Indian My Euro-Asian best of all possible words, and worlds This child of mine, her mother has said Believes she too has been punished For my crimes, and has cried an age And at odd moments, or on hearing my voice. Things cannot remain as they are, Amends, however futile, will and must stem The tidal tears, all remaining days of mine Will be gratefully and happily spent on just this. All truth and good things will come to her From my life’s abysmal mess, a shining future My pledge is assured, for grace is wondrous And allows fathers to love daughters, and guarantee their happiness.
852 Daughter Less Days, Ken, HM Prison Kirkham, Lancashire, North West Highly Commended Award
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Dazzler, James, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire Inspired by ‘a shining future’ in 852 Daughter Less Days.
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29.
The Adventures of Simpkins and the Cat
This had been the fifth day straight I’d stayed awake, day five of being abandoned! Yes, absolutely abandoned by my wife of forty two years. Can you believe it? She just jumped up and left me. My wife of forty two years had upped and left me for dead. She shouted, ‘I can’t stand you anymore,’ as she walked down the garden path. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I looked at the cat who stood beside me on the doorstep and said, ‘Is she talking to you?’ He didn’t reply. Why did she do it? I haven’t got the foggiest. I know I’m not a saint, but you’d think she’d be used to my ups and downs by now. And now I’m all alone in this empty house. Nothing in the fridge and dirty dishes in the sink. And I can’t sleep. She walked away and then shot off to Cornwall to live with her sister. All of that fuss and unending turmoil began to tell on my state of mind almost immediately. I felt like I had insomnia, my sleeping patterns were destroyed and I’m sure the skin under my eyeballs had drooped at least a good inch. The paisley wallpaper was blotching out in Disney characters’ faces. One time I saw Daffy Duck giving me the thumbs up and the next Pluto bulged out at me and barked, ‘Hello Mr Simpkins.’ What on God’s earth is happening to me, I thought. + Since Margaret left me my daily routine became interspersed with minute sleeps every few minutes or so, and now consisted of making myself jam and banana sandwiches, wrapping myself up in my fleece jumper to keep warm, as well as reading the odd vintage book, here and there. The open fireplace crackled away. It was just me in the house, me and the cat. The cat smiled at me! I’m sure that cat smiled at me. I inquisitively lent forward and squinted my eyes at the cat. The cat yawned and then lifted its eyes to meet my gaze. ‘Miiiaaaoooooow, hello Mr Simpkins.’ I snapped to attention, startled. ‘What! ... Did you just say hello to me?’ ‘Miiiaaaoooooow, yes Mr Simpkins, I said hello.’ The black Tabby licked its left paw and slowly brought its eyes back up to me. ‘Well …’ I looked at the cat in a haphazard manner. ‘What do you want?’ ‘I have a plan, Mr Simpkins.’ The cat stared at me, as if expecting
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some sort of an answer and then started speaking again as if answering it himself. ‘Oh yes, I have Mr Simpkins, we’re going to raid a milk float.’ The cat leisurely arched its back and tiptoed to the edge of the armchair. ‘But first you have to stand on your head and count to forty,’ he said, tilting his head slightly. I was sure this cat was trying to play with me, demonstrating its feline authority over me. I was having none of it. ‘What! I’m an old man. Are you crazy? How am I going to do that? By magic?!’ I stared grumpily at the cat. ‘You’re crazy! I can’t talk to you.’ ‘Yes, I may be crazy Mr Simpkins, but don’t forget, so are you.’ ‘What?! I’m not crazy! You’re talking nonsense, just shut up why don’t you.’ The cat chuckled in its cattish way. ‘So you’re not going to do it?’ ‘What do you think?’ I said, feeling my teeth gritting with anger. The cat languidly brushed its left whisker with the greatest of ease, as if pondering over something that intrigued him. ‘I need to take a break … I’m heading to the bathroom,’ I said. I shot a double take at the cat. ‘You stay here – don’t follow me!’ The cat responded with an indifferent brush of its nose. + I looked begrudgingly at my reflection. The crevices of my puffy cheeks looked like deep sunken valleys to me, I’m sure I could feel microscopic apaches there, lighting smoke signals, calling for help, waiting for some moisture to grace their barren plains. I thought there has to be something here to sort my head out. I rummaged through the bathroom cabinet, through all kinds of concoctions; some looked like they had been there since the dawn of time. There was nothing that would help me out. What is happening to me? I can’t go on like this! I ran the cold tap and splashed my face with cold water. Five days without sleep? … Five days! My eye bags were reddened like the blown-up whoopee cushion my eight year old niece had made me up as one of her favourite dolls, and went a bit over generous on the lipstick around the eye sacks. This was getting beyond a joke.
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Just as I was finding sullen comfort slumping into my own miserable thoughts, the cat showed its face again. ‘Oh not you, I thought I asked you to stay in the living room.’ ‘Yes Mr Simpkins, t’is all very well, but we have a job to do, do we not?’ Inclining its head, the cat smiled. ‘Yes,’ I struggled to suppress a deep sigh. ‘So you keep saying … so what is it then? What do you want me to do?’ ‘The float, Mr Simpkins. We are to rob it soon … eh?’ The cat winked and then chuckled. ‘You seem to find this all very amusing, don’t you?’ I said with growing resentment. I grabbed an old hot water bottle that was flopped over the bath. ‘How about I slap you with this, would you find that funny? Eh?’ ‘Now, now, Mr Simpkins, don’t forget, all I have to do is raise my paw and I can exercise telepathic control over your mind, for at least three minutes at a time.’ Throwing the water bottle into the sink I said, ‘Okay, come on then.’ As I ground my teeth, I barged past the cat and went back down the stairs. Now’s about time for a coffee, I thought, my nerves jangled with the strain of being awake for so long. I chucked some ground coffee into the percolator and boiled the kettle. After I poured the hot water in, it brewed and I poured my cup. Just as I was lifting it to my mouth— ‘I want that coffee, Mr Simpkins.’ The cat stared at the cup. ‘That’s especially milky coffee, hmmmmm, I can smell it!’ I looked at my coffee, confused. ‘Why not just have some milk?’ ‘Because I like the taste of coffee, but only with lots of milk.’ The cat made a strange rumbling sound, and squinted at my cup. I looked at the coffee, then at the cat. Then at the intensity of the look on the cat’s face. And said, ‘Oh well, here’s to you, my imaginary friend.’ I clinked my cup with the cat’s bowl and poured the cat half my cup of coffee. He slurped away while I finished my cup. + ‘So, shall we get on with it then? HmmmMMMM?’ said the cat, fluttering its eyes and pulling a mock smile at me. ‘What are we going to use to supply some umpfh to this here robbery, eh? You’re going to need a tool of some sort. Something to show you’re the boss. The real king of the crockery shop!’ I mulled it over a moment. Hmmm, what do I have lying around in the
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house? I thought about a bat of some sort. A tennis racket maybe? And then as I was pondering the alternatives my eyes slowly raised to above the mantelpiece where I saw the 18th Century musket that I used as my centrepiece ornament. It had been there for years and the funnel-like barrel was heavily decayed with rust and debris, but it would do. Yes! It would make a great accomplice in this job of ours. But what could I use for shot? I had no ball-bearings lying around. But that’s it! I can use sugar for shot. It might not be very lethal but it will get the job done. And if there are any cakes around it will give them a heck of a frosting. ‘Okay then, time to equip the heavy artillery,’ I said to no one in particular, but the cat seemed to be listening. I readied that musket with the sugar and checked the flint worked. It was barely intact, but there was nothing better around. ‘Time to get the show on the road!’ said the cat. As we walked out the cat started humming, doing a little dance, and singing what sounded like a James Brown ditty. ‘T’what’s it like to be the boss? Du de du du de du, du de du du de du. T’what’s it like to be the boooosss. Look at meheeeee, ohhh yeah, I’m a bad mother*^$*”er.’ The cat stood on its hind paws and shimmied its bum. ‘How do you feel now, holding that deadly weapon?’ The cat asked. I looked down at the musket. ‘Ummm. Okay.’ ‘Time to do the heist!’ said the cat, and we walked out into the early morning sun. + We walked around a curving road on a suburban cul-de-sac. Not a soul in sight. The early morning sun was still hidden behind the horizon and an amber hue spread across the sky. The only sign of life was the birds tweeting their early morning song. I could barely hear the far-off electric engine of a milk float slowly approaching. ‘Right. Arms at the ready! Time to commence the first stage of the operation, my dear friend,’ said the cat. I felt my throat dry up and my button collar felt like it was gripping my neck, throttling me, trying to squeeze the very life from my bones. My neck clogged up so I couldn’t speak. I stuck a finger down and yanked it out to give myself some breathing space. My voice sounded raspy, like I had been gargling with minced-up sandpaper. ‘Right, uh huh hahhhgh,’ I coughed. ‘On we go, I’d say.’ I fixed my eyes pointedly on the target. The milk float spluttered and clanked into sight towards the end of the
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cul de sac, and stopped. The milkman got out, wearing a white overall and hat and whistling an up-tempo tune, he carried a box of assorted dairy products to a house’s front door. ‘Right, now’s the time, grab ‘im!’ the cat ordered. Thinking it over, I thought, nah forget about that. I said ‘What we’re going to do is take it easy, and go in smoothly. There’s no need for any bustling type manoeuvres here. We’re not in the Scottish highlands, mannishly wrestling beer kegs about the fields and all that. Chill out man, eeeeeasy does it.’ So me and the cat marched on. I clutched my weapon, and the cat strode proudly on. We were careful to try and take the guy unawares, from behind if possible, while he was walking away, back to his truck. ‘Oy! You there. Give us yer milk!’ the cat said. ‘Shhhhh, we need to go in subtle,’ I said. ‘Subtle.’ The streets were clear; there wasn’t a soul in sight. We came up behind the man, and I tapped him on the shoulder with the rusty tip of the blunderbuss. He turned round. ‘What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?’ said the milkman, wiping crumbs of rust off his shoulder, staring at the blunderbuss and then looking startled at me and then at the cat. ‘You have an important decision to make here, sonny boy. Your milk … or your life!’ said the cat. ‘But, this milk is for the patrons, the nectar of the cow is to be used only for those with silver coins to give, sir.’ ‘We’ve got a deadly weapon here, to make you give it to us!’ said the cat, annoyed. ‘What’re you, from the 16th Century?’ I said it with a gruff laugh. I looked at the cat to see his response. The cat stared with narrow eyes at the man. ‘What’s your name, son?’ I asked. ‘Mr Pickles, Sir. You could call me Freddy Pickles, as my family hath bestowed the name on me, Sir.’ ‘Well, Freddy. We’re here to do a job, see.’ I looked at him with my lip curled. He looked back, befuddled, holding his cap in-between his hands. ‘We’re here for the milk, that’s all we want, just the milk.’ ‘And the cream,’ said the cat. ‘That stuff’s mighty precious.’ ‘What’s with the lump of iron? You planning to open a museum, Sir?’ said Pickles, chuckling about the musket. ‘This might look old, sonny boy, but let me tell you, it works a damn
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Cat and Milk Float, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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sight better than that stinking contraption you’re shuffling around in. That thing could clank its way towards a scrap yard and fit right in.’ ‘Well, it’s my company vehicle Sir. I don’t go out gathering ladies with it if that’s what you mean. I must say, it doesn’t have the bling factor for that.’ ‘No, I can see that.’ I ruffled my lip. ‘So, what are we going to do about this milk situation, eh?’ ‘Well the thing is, I’ve done five streets up to now, I have fifteen more to go, so you might as well just take a carton, a couple are spare anyway.’ ‘A carton won’t cut it for us, lad.’ ‘Okay then, how’s about a crate?’ ‘That sounds more like it son.’ ‘See, what’d I tell ya? You rustle and bustle a bit, throw yer weight round here and there and you get what you want in the end. I told you to lean on ‘im with the old heavy stuff and ya came up trumps,’ said the cat. ‘What’s that in that take away box there?’ I eyed a box with Chinese writing on it, on the dashboard. ‘That’s noodles and egg fried shrimp.’ ‘Well, we’ll take that too.’ ‘Oh no, not my shrimp Sir, that’s all I’ve got for my breakfast!’ ‘Well I’ll tell ya’what, we’ll split it, eh. How’s about that then?’ ‘Oh. Okay, I suppose, if that’s what you want,’ said Mr Pickles. He took some noodles out with his chopsticks and wrapped it in a sheet of newspaper he had lying on the passenger seat. He gave me the box. ‘Right, well if doth don’t protest, I’ve gotta be on my way,’ said Mr Pickles. ‘Okay then. Hey, thanks for the noodles,’ I said. ‘If ya must.’ He went back into his contraption and clanked off round the corner. I looked at the cat then at the milk in my arms, and we both did a simultaneous jump for joy. Yes! We had done it! We had won. The spoils were ours to squander, or do with as we wished… +
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As we arrived home the grandfather clock rang five a.m. and I slumped down into the armchair. The cat lapped at the already spilt bottle of cream, as I reached over for my box of newly acquired Chinese deliciousness. I looked at it with admiration, this is the spoils, and a warm feeling of pride at the job we just pulled off overcame me. I looked over at the cat, who was lapping at the milk. He stopped and stared at me. Then as I brought the chopsticks up to my mouth the last thing I can remember is falling into the deepest slumber I’ve had for months‌
The Adventures of Simpkins and the Cat, Anon, Ashworth Hospital, Liverpool, North West Highly Commended Award
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The Colour Green
Green is a colour I have always hated. How can anyone hate a colour? Easy, I hate red too - but then I’m an Evertonian. I never wear red, I don’t own any red clothes, I don’t even eat tomatoes. I don’t like red, just like some reds don’t like blue. To hate a colour is irrational and ridiculous, but nonetheless we all have our dislikes. Colours certainly come into this category. But green? Have you ever heard of anyone hating green? Green is such a pacifying and moderate colour. There is more green on earth than anything and it’s the most natural of colours. Green is everywhere. So why do I hate it? It goes back to my childhood, which were days of extreme poverty, even before the war, we were poor. When I say ‘we’, I mean everyone I knew: all the neighbours. Relatives, friends - everybody. We had nought or next to nought. Besides food, another thing we had very little of were clothes. Hardly anyone bought clothes in those days, it was all ‘make do and mend’. Do-the-best-youcan time. Sartorial elegance was not on the agenda. In those days of austerity it was the responsibility of mothers, those poor hardworking mothers whose lives consisted of drudgery and poverty, to make ends meet. It was normal for them to make, manufacture or alter old clothes to fit another member of the family. As a small boy of four, I remember getting excited at the prospect of going to school for the first time. There was no uniform involved, but boys would usually have a nice pair of grey short trousers to wear on the big day. I remember to this very day me Mam, God bless her, had worked hard on her Singer sewing machine to make me a new pair of pants out of an old coat she no longer wore. It was well past its best anyway. Such was her talent she managed to make two pairs of pants, one for me and one for my five-year-old brother, who had been at school for the past year.
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After a breakfast of bread and jam, we started to get dressed and ready to go. Then the pants were brought out, the lovely grey pants that all the boys wore on their first day, the pants I had grown up longing to wear and be one of the boys. I couldn’t believe it, but there they were. They fitted fine and felt quite comfortable and as I left that day, hand in hand with my brother, to walk to school – because there was no school run in those days - I can remember the embarrassment I felt on the way and I can still feel it today. Me Mam had made those pants out of an old coat she had, but the only trouble was that the coat was bright green and among the dark dismal greyish landscape we encountered on our way to school, we stood out like a couple of peas out of their pod. But those pants lasted me a year. Then, I had to wear my older brother’s hand downs.
The Colour Green, Brian, HM Prison Kennet, Liverpool, North West Commended Award
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Shock and Awe
It was the evening of the 13th November 2006. I was in quite a sombre mood as this day takes on extra significance in my life. My first wife who was killed in a car crash was born on this day. It’s also the day I am to be released from prison in 2012 and as you will see it’s brought a new dimension to my life. There I was lying in my prison cell minding my own business, the cell door had been locked at the end of another mundane day at Her Majesty’s pleasure. It was about 8.30pm, I was lying on my bunk quite content but also in melancholy. I had been to the gymnasium in the afternoon and worked myself as hard as I could in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be found wanting when it was time to shut my eyes at the end of the night. All of a sudden my cell door was burst open and in walked two members of the prison security. Immediately alarm bells started to ring in my head, ‘Ring home, ring home,’ that’s all they were saying repeatedly, ‘ring home.’ I was in a private prison at the time so was afforded the luxury of having an in cell telephone. My brain was now in overdrive, I hadn’t been told to ‘ring home’ because something fantastic had taken place. I tried my best to gather myself together and try and remain calm as I picked up the phone. I was now alone as my captors had left me in private. I phoned my wife Justine, she was crying and in a terrible state. ‘Calm down, calm down,’ I said to her, ‘What’s wrong, is it one of the children?’ I asked. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘It’s Colin, your brother, he’s dead, someone has shot him.’ She was overcome with grief so I told her to calm down and I would ring her back. A truly life changing moment. Two of the people I loved most in the world, one had been murdered, the other, my wife, was in pain. I was overcome, in a state of ‘shock’. I sat back on to my bunk, where only five minutes before I had been feeling content if only a little melancholy. My whole world had now changed forever. Once again I picked up the phone, this time to phone my mother. She too was in a state of shock. ‘I only made his tea an hour ago,’ she said, ‘his favourite chops and spring cabbage, how could this have happened, I can’t believe it.’ She was upset and crying, once again I put down the phone. I was emotionless, I didn’t know what to think, what to do, I was lost in a sea of emotion, of not knowing what to do. I was helpless, frustrated. I couldn’t help my loved ones at their most important hour of need. For some unknown reason I couldn’t cry and to this day, some five years and three months later, I still haven’t cried. No one knows how much I loved my little brother and I miss him terribly.
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Burning Down my Cell, Life’s too Hard, Ryan, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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For some reason unbeknown to myself and my family, I was not allowed to go to ‘attend’ my own brother’s funeral. So apart from the fact of being told of my brother’s passing, I haven’t been a part of any of the natural grieving processes that take place between loved ones and their families. When they all pull together and support each other at such tragic times. My time is coming to an end soon in prison. I will eventually be allowed to go home and see my family. I won’t be able to go to any funeral or to go and see my brother, all I have is a grave, a hole in the floor where my brother rests. After being sheltered away from all this heartache for over 5 years, I wonder is this when I finally break down and cry. My anguish, my fears, and with reality only weeks away, wow, what does the future hold, how will I react, will I be angry, depressed, will mental health problems arise, I don’t know, in fact no one knows. Inmates look forward to leaving jail with a great big smile on their faces. I can’t smile, I can’t cry, what am I going to do, after all I was only lying on my bunk minding my own business. My drug smuggling escapades now begin to take on a whole new significance. Not only the void I have left in people’s lives but the fact of not knowing that if I hadn’t been in prison, would my brother still be alive today? How have all the children been able to cope without a father and an uncle to look after them in their childhoods, after such a devastating set of events? Will I ever be able to get my life back to what it was before? Does crime really pay and if so for how long, does anyone ever really win? Prison is a terrible place, full of people who have all kinds of hidden agendas, from the governors down to the staff and also the inmates, and not many of them are really nice.
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One of the reasons I haven’t been able to cry for my brother is because of the people I am surrounded by. They are always watching you, waiting for you to show one moment of weakness, waiting for you to capitulate, to take drugs or to go crazy. Just waiting for you to crack up so they can feed on your carcass like a gang of vultures. After what I have been through over the past seven years, all the trials and tribulations, one thing that prison teaches you is you have to have a long hard look at yourself, your situation you find yourself in, and you have to make some hard decisions about how you are going to come out at the other end. One decision you should make is to never come back. Your life and your freedom are worth so much more than you will ever know.
Shock and Awe, John, HM Prison Wymott, Lancashire, North West Highly Commended Award
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43.
Let them Act
The body lay in the middle of the floor, like an island, his stillness drew no attention. The cold and hard surface drew only an ignorant tide. Lulling and sweeping impervious waves onto his shoes. Today something wasn’t right. How long had he been there? Why did nobody seem to care? There were people present; why did nobody care, that he was there? It began with an early morning call from the benefit bird. ‘Whose turn is it to go to the offie?’ The ‘Nanny’ wakes us at varying times, society forced to stir in its piss stained pit. ‘I’ll go to the post office at half past nine,’ chirped the one whose day it was today. ‘Giz a glass of cider an’ I’ll get up,’ she said. What can we do today? Our meek minds meander in their monotonous mess. We will do today, the same as every other day, which is very little. If we were drawn to opiates, now would be about the time we sought our daily fix. As it were, we colluded with the universally accepted, jovial uncle and our aunty, ale. ‘I’ve got a couple of quid. Pass me that copper from up there, and I’ll go to the shop,’ I say. Do you think this is what Blair had in mind when he endorsed the ‘Third Way’ and ‘New Deal’? I’m almost certain Thatcher could have warned him of the ramifications of a ‘Laissez Faire’ culture. Like Pac-Man with his pellets all laid out before him; soon to be greedily gobbled up without a contingency plan. In less than twenty four hours this quintet will tragically become a foursome. But that’s all the way at the end of the day, no need to worry yet. ‘Right,’ I stand up and suddenly feel too tall and cumbersome, stepping in between limbs. ‘Does my top look clean?’ I direct this to the girl on my left- she should have my best interests at heart. ‘You’ll be right,’ she tells me. I gaze down at myself. My jeans
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are dotted with intermittent splashes; across my thigh is the previous night’s menu, written down the denim. It matters not, and not just now, I think. I have an undernourished hangover to attend to, need beer! ‘Two minutes,’ I do my best to sound stern. I’m the first person to do any work today. It is work. Well it feels like it, as I deflect frown capped stares from gawping passers-by. In and out with no messing about - then straight back to the flat. What a flat! It’s got marks against it! Not graffiti either. The type of marks which drew unwanted attention. Let’s just call it poor personified. If it were to speak, it would howl like a siren. Ironically, the first thing I hear when I re-enter the property is wailing. Though this is the shrill screams of a squabble. ‘What you two arguing about?’ I ask. I can’t really be bothered, if I’m honest. ‘I could hear you outside,’ I tell the room. Someone has given somebody else a gift in the shape of a newly forming black eye. ‘He’s hit her again!’ my sidekick dutifully informs me. In the corner, quiet until he notices the bottle by my side, the Silver Back shifts in his chair. ‘Leave ’em to it,’ he tells us both. ‘I’m sick ti death of telling her ti leave him.’ This is what democracy should be like. ‘You sit over there lad and crack that bottle.’ So there we were: two couples and a Glaswegian Silver Back, who has kindly sub-let his living room. The time is not quite nine o’clock on another sunny state funded day. After ensuring that all the ale is divided equally, people begin to relax. The first drink of the day isn’t very nice. The stench of decomposing apples fills the air, along with the collective nasal passages of the group. Then, as if on cue, we all take a sip, and like a mini Mexican wave, we all shudder as the alcohol ripples through us. That’s how we roll.
Let them Act, Matthew, HM Prison Preston, North West Highly Commended Award
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WWI, Mohammed, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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Over the Top
Eerily quiet now, the barrage has stopped. They’ll know we’re coming before we’re over the top. Hang back from the ladder, Let the mad ones go first. The whistle is blowing, Shuffling forward the cursed. Now climbing, struggling with rifles, Hampered by packs, leave the shelter of the trench. Lips pursed. Hopes nursed, But a burst from the Parabellums meets the fears with fatal force. Men falling, I stumble on, face fixed, Unblinking. Can’t turn back. It’s getting worse. Keep the line – safety in numbers. The Captain’s gone in the smoke. I can’t hear the whistle. The Sergeants are nearer, shouting themselves hoarse. Chaos is ‘round me, the smells, the noise without pause. Wham! A blow knocks me down. A piercing pain nearly causes a faint. My leg has a wound, bleeding, unsightly. Hope it’s bad enough to get me to Blighty.
Over the Top, David, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Commended Award
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Aliens
I never told anyone this before but I was abducted by aliens once. It was a dream of course – so it was at the time I thought. Except for this strange barcode on the back of my right hand. Now when I have scanned my goods I scan my personal badge too. All things that I could not afford such as cream-cakes, gateaux and bird’s nest soup. One stroke of my brand new pass and it’s all mine all mine all mine. Is it a blessing or a curse? I just don’t know. But for now I will enjoy my gift and someday the spaceship may return and give me another lift.
Aliens, Poetic Licence Project Group, HM Prison Forest Bank, Manchester, North West Commended Award
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Not Alone, Josh, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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Home Sweet Home
Burnt down my pad, life outside drove me mad - Now I’m in Walton A three year stretch, no choice but accept - That I’m in Walton Living the dream, Victorian workhousing scheme - Yes I’m in Walton Singing the blues to the Guvnor and screws - Now I’m in Walton I can talk to my pet roach all night I can watch the scallies fight It’s all over before it’s begun So much bughouse fun… They fight with pool balls in socks, before they’re dragged down the block - Cause they’re in Walton Play up, you win a first class seat to G Wing - Cause you’re in Walton Learn what you’re worth, you scum of the earth - Now you’re in Walton You can fail an NVQ or two Overdose on prison food Life on the out I can well do without - Now I’m in Walton Counting my time on the Costa del Crime - Yes I’m in Walton
Home Sweet Home, Mark, HM Prison Liverpool, North West Commended Award
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HMP, Sohail, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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The Best Feeling
If you’ve never seen the Mersey or looked up at the Liver Clock If you’ve never been to the Pier Head or even the Albert Dock If you’ve never ridden the ferry, that goes from side to side Then you’ve never had the feeling of being born on Merseyside If you’ve never been the Dock Road, where the ‘Ovee’ used to be Or to the Prince’s landing stage, where the liners went to sea If you’ve not seen the Three Graces, and stood there filled with pride Then you’ve never had the feeling of being born on Merseyside Never had a plate of scouse, on a cold wintry day? Or a pint of ale in Rigby’s, down by Hackins Hey If you’ve never seen St George’s Hall and the lions that are outside Then you’ve never had the feeling of being born on Merseyside Never been to Hope Street, cathedrals either end Or spent some time in TJ’s when you’ve had some cash to spend Never crossed the Runcorn Bridge over the great divide Then you’ve never had the feeling of being born on Merseyside
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Never been on the water and walked along the prom Or been to Birkenhead itself, where Dixie Dean came from If you’ve never looked in wonder, from the other side Then you’ve never had the feeling of being born on Merseyside If you haven’t suffered your footy team, on the wrong end of the score Then decided to blame the referee and love them all the more If you can’t stand all the stick and take it in your stride Then you’ve never had the feeling of being born on Merseyside When you listen to the Beatles can you imagine Penny Lane? As you walk down Matthew Street, does it all come back again? If you don’t know Gerry and his ferry as they cross the rising tide Then you’ve never had the feeling of being born on Merseyside If you know that sometimes, we’re not always the very best But still prepared to argue that we’re better than the rest If when they try to put us down, you’ve laughed instead of cried Then you’ve never had the feeling of being born on Merseyside
The Best Feeling, Brian, HM Prison Kennet, Liverpool, North West Commended Award
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Runcorn Bridge, Richie, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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Faces, Mohammed, HM Prison & Young Offender Institution Thorn Cross, Cheshire
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We hope you’ve enjoyed the writing and linocuts in this anthology, and that it has inspired you to have a go at making your own artwork, stories, poems or creative responses. In this section we have a few ideas to help start you off creating your own work. You can send the pictures and writing you create from these tips to the Koestler Trust, with ‘A Shining Future’ as the reference, regardless of whether you are eligible for The Koestler Awards or not. We will display a selection of the work on our website. Alternatively, if you are in a secure setting or under supervision in the community, remember you can enter any art or writing you create into next year’s Koestler Awards. ‘Give it a go - if I can do it then anybody can. Good luck and enjoy.’ Michael, HM Prison Kennet, Liverpool (author of Angels, p. 12) Road Above The Sun A Shining Future is a linocut inspired by the ‘shining future’ the narrator offers his daughter in 852 Daughter Less Days. The image is an imaginative one, with the road reaching up past the sun. Look at the picture again and imagine yourself travelling along that road: are you walking or running? Or perhaps you are riding an animal or driving a vehicle? What can you see as you travel up and up above the earth? Where does the road lead to? Either draw or write a description of your journey along the road and show where it leads. Write a Face In My Unforgiving Face, the narrator’s face is described in lots of exciting and inventive ways such as ‘the criss-crossed scar field’, ‘the battle wall terrain’ and ‘a tombstone trying to be funny’, but while the outside looks fierce the man inside is trying to give a friendly smile. Think of someone you know really well and try to describe them using just their face. Do they show everything they are thinking and feeling in their face or do the messages get hidden like the man’s emotions in My Unforgiving Face? Mug Garden Tea Party was printed in response to The Back Garden and uses just two elements: a fence and a mug of tea. The image is more striking for being focused on two simple objects. Remember a cup or mug which you have used in the past, it might be your favourite mug for tea at home or work, it might have been given to you as a gift, or it might have been a mug no one liked and that only got used when the others were taken. Think about what the mug looked like: the design, the colour? Does it have any chips or damage? Was it clean or did it have coffee stains? How big was it? Take a few minutes just to close your eyes and remember that cup or mug, and when you last saw it. Now, either draw a picture of the mug, or write a description or poem about it. You
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might find yourself bringing in more than just the mug, ideas about where you were and how you felt when you last used it. You might include thoughts about where the mug might be now. Subtext A Letter Home cleverly shows the words written in a letter contrasted with the real thoughts behind them. Reread A Letter Home and then write your own letter for one of these characters, including both what they write and what they are really thinking: +
A director writing to an actor telling them they haven’t got the part they wanted.
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Someone thanking an aunt, who they love a great deal, for a present that they
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An explorer writing a letter to a newspaper telling them all about the marvellous
absolutely hated. adventures he or she has experienced, when really the explorer hasn’t done anything exciting or dangerous at all. Perhaps they’ve been cold, miserable and lonely on their travels. Worst Clothes / Best Clothes The Colour Green is a story about why the writer hates the colour green. It turns out he hates green because of the horrid green pants (shorts or trousers) that he was made to wear to school. Think of the least favourite piece of clothing you’ve ever had to wear. It might have been part of a work or school uniform. It might have been something you were made to wear as a child. It might be an item that wasn’t in itself horrible, but which you hated because of when you had to wear it, like the gloves you hated because you only wore them when it was far too cold. Now think of an imaginary person who would actually like wearing your least favourite item of clothing and who can’t wait to wear it. Why do they like that piece of clothing so much? What is their name? What is their hair like? How old are they? What do they do for a living? Write a description of this imaginary person wearing your least favourite piece of clothing, or you could draw a picture of them showing-off their outfit. The Amazing Cockroach Home Sweet Home is a song, written about living in prison, in which the singer imagines talking to a pet cockroach all night. Imagine the cockroach were able to talk back, what would it say? Would it be thankful for being kept as a pet and given scraps? Would it complain? What is the cockroach’s most secret ambition; does it want to be Prime Minister? Has it always wanted to fly in a hot air balloon? Does it want to go to a nail-bar and get its shell painted a different colour? Has it always wanted to be a chef? Write a poem, story or draw a picture in which the cockroach achieves his or her dream.
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project partners:
supported by:
BOB AND ROBERTA S M I T H
Published to coincide with SN AIL POR R IDGE , curated by Bob and Roberta Smith, The Koestler Trust 2014 Exhibition for the North West.
A Shining Future
Writing and Prints from Prisons and Secure Hospitals in the North West of England
The Granada Foundation
Koestlertrust.org.uk Charity no. 1105759
u Cane Road
AFFI STAM R
Koestler Trust 168a Du Cane Road London W12 0TX
Koestler Trust 1 8a
ondon W1 0T
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A Shining Future