Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she was frightfully sorry for Peter. "How awful!" she said, but she could not help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with soap. How exactly like a boy!

Fortunately she knew at once what to do. "It must be sewn on," she said, just a little patronisingly.

"What's sewn?" he asked.

"You're dreadfully ignorant."

"No, I'm not."

But she was exulting in his ignorance. "I shall sew it on for you, my little man," she said, though he was tall as herself, and she got out her housewife [sewing bag], and sewed the shadow on to Peter's foot.

"I daresay it will hurt a little," she warned him.

"Oh, I shan't cry," said Peter, who was already of the opinion that he had never cried in his life. And he clenched his teeth and did not cry, and soon his shadow was behaving properly, though still a little creased.

"Perhaps I should have ironed it," Wendy said thoughtfully, but Peter, boylike, was indifferent to appearances, and he was now jumping about in the wildest glee. Alas, he had already forgotten that he owed his bliss to Wendy. He thought he had attached the shadow himself. "How clever I am!" he crowed rapturously, "oh, the cleverness of me!" PETER PAN | J. M.BARRIE

When we meet Peter Pan in the Darling children’s nursery, he is distressed to find himself detached from his shadow. Wendy’s first act of repair sets into motion a relationship between Wendy and Peter that repeats through the action of the story—the maternal Wendy practicing her art on the motherless boy. Just before the pandemic closed the prison doors to volunteers at Oregon State Penitentiary, we read Peter Pan with our Ground Beneath Us writing group. In those conversations, we considered how childhood trauma accompanies a person into adulthood. The Lost Boys were a band of motherless children who Peter gathered and protected, an apt metaphor for contemporary gang culture. For our anthology PRISONS HAVE A LONG MEMORY, I wrote an essay  detailing the conversation with the men, as I meditate on how we take flight to reach adult.

We have spent January in the shadows reading pieces that were written between the fall’s two eclipses. Some of the work came from dark, shadowy spaces, other pieces examined the shadow as a separate self. Now we consider how those shadow brings form and dimension to a deeper understanding of ourselves, like Wendy’s stitches we are bound to our shadow.

In PORTRAIT OF A NATIVE CHIEF R. Miranda describes Native stories as a passing along of wisdom: Wisdom that's timeless, spanning generations, making it eternal. One of these stories accompanied R. through his adulthood, attached like his shadow and only revealing itself late in life. As you read this piece, think about a story, a phrase, a bit of wisdom that has accompanied you? How has it impacted your thinking? Your actions?

Melissa Haley’s SHADOW dances alongside her in this poem. Our OSP reading editor Scott Bitter notes: “It all reads like a conversation with your shadow, which changes according to light intensity. I gather positivity as you describe shadow not in terms of darkness but in shades of light.”

Gina Baker’s SHADOW PROJECT exalts her faith through the divinity of light. Again, Scott Bitter brings a thoughtful response to this piece: “In nine concise sentences, you capture what many of us spend a lifetime trying to learn. Notably, we alone are unable to break free from entanglements on our own power. God’s love does not require us to be perfect. When we accept God’s forgiveness, his love and light multiples through our imperfections.”

The PonyXpress is made by many members, as we continue to grow and shape this project, we ask that you take a moment to reflect on a question that we pose or use one of our writing prompts. If you have a family member who is incarcerated, perhaps one of these pieces will open the door to a conversation about life inside. If you read something that resonates with you, please comment, and we will pass your notes along to our writers. It means the world to them that you heard their voices. This is a living document — the influence of its shadow elongates as you shine your light on it. | TDS

I have found redemption, restoration, and forgiveness in the light of the Lord. I, alone, was unable to break free from the briers, brambles, and thorns of my life. I became snared and entangled in oblivion. I was lost, hopeless, and defeated. I was unable to move, I was unable to break free. Suddenly, God was there, holding his gentle hand out to me. I felt a love so divine, so pure, that it set me free. A love that doesn’t require perfection, but multiples through my imperfections. It sparks and shines so bright for the world to see. | RB

GROWING UP IN OREGON, REGINA BAKER HAD THE PRIVILEGE TO SPEND TIME WITH HER GREAT, GREAT GRANDPARENTS WHO INTRODUCED HER TO GENEALOGY. HER LOVE AND ENTHUSIASM GREW INTO A DESIRE TO BRING HER ANCESTORS’ STORIES TO LIFE. HER BACKGROUND INCLUDES ENGLISH, GERMAN, SCANDINAVIAN, SCOTTISH, AND IRISH.

Shadow Project By Regina Baker

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As I stand, I transform myself.
Energy eclipses so divine,
you are mine.

Moon light, you treat me right.

As I stand, you guide me
with transforming my mind,
as my sidekick, always dim, but divine.

As I stand, my shadow,
my shadow, I control.

Looking forward on the ground
In a 360’s degree
Oh, how you benefit me;
allowing me to morph
exist in the moonlight, sunlight, starlight,
your image is right.

As I stand bright,
I eclipse these words
from my lips. | MH

Shadow By Melissa Haley

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In the Native tradition, lessons come in the form of fables and allegories. These stories are not so many lessons; they're more like passing on wisdom. Wisdom that's timeless, spanning generations, making it eternal. And while this wisdom is passed down from the Elders to the youth, seldom is it immediately understood. Some lessons take a lifetime to learn and old "sayings" — do we ever really know what they mean. Like my grandpa used to say, "Humph."

When I was 19 years old, I had the world by the tail on a downhill run. I managed a print shop, and received a healthy salary, along with free room and board. The reason I received this healthy salary was because my employer felt that I had a lot of natural ability, that I was able to get any job done in a timely manner and that I was good at solving problems. He sometimes told me, "You're wise beyond your years, and can go far in this business." My ego allowed me to believe this was true. No one could tell me anything I didn't already know. Yet I wasn't so dumb as to think that I knew everything. I loved talking to older people because in my mind, they possessed that 'ancient wisdom' that I thought I understood. They too would say things like, "You're an old soul." Again, my ego allowed me to bask in the praise of the words. When something was shared with me that I didn't quite understand, I'd simply follow the way of my grandpa and just say, "Humph".

The print shop where I worked was in a small industrial area of El Segundo, Ca. located near the center of town. At lunch time, I would cut across a parking lot, turn down an alley, and round the corner to come store front to an old hole in the wall burger joint. As is the case with most of these legendary establishments, the fare was worth more than the mere pennies it cost.

One day, as I was heading back towards the shop with burger in hand, I noticed that a garage door in the alley was opened wide. When I glanced in, I saw an old man turning a table leg on a lathe. Perhaps sensing that someone was watching him, he turned towards the open door with a friendly face. I asked, "How you doing, sir?" His response was to be expected, "No need to call me sir. He chuckled. "Do you mind if I sit here and watch you while I eat my lunch?" I asked. Again, an expected response, "Make yourself at home," he said as he turned back to his task. As I sat there in silence watching him, I was amazed at the ease of talent he displayed. I hadn't had much occasion to experience someone using a lathe to do woodwork, but I do remember that in junior high, during wood shop, the teacher had demonstrated the use of a jig to accomplish consistency when producing products such as table and chair legs. This master used no such tool.

Once again, as if he sensed I had a question, he turned away from his work and looked in my direction. I shared the story of my junior high experience of the jig, and even added that I had turned a baseball bat as a class assignment. I asked him, "How is it that you make the legs look the same without using a jig? (There were two other legs nearby that were an identical match). Of course, the question was somewhat rhetorical, since I already knew the answer was experience. He surprised me when he answered, "I just let the wood be what it wants to be." I should have expected that answer. It sounded like something the Elders would have said. I just smiled and changed the subject.

"Those are some pretty good-looking tools you have there," I commented, as I motioned towards a set of nearby chisels. I proceeded to tell him about my prior employment at an antique shop in Redondo Beach. Hoping perhaps to impress him with my worldly experience, I continued with, "They look like they're from the early 1900's. Perhaps 1920-1930?" He smiled wryly, as he walked towards a set of cabinets at the back of the garage. He reached towards one of the higher shelves and pulled out a beautiful wooden box. When he set it in front of me, he didn't say a word, but the smile was still on his face. I thought, okay, this must be some sort of test. I'll play along. I picked up the box and admired the exquisite craftsmanship. It was well constructed and slightly ornate, but not too much. Very understated. I quickly dismissed the possibility that it was something he had crafted. It was a bit too old. He was an old man, but not that old! The box was worn, but not too much considering its age. It was more like it was well loved. It was rectangle in shape, measuring about 12"x6"x3". It was hinged in the middle along one side like a clamshell; a simple brass spine that ran the full length of the box was all that was visible. I told him what I imagined he already knew that the box was made from rose wood, and the inlay was mahogany, maple, and curly maple. His smile changed slightly becoming more like a grin. With his deep blue eyes, and a slight nod of his head, he motioned for me to open the box. I set the box down and undid the two brass clasps that held it closed.

As I opened the box, the first thing that caught my eye was the red crushed velvet lining. A whiff of linseed oil on metal alighted on my nostril hairs. The thought of a gun box entered my mind. I imagine my eyes must have lit up like a kid at Christmas. What I saw before my eyes was a magnificent set of wood chisels, whose craftsmanship was unrivaled by the box that contained them. Their beauty left me speechless. When I looked up; the old man was back at his lathe. I finished my burger in silence.

As I stood up to leave, the old man gave me his attention. As I handed the box towards him, I told him that the chisels were extraordinary, and thanked him for sharing them with me. He held his hand up in a way that motioned me to stop. I gave him a confused look.

He said, "You keep those." Of course, I protested. I told him that I don't do woodwork, and aside from the bat, I never used a lathe. I truly had no use for them, no matter how nice they were. That surely, he must know someone that was more deserving than me. He smiled then said, "No, you take them. You never know what an old set of tools might teach you." My remark? "Humph." Who knew what the heck that meant!

I headed across the parking lot back towards the shop. I stopped and put the box in the trunk of my car ... and there they stayed. In the summer of 1982, I found myself traveling the back highways and byways of Arizona and Nevada. I had the luxury of owning a 1973 Delta ‘88 with air conditioning, so life was good. I was 22 with nothing important to do. My biggest concern was keeping my 20-gallon gas tank full. My ’88 got a whopping 13 miles to the gallon, and I was between jobs. So, I was on a constant lookout for opportunities to earn a few fast bucks. In those days I truly had the philosophy "Will work for food." Like I said, it was a carefree period of my life, and I wasn't afraid to put in a hard day’s work.

As luck would have it, I came across a small service station in the middle of the desert. The outside looked like something you would run across on Route 66 back in the 1950's. The garage portion had a two-car bay, and the office looked like a souvenir shop. It had a wooden Indian chief standing proudly outside the door. When I pushed open the door a small bell tinkled. A coyote barring his teeth and a few stuffed rattlesnakes immediately greeted me. On the shelf behind the counter were various carvings of wildlife animals. Without looking up from his paper, which looked to be the National Enquirer, the old proprietor said, "What can I do you for?" I swallowed my nervousness, and gave him my spiel," You see that boat out there?" I said nodding towards old Betsy. "Well, she's a real gas-guzzler. And I was wondering if you had any work around here that I could do to earn a tank full of gas and maybe a few snacks." He looked up for the first time, and with raised eyebrows he leaned in my direction, looked around as if to see if anyone else was listening, and half whispered with a gleam in his eyes and a smile on his face, "As a matter of fact I do." With that, he stood up, came around from behind the counter, and locked the front door. He led me to a side door that took us through the garage bay and out to the backside of the station. There was an old half-rusted Wrecker parked there. We climbed inside and he took off down a rutted dirt road into the desert. As we bumped and bounced down the road, I remember thinking that maybe he wanted me to put a new set of shocks on this old rattletrap. But about a mile out he came to a sudden stop. He looked through the dusted front windshield and squinted towards the sky as if looking for UFOs, or helicopters. When he was satisfied that the coast was clear he climbed out of the truck. I followed. He pointed toward a ditch that had an 8' section of an old telephone pole in it. I looked at a nearby upright pole that was obviously shortened by about 8 feet. "Wonder how that got there?" he asked with a chuckle. "Give me a hand." We wrestled the pole onto the back of the wrecker and headed back to the station.

After unloading the log into the garage bay, which I now realized was a woodworkers’ shop, he picked up a nearby small chainsaw (which I figured was the one that was used to liberate the section of the pole from its otherwise upright position) and began randomly cutting into the log. Wood chips went flying in every direction, some landing in my hair. As he continued, I saw the very rough image of a head appearing. That's when I suddenly remembered the old man turning the table leg in his garage back in California! The next thought was, hey, I still have that old set of chisels in my trunk. I practically ran out and got them. When I returned, I handed him the box. His eyes lit up, much like mine had all those years ago. When he opened it, an audible "ooh!" escaped his lips. He delicately pulled out one of chisels, admired it briefly, then with the same gusto that was used with the chainsaw, he preceded to chip away at the pole. He went through three or four different chisels, chip, chip, chipping away. After about ten minutes, I could make out the distinct features of an Indian face with the start of a "War Bonnet" on its head. I was amazed!

I asked him how it was that he could carve out an image from an ordinary telephone pole without making any marks or guidelines. He asked me, perhaps because of the tools I had handed him, "Haven't you ever carved something out of a stick of wood or a branch?"

"Sure, I once carved an eagle's head out of a piece of driftwood, but it was already shaped that way." Then remembering the words of the old man in the other garage, and again, trying to sound wise beyond my years, I continued, "I just let the wood be what it wanted to be." "What I want to know is how you do it out of an ordinary piece of wood?"

"Well,” he said with a mischievous grin, "I just look at the log and whatever doesn't look like an Indian, I just chip it away." We held each other's gaze for a moment. I knew I had been out witted. And then with a more serious look, he added, "It’s just like the good Lord is doing with you. Whatever doesn't look like his image of you, he just chips it away."

"Humph." It wasn't until I was sitting on Death Row, in 1988, that I would understand the full meaning of what those two old men had shared with me. You never know what the right set of tools will teach you. | RM

R. MIRANDA WAS BORN IN SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA. HE IS NATIVE AMERICAN (MAYAN, APACHE, YAQUI) AND SPANISH/ROMANIAN. HIS WRITING IS A FORM OF POSITIVE FOCUS AND HEALING AND EXPRESSION.

Portrait Of A Native Chief By M

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Last week’s snowstorm arrived 24 hours behind schedule. Oregonians expect an inch of snow to shut down major urban areas for a day or two until mild temperatures bring back the rain and we have a slushy mess for a day. This week has been the exception — high winds knocking out power and taking down massive trees, snow, temperatures in the teens, followed by an ice storm (which just returned!) It has been devastating for many families who have yet to recover. Deep down, Pacific Northwesterners prefer a diet of steady drizzle served with regular caffeine boosts.

We are concerned about the folks inside. Oregon State Penitentiary was built in Salem one hundred and fifty-eight years ago, which is to say that it lacks the comfort of the modern buildings in other parts of the state. Bridgeworks Oregon Board member, Kyle Hedquist who served time at OSP and was the founder for our writing project described the heating system: “Steam lines run through some cell blocks, and there is central heating duct system which keeps the upper four and five bars warm, but one bar and two bar will be cold because the buildings are just too tall to handle that kind of airflow. I used to layer long johns, jeans, all my shirts, and go to bed with my coat on and two hats which (by the way) is illegal cause you’re only allowed to have one hat.” Along with the cold, there is a loss of activities, visitation, and tremendous pressure is put on staff. A snow day in prison is more than an inconvenience. 

Prison extremes are not limited to cold or hot. The polar conditions of life inside form or reform one’s viewpoint. It is a place of extreme emotions, stress, loneliness. It can also be a place of deep internal work, healing, growth, and forgiveness. In our group, we tend to focus on the places where we encourage one another to cultivate hope, growth, write a path forward. Not every person is on that same path — perhaps it is more precise to say that not everyone is ready for a path forward. How might that play out? A disagreement can become a situation — can become an incident. This very explosive nature of the environment may require disciplinary action, such as isolating a person to protect the group. More likely, that disagreement deescalates, and life moves along. The contradictions that live side by side, are difficult for all who live, work, or volunteer in this environment to reconcile. Strict rules and discipline are applied. And at the same time, judgement lives in a shadow space of nuanced thinking. We have a recipe of rules meets factors, meet the fallibility of humans. Complicated.

Both of this week’s shadow writings come from dark perspectives. Comrade Candle is a Nihilist and a student of Nietzsche; her piece is aptly named Leave Nothing Behind. Albert Wright discusses suicidal ideation in his work Zen Project. This piece underscores the cyclical nature of mental health struggles and calls to mind the importance of providing support for someone struggling with an emotional crisis. The National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline can be reached by dialing/texting 988. To hear a carefully considered conversation about living with suicidal ideation, we recommend an episode of  Fresh Air where Terri Gross interviews philosophy professor Clancy Martin who wrote the book How Not to Kill Yourself, for people struggling with suicidal thoughts.

I look out my window at the branches that thawed this morning only to be ice-covered again this evening. Despite the disruption, the hardship, I see the beauty of the branches with their tiny icy January flowers. Glistening. We appreciate warmth when we come in from the cold. After 28 years inside, Kyle Hedquist’s sentence was commuted by Governor Kate Brown. He now works as a lobbyist to impact legislation to improve the lives of the incarcerated. Even when he was serving life without parole, Kyle exemplified a life written forward. He wrote the piece Life Prevails for our anthology Prisons Have A Long Memory. It feels like a counterbalance to this January freeze. |  TDS

Albert Wright discusses his mental health struggles, including suicidal ideation. There is a wealth of information available online. Immediate help is available call/text 988 to reach the suicide and crisis lifeline.

I want to ask you a few questions. These may be too personal, but I ask you to bear with me; maybe both of us will come out for the better.

Have you thought about your funeral? How many others would come? Have you daydreamed or laid awake at night and pondered the meaning of life? How are you meant for something else but have come up short of your own expectations? Have you thought of suicide? How those who know you — family, friends, others — would be better served without you around? I have. I have many times. And, the truth be told, the answers were hidden deep within the abyss, a secret kept from all.

The first I recall such thoughts was when I was young 10…11…12… somewhere around those ages. I recall similar thoughts when I was 15 and my hero, my grandfather, was killed; and again, at that age of 20…21…28…31…35…38…39…40. A long list that probably doesn’t cover the extent of my disillusions. These thoughts were about self-absorption, self-centeredness, even a little about power and control.

Throughout this time my morals and ethics degraded, discarded, tossed to the side. A darkness descended upon me and altered the universe I lived in — a void temporarily filled with sins too great to mention. And each time a sin was committed, the rush of shame and guilt filled this void. But this too only lasted until the next sin came along. Minimizing, marginalizing, justifying allowed me to carry on, to stay functional.

The suicide thoughts came next.

These suicidal thoughts slowly crept in at first — but they exploded one Monday morning. Anger, then numbness set in, embarrassment, shame, guilt. They sometimes come back. I somehow manage. I believe I had some angels help along the way. They said the right words at the right time to bring me out of the numbness, the void, the abyss. Each time my mind wandered down this long path, a light was shined guiding me back. A kind act done…belief in some goodness underneath — small things to them; huge things to me.

I’ve had these thoughts. I can’t sit here and say, I won’t have them again. The future is unknown. What I can say is I know where to go for help. I can say that.

Oh, I did find out how many others would come to my funeral. Two. Two others. | AW

Zen Project By Albert Wright

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All is nothing and no meaning, purpose, or value is forthcoming. Truth follows the fate of God — death — only lacking in pity.  Becoming is destruction and destroying is creating, my life. All I can ever hope to posit it in this hopeless endeavor is that “I am,” indescribably, inexpressibly — words cannot name me.  

The snake eats its own tail, caught in a cycle of consumption and creation.  Presence is absence, vis-à-vis.  When I reject the call of the abyss — and it does gaze back — I become something, myself.  I am!

And once again I am nothing, only ever able to formulate my something as the absence of all else, of everything.  My being is the emptiness of form, a becoming.  I am, only by virtue of what I am not. 

I will die and know nothing more of this cold plane, this existence.  I won’t be.

When the snake finds itself severed in two, what remains after death?  Nothing, something, everything — and nothing. | CC

COMRADE CANDLE DESCRIBES HERSELF AS ‘THE FIERY INSURRECTIONIST OF YOUR DREAMS SEEKS TO STOKE DISSENT’S FLAME.’

Nothing By Camrade Candle

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An arctic storm is predicted to chill the entire state, bringing with it high winds, freezing temperatures, and snowfall that inevitably paralyzes our mild-weathered city. An ominous forecast for the week I have chosen to write about solitary confinement. When one of our writers disappears to the hole, we hear about it from their peers. As volunteers, we try to remain neutral, we do not speculate about the incident. Our role is to provide mentorship and support. To that end, we send in the materials we prepared for the missed sessions, along with photocopies of reading materials. We want to stay connected to our writers and reassure them even if they have lost other privileges, they still have a place at the table when they return to general population. We encourage them to continue to write and submit to the PonyXpress.

Unlike a forecasted storm that allows us time to prepare and shop for provisions, the disciplinary action comes down swiftly in prison. An incident erupts and people are segregated immediately. Disciplinary hearings come later to determine who was involved and will be further punished and who will be reinstated and released into the population. The Solitary Housing Unit (SHU or the hole) pulls people out of their routines, away from their support networks, and puts tremendous stress on an individual’s health and wellbeing. Typically, a person is isolated in a 6 by 9 cell for 23 or 24 hours a day. Prisons continue to use this “prison within a prison” punishment system, though by all measures it seems counterproductive to rehabilitation. The Oregon Justice Resource Center has published a piece about the practice.

Last summer, I hastily made a photocopy of Mary Oliver’s poem Wild Geese from New and Selected Poems. It was a haphazard job, so that I could read the poem to start the session, and as a result it included a bisected copy of her poem, Robert Schumann. Yep, a blank right down the middle of the text. The poet Nolan James Briden was in the SHU, so I scribbled a note on the photocopy of Mary Oliver’s assurance:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

Nolan says that he needed more to read, so he constructed a poem of his own from the fragments of the facing page, to write A Page Next to Wild Geese (for Robert). When he returned to our group, we were we able to share a bit of the composer Robert Schumann’s life and his struggles with mental health and the fact that he had been institutionalized.

One of our valued members has been transferred to another prison after an incident, so our relationship will now continue through inner prison correspondence until we can run a workshop at the facility (5 hours away) where he now serves time. Chris Lewis sent us Obsidian Rivers from the hole at OSP along with his poem Harvest, a poem we published last year. This transfer hurts our writing group as Chris brought brilliant energy to our sessions. He has a connective intelligence and sensitivity to others that we all value. Before his transfer, he had started a graphic novel college class in which he was thriving. In addition to close friendships and the PonyXpress, he leaves the rose garden he tended with such pride.

Social isolation leaves shadowy marks in our brains that overtime create structural alterations to areas that regulate social interactions and emotional control.  When we read the work of our writers inside, we see the effort they are making to stay connected, to overcome the despair of loneliness, and their sheer determination to heal themselves. | TDS

ROBERT SCHUMANN

Hardly a day passes I don't get stuck in here
in the asylum: younger hurt more older

than I am now, trudging mountains I watch
through madness towards a home that may not be there

Everywhere in this worldly place, thought
explodes out of itself, as can, shifts—

could not. And now I question unquestionably
Something so frightening: who am I. And

how the world clings to worlds crossing
though crossroads, sticking to stones earth

like lint to the familiar skin-cloth exchange.
Hardly a day passes I don't forget life outside,

think of him: nineteen years old, fresh up-state
spring in Germany was spring in confinements-solitary

and he has just met a way of doing time.
He turns the corner, and ages into chambers hell, 37

he scrapes the dirt from his face, thinking, while
he runs the dark tiers, once again, of prison asylum. | NJB

NOLAN JAMES BRIDEN WAS RAISED IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HIS ROOTS BLOOM FROM RICH CULTURES,  BLACKFEET AND IRISH.  HE WRITES: “I’M JUST GETTING TO A POINT IN THE EXPLORATION OF WRITING TO BE ABLE TO SAY IT IS A RELATIONSHIP THAT I UNDERSTAND; THEN, I READ A DIFFERENT STYYLE, FORM, OR WAY OF WRITING AND MY JOURNEY RESTARTS TO UNDERSTAND.” NOLAN IS A MEMBER OF THE LAKOTA OYATE-KI CULTURE CLUB AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY AND HE IS A FOUNDING MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP.

EDITOR’S NOTE: A photocopy of Mary Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese” was hastily made out of the book New and Selected Poems. It was a haphazard job, as the poem was simply intended to be read before a writing session in the Ground Beneath Us group, and as a result it included a bisected copy of Mary Oliver’s poem, “Robert Schumann.” Nolan was unable to attend a few of our sessions, so poem was passed along to him to keep him company and provide him comfort. He says that he needed more to read, so he constructed a poem from the fragments to make this poem. When he returned to our group, we were we able to share a bit of the composer Robert Schumann’s life and his struggles with mental health and the fact that he was institutionalized. For this edition, Oliver’s writing is in italics and Nolan’s writing is in plain text. | TDS

A Page Next To Wild By Nolan James Briden

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DISCUSSION & WRITING PROMPTS

• Imagine for a moment the conditions of solitary confinement. You have a pen and paper, and 23 hours per day in the space. You will be let out of the cell for an hour to be in an isolated yard, or take a shower. How would you subdivide your time? What would you want to have with you to read?

• Compare Nolan’s poem to the original text. What do you notice?

• Take a poem and split in a half. Give one side to a writing partner and keep one side. Each of you should write from the fragment. Read the poems to one another. Now, what happens when you combine your two fragments?

Where are you sensibility,
Where are you freedom?
What bells doth ring
In the fall eve’s rain?

Pain brings me your beautiful
Inspiration, bring me to bear.
Allow my soul to sing,
My pen shall keep me sane.

In these dark passageways,
these avenues of ruin,
streetlights host rainfall
clouds beckon doom.

This macabre tune for a jester’s dance,
Their many masks restrain truth.
They jump and spin, laugh and cry.
They jump and spin,
and laugh…
and cry…

Hallowed chambers, concrete squares
consecrated with blood and tears.
These silent screams overflow
as souls beg to know,
to what end, what purpose
doth we go?

ORIGINALLY FROM SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, CHRIS LEWIS IS OF IRISH AND UKRAINIAN DECENT. HE LOVES AND APPRECIATES THE ART, BEAUTY, AND UTILITY OF WRITING. CHRIS IS THE CARETAKER FOR A ROSE GARDEN AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY, AND AN ENTHUSIASTIC MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP.

Obsidian Rivers By Chris Lewis

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This week we delivered a brass Tibetan singing bowl to the PonyXpress group at Oregon State Penitentiary. We have been bringing in a bowl for our meeting since 2018. It was time for a bowl to live at OSP.

We begin every session ringing the bowl to settle us, draw our attention together. As the tone resonates, we listen to the last drop and then, read a poem or passage to set us up for the work at hand. There are two simple goals for these sessions: acknowledge fresh ideas or different perspectives and release collective energy in the form of writing and discussion. 

We have a basic formula for our work.
1/ Ring the bell and then, listen closely to a passage or a poem
2/ Receive a writing prompt
3/ Write for 5 minutes — keep the pen moving
4/ We read (unapologetically) our passages or poems
5/ One person stands at the white board writing down words or phrases that catch our ears, as a way of mapping our conversation.
6/ We draw from the collective to seed new writing.

In the process, we find the points of intersection in our thinking. We marvel at insights and facility with language. We listen and we encourage. These sessions have been designed to keep things simple so that each meeting can be stand-alone (folks inside have scheduling conflicts, too!) We have a core group of people who come everytime and we have people who come when they are able. 

FROM A SESSION AT EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, PENDLETON, OREGON

To live with our shadow is to understand how human beings live at a frontier between light and dark, and to approach the central difficulty: that there is no possibility of a lighted perfection in this life; that the attempt to create it is often the attempt to be held accountable, to be the exception, to be the one who does not have to be present or participate, and therefore does not have to hurt or get hurt. To cast no shadow on others is to vacate the physical consequences of our appearance in the world.

Shadow is a beautiful, inverse confirmation of our incarnation. Shadow is intimated absence, almost a template of presence. It is a clue to the character of our appearance in the world. It is an intimation of the ultimate vulnerability, the dynamic of being found by others, not only through the physical body but by its passing acts; even as our darkening effect on others; shadow makes a presence of absence, it is a clue to ourselves and to those we are with, even to the parts of ourselves not yet experienced, yet already perceived by others. Shadow is not good or bad, only inescapable.

David Whyte, Consolations

In the fall, we had workshop sessions across the state scheduled between the solar eclipse and the lunar eclipse. The parenthesis of these two events provided as with an opportunity to explore the shadow self. During the month of January, we will publish some of the results of writing directly related to the prompt and then, some submissions that recall the condition of living in shadow.

SHADOW WRITING PROMPTS: CHOOSE ONE

Shadow help us see form, it gives form dimension. This shape helps us understand what we are seeing and how it fits into space. Think of something that lives in the shadow, perhaps it is a part of your self you keep hidden — your shadow self. Now, write about how a shadow self adds dimension to the person you present to the world.

When the sun is overhead, our physical shadow exaggerates our form — a solid, elongated distortion. Write about this in relationship to something you have experienced. How has a spotlight changed how you see something? Or how has that direct light changed how you see yourself?

SHADOWS BY AUSTIN CLARK

UNTITLED BY JOSHUA FOLEY

MY SHADOW BY CLAY FARO

We provide everyone in the PonyXpress program with a monthly newsletter to keep them connected to the project and to encourage them to write and submit between our sessions. We have attached a PDF sample here of the plan created for eclipse season. | TDS

Ponyxpress Newsletter

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His silence speaks to me…
Is my shadow the reality of my
very being expressed (somehow)
as an exaggeration of my humanity?
He imitates my every move…
Is this an inescapable manifestation
of me? Who has my shadow become?
And what is his judgement…
Of how we always are? | CF

CLAY FARO HAS BEEN PUBLISHING WRITING SINCE 1995.

My Shadow By Clay Faro

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A wrinkle under an eye.
The wake on a lake.
The architect is as complex as me.
Architectural complexity.
Multi-dimensional, unselfish
Philosophy.
Philosophical philology.
To pass time can one
truly surrender,
give away what is umbilical
as one’s shadow?

(SHADOWS OF SELF-REFLECT
MISTAKES)

Missteps to really learn
what I can and cannot do,
in the center of all my
essence, I hold value.
The symmetrical choice
of a decision in
society’s norm.
Every changing partial shape
I mediate my hands
to explain a man
like a crease under a knee.
Panoplies of answers
fantasies of Peter Pan;
my grandfather showed
me rain drops on roses.
Brilliant for the mind,
a continuity so constant
of inconsistency —
I will forever view as
timeless. |  JF

A MILWAKEE MUSTANG, JOSHUA FOLEY WAS OREGON RAISED.

Untitiled By Joshua Foley

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I’ve waded through the liquid sorrow.
It was there, where I was born in the shadows — suspended.
In that place, my eyes grew
accustomed to seeing things that
dare not exist in the light.
In this place, I learned how
to survive, where not to step.
I learned how to discern the
Silhouettes of flowers that
only bloomed on the third midnight.
I gained strength from their beauty
And in their absence, their memory
sustained me through the darkest days
until the next bloom. | AS

ORIGINALLY FROM SOUTHERN OREGON, AUSTIN CLARK IS A MUSICIAN AND VISUAL ARTIST.

Shadows By Austin Clark

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At the beginning of 2023, Nolan James Briden organized a group of people at Oregon State Penitentiary interested in writing. Many of the group with whom we wrote our anthology during the pandemic had happily joined us on the outside, and we were able to present the fruits of our labor to the community-at-large. In response to the dwindling numbers in our group still inside, Nolan initiated the search for more people at OSP. The goal was to restart our writing program in the spring, and in Nolan’s words: “weed out people who aren’t serious.” Using PEN America’s anthology The Sentences That Create Us, Nolan selected writing exercises and prepared six-week’s worth of lesson plans. Once we saw Nolan’s well-read and annotated copy of The Sentences That Create Us, we arranged the delivery of free books from the publisher Haymarket Books (we have since distributed over 80 copies to people who are incarcerated in Oregon.)

When our travel schedule allowed, we looked forward to attending Nolan’s workshops. His approach from the pacing of the sessions to his teaching sensibilities provided great lessons for us, as we developed the PonyXpress workshops. We learned the importance of starting with an icebreaker (physical movement, introductions, centering in the space) and that stand-alone sessions allowed people who were unable to attend the previous meeting to be in synch with the rest of the group. In one talk, Nolan subdivided the word vocabulary on the board. VO CAB U LARY and circled CAB, pointing out the power that words have in transporting us from one situation to the next — “the more words you have the farther you can travel.” Just the other day, I watched Stressla and Nolan encounter a new word, they wandered off to find a dictionary and returned in deep discussion.

Nolan asked us to write about silver linings in one session. Stressla Lynn Johnson wrote an initial thought piece that eventually became the poem Silver Linings. Stressla is keenly aware of language as transportation and language as trigger: “…to stay peaceful when encountering a soul that is actively practicing its suffering. I am keenly aware that these space are created for me to see myself in others. Unaddressed/Unresolved by Chin Yeyin is an interesting companion to Stressla’s poem. Chin measures the weight of those unaddressed and unresolved issues that like a “personal sandbag of feelings” can be carried unnoticed for days, years on end and then, hold a person down. And finally, we have Clay Faro writing from Powder River Correctional Facility and his New Life promises the fresh start we all crave at the end of a full year. | TDS

Maybe I was standing still, listening to the shallow breaths
roll over my lips. Hearing the silent indictment of the
emotional triggers set off by mere spoken words. Words,
strong or weak, can sometimes reflect the deep fractures
caused by human suffering.

This is all so familiar. Being immediately transported back
to a musty closet and dark spaces in the mind … still
and silent in the whirling sands of time. It is easy to hold on to
the anger and rage, even while being comforted by the
understanding Spirit of tomorrow.

Maybe I was standing, listening, still. My thoughts scattered
in the imaginative mental skirmishes to know peace, to feel
peace, to stay peaceful when encountering a soul that is
actively practicing its suffering. I am keenly aware that these
spaces are created for me to see myself in others.

Giving no power to those unrelenting whispers from my
ominous past. Standing firmly inside the created
consciousness that has become my acquittal from hair
trigger responses. A mental-emotional sanctuary so designed
to remind me of the immediate harm and destruction a
suffering soul can cause.

Maybe I was Standing…Listening…Breathing. | SLJ

STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON WAS BORN APRIL 9, 1957 IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HE HAS WRITTEN POEMS AND JOURNAL ENTRIES AS MEANS OF HEALING. STRESSLA IS A MEMBER OF THE OSP EDITORIAL BOARD

Silver Lining By Stressla Lynn Johnson

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All of Us.
Every Human.
Problems unaddressed, desires unresolved.
Diverting feelings cannot be sustained.
Feelings set in motion, stay in motion, and so forth.

In the bottom of my beach bag, sand
from my previous trips remain.
Over a lifetime of this, I now own a personal sandbag of feelings.
Most days, I ignore the weight of it,
Just as I generally function without regard to the
Weight of my physical limbs.
Other days, I can barely arise from my bed for the weight of it.
Meditation is good, but when I return from
peace
chaos.

It impacts me with greater force than when I just swam in it.

People sometimes make comments on the Tai Ji symbol
tattooed on my right hand.
They often point and say with complete ignorance that
Yin and Yan represent
harmony
balance.

To which I reply, with great irritation,
That the Tai Ji symbol also represents
chaos
discord.
Don’t you dare forget that!

I am only empty for the sake of
unaddressed problems and unresolved desires.
Keep in mind that we are alike in this way —
and you will not be angered by my anger. | YC

YEYIN CHIN WRITES FOR INTERNAL RELIEF FROM THE STORM THAT RAGES WITHIN HIMSELF.

The gradual awakening

Is as a dream…

Yet, not a dream!

Here I am, emerging…

(the metamorphosis of a butterfly)

Coming to life

            after lengthy slumber;

from darkness, into the light;

able to move…

            to expand my wings!

I am free…am free. | CFP

BORN IN BAINBRIDGE, GEORGIA IN 1957, CLAY IS MIXED HERITAGE OF NORWEGIAN, DUTCH, AND ENGLISH ANCESTRY. HE HAS PUBLISHED POETRY AND EDITORIALS AND JOURNALS. “NEW LIFE” WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 1995-96 ANTHOLOGY, THE NATIONAL LIBRARY OF POETRY.

New Life By Clay Faro

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September 2022 we toured our newly published anthology Prisons Have A Long Memory through rural Oregon (Lakeview, Baker City, and Pendleton), broadcasting stories in prisons and out into the wider community. The tour’s final destination at Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution (EO) was well attended by 30 people from the facility’s 1600-person population. The florescent-lit room (D2 Courtroom) was appointed with neat rows of folding chairs. A bank of windows framed the railroad tracks that run parallel to EO and directly opposite stairs that lead down to prison yard. Freedom and captivity.

We stood in front of the familiar-seeming faces of prisoners; though we had yet to meet these men. Eyes were darkened, expressions held frozen and hard to read. Usually we draw out enough banter to lighten the tone. Not this night. Tough crowd. We ended the readings with Danny singing an acoustic cover of Le’Var Howard’s As Far As Far Can Go which was published in our anthology — it appears on his album G-L the 7 Letters. Applause broke the silence. A man in the back row, thanked us for visiting, as if he was speaking for everyone. And then, the men lined up to shake hands. A rather shy young man asked if we would be back next month. I stammered. We didn’t have an answer. Another person approached with a portfolio of writing. He hoped that we could take the pile and read them…maybe help publish the collection.

Every prison in the state differs, defined by the surrounding landscape filtering inside and the architecture holding people in place. Standard programming offered includes GED and some college courses, drug treatment, religious services. EO stands in the middle of Pendleton, Oregon — a town best known for its annual Rodeo Roundup. This is cowboy country. The facility dates back to 1913, built to be the state’s mental hospital. In the 1980s, the state converted it to a minimum-security prison. An on-site sewing factory employs prisoners to produce the denim and chambray uniforms worn by Oregon’s entire incarcerated population. Blue Mountain Community College stands on a hill overlooking the prison parking lot, and the college provides some course work at EO. Rural prisons have fewer volunteers and less varied and robust programs.

We tell Ricky Fay, this man holding the neatly typed portfolio of stories, that we can’t take them. We aren’t carded volunteers at EO, and while we published a book, we hadn’t planned on publishing another book. We had just finished this one! He wondered about publishing resources for folks who are incarcerated. I looked to our host, Leslie, who coordinated our visit. We agreed that I would pull together a list to send to all the people who attended our talk.

Those pages of Ricky’s writing followed us along the gusty drive winding along the Columbia Gorge. From our first prison concert tour, Bridgeworks has been called to provide something fresh to these prisons located three…five…seven hours from Portland. The facilities are long and difficult trips for family members. Most of the communities have economic struggles which makes free time a luxury and difficult to come by to run free programming in prison. By the time, we drove into Portland we had roughed out a plan for the PonyXpress. Grants were procured and workshops at a collection of prisons were underway spring of 2023. In July, we commenced publishing, including two of the pieces by Ricky that were tucked in that portfolio: Overwhelming Sense of Security and Meow.

This week we are delighted to print his submission Taking the Subway Home, a tale of ice storms in Portland, and the epic journey to deliver a Christmas Eve feast. Last year, we heard Jeffrey Sanders deliver a Kwanzaa speech during the Uhuru Sasa Culture Clubs’s celebration at Oregon State Penitentiary. Jeffrey uses the occasion to speak about the richness of Black history, to inspire the group: “Remember all the blood our forefathers, and foremothers lost so we could get an education, be treated fairly, and become healthy citizens in American and experience what equality looks like for all. Let's act with self respect for them and for ourselves.”

The Columbia Gorge tends to be impassable at unpredictable point in the winter with icy storms that leave cars and trucks stranded on the highway. We gambled on Tuesday of this week that the weather would hold as we drove in fog along the Columbia to run this year’s final PonyXpress workshop. How fitting to close at the beginning. D2 Courtroom was now set with tables formed into a large square. A smaller crew arrived relaxed. Their faces, like their writing styles, were now familiar to us. Ricky has submitted a proposal to gather a small writing community between our workshop sessions, using the newsletters we send as a scaffolding to organize their sessions. We quieted ourselves to write about seeds and then, shared our passages with one another. We marveled in the overlap we found in our thinking and the ways we stretched our ideas. We agreed to store the writing away and bring it back out when we returned in the spring. The darkest days of winter requires us to pause and let the work of the year before take — make room for the work ahead. Slowly the days will turn longer, and we will brave the weather to discover what the break has sown from stored seeds and writing portfolios. | TDS

Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution, Pendleton, Oregon.

I was born the great-great grandson of Ida B. Wells-Barnett who was a writer, and ran a Black newspaper in Memphis, Tennessee. In 1892, Sarah Garnet and a number of prominent Black women raised funds to replace the destroyed presses of my great-great grandmother’s newspaper after it was destroyed by a white mob that wanted to shut her up. So, I am sure all of us come from royalty and a bloodline of greatness. Many of us, like myself, didn't ever know it. The more I read and research my bloodline, I realize that my forefathers and mothers did so much for me to do better than I have been doing in my life. My goal is to break down Kwanzaa into an acronym and write about some “Black Firsts.”

Kwanzaa's, annual holiday affirming African family and social values is celebrated primarily in the United States from December 26 to January 1. Both the name and the celebration started in 1966 by Maulana Karenga, a professor of Africana studies at California State University in Long Beach, California.

K
The K represents Kennedy. Yvonne Kennedy, who was born in 1945. In 1981, she became the first Black woman junior college president; she took the position at S.D. State Junior College (Now Bishop State Community College) in Mobile, Alabama. She received her Ph.D. degree from University of Alabama, and also served as a member of the Alabama House of Representatives, where she chaired the Black Caucus.

W
The W represents Williams. WDIA in Memphis, Tennessee a white-owned radio station, became the first to have all-Black programming. The station hired Nat D. Williams, who became the first Black disk jockey in the South, and the first Black announcer in the South to play popular rhythm & blues records on the air. On October 21, 1948, the station launched "Tan Town Jamboree," its first Black show. Memphis became a center for blues broadcasting. Blues Boy "B.B." (Riley) King was on WDIA with his band.

A
The A represents Alexander. In 1979 Joyce London Alexander, was the first Black American U.S. Judge in the District of Massachusetts. Alexander was educated at Howard University and New England Law School.

N
The N represents Nat Turner. In Southampton County, Virginia, on August 21-22, 1831 the enslaved Nat Turner led a revolt that was crushed, but only after Nat Turner and his fellow killed some sixty white enslavers and threw the South into a panic. After hiding out, Nat Turner was captured on October 30, 1831 and hanged November 11 in Jerusalem, Virginia. Thirty other slaves were also executed by hanging along with Mr. Turner. John Brown, of European decent, lead another revolt against slavery after helping Nat Turner in 1831. Twenty-eight years later in 1859, John Brown led the raid on Harpers Ferry, Virginia which led to his execution on December 2 of that year.

Nat Turner, and John Brown were born in 1800, a few months apart on the same plantation in Virginia and became childhood friends and remained loyal to one another. They were influenced by the same belief system that drove Nat Turner to revolt. John Brown lived by a principle that anyone who would enslave another human being had forfeited their right to live. One of his favorite sayings, "Fight for freedom at any cost.”

Z
The Z represents Zenith Books. Charles F. Harris born 1935, was an editor at Doubleday, and established Zenith books, the first series to present minority histories for the general and educational markets. A graduate of Virginia State College in 1955, Harris worked for Doubleday and Random House before joining the Howard University Press in 1971.

A
A represents Albert Abrams. In 1988, Albert Abrams was the first Black general manager and vice president for organizational development of Greater Macon (Georgia) Chamber of Commerce. He is believed to be the only Black person to hold such a position in the south at that time.

The last A
is all about "US". This last "A" should come to no surprise that all of us should seek out our blood line. All of us come from greatness, and all of us has greatness in us. I do not know if it's going to work for any of you like it has for me, but once I realize who my great-great grandmother was, I started feeling my greatness and realizing that I cannot let her down—or let myself down.

Remember all the blood our forefathers, and foremothers lost so we could get an education, be treated fairly, and become healthy citizens in American and experience what equality looks like for all. Let's act with self respect for them and for ourselves. We can accomplish anything that will lead us into our full greatness. Our forefathers, and mothers laid the foundation for greatness. Let's pick up the torch and keep their dreams alive, so the next generation will take the dream farther. They went that extra mile for us to have these opportunities, and now it's up to us to finish the race and to fight for equality for all. | JS

EDITOR’S NOTE: THIS PIECE WAS ORIGINALLY PRESENTED AT THE 2022 UHURU SASA CLUB KWANZAA CELEBRATION AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY.

Kwanzaa By Jeffery Sanders

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