Hydebank Wood
Birom
ums
A collection of personal creative pieces written by Hydebank Wood women on their experiences of life, motherhood and
imprisonment.
A collection of personal creative pieces written by Hydebank Wood women on their experiences of life, motherhood and
imprisonment.
Foreword
This collection provides a unique look at the lives of women in prison, expressed through creative writing. The diversity and quality of experimental writing produced by inmates at HMP Hydebank Wood led to this publication.
Individual pieces in this collection make vivid connections with past or future selves (the younger self walking through the childhood garden in “Monday Morning”, the woman growing up in South Africa described in “Culture” and the inmate imagining being “Out on Friday”). In “Screaming”, a woman describes listening to another in pain in an adjacent cell and the desperately powerless feeling of being unable to connect - to help, to hug. This poem seems to me particularly impressive for managing to express that terrible experience. Putting pen to paper may also provide a means of negotiating difficult connections, voicing conflicts and contrasts, as in the “Child Me / Adult Me” pieces and the seemingly balanced poem, “Contradictions”.
I like the Group Poems for their combination of personal elements from different women like a dish cooked together, as we talk about our bodies and the stories they tell (in “Hole in the Heart”) and our epic, strange dilemmas (in “My Heroine”). Meditating on simple household objects that I brought into the prison might have been a wholly light-hearted, funny exercise, but the context in which we were writing meant that deep, often unsettling, feelings also emerged: “a mixture of emotions almost like a cake batter…” as one writer says in “Gingerbread Man Cookie Cutter”.
As a single mum who enjoys writing and from my professional viewpoint as a practitioner committed to facilitating therapeutic writing, I believe that creative writing can be a good companion on our individual journeys of self-discovery and self-acceptance. That belief is certainly confirmed by the power of these pieces, and I hope all the women whose work features here will continue to pick up their biros from time to time; each one should have faith and pride in their creative writing.
Finally, I suspect that none of the women whose work is published here will be in exactly the same place as they were when they wrote these pieces, regardless of whether they remain in HMP Hydebank Wood at present - as we were all writing “in the moment” - life is never static and the future remains to be written. Anna MorvernFacilitator, BiromumsNovember 2014
Hole in my heart(Group Poem II)
My first grey hairs are coming, I’m nearly forty.
My mind is a kaleidoscope of emotions and
images.
I don’t really like my body.
I’m too tall with no breasts.
Sorry.
Two of the mums in the mother-and-toddler
group
I went to five years ago have had breast cancer.
My back hurts.
I wish it would hurry up and get better.
I don’t like to be “sick”.
I have a hole in my heart since birth.
Despite the abuse,
I now think of my body as powerful because
It has born healthy boys.
My stretch-marks are my tiger stripes.
I wear them with pride!
I am proud of my C-section scar;
Other scars tell sad stories.
Gingerbread Man Cookie Cutter When I look at you, I see my kitchen. I don’t have any cookie cutters in my kitchen. I think I need to get some. Round cookies are boring. Life is too short to always eat round cookies! My kids would like you but I would have to get a girl cookie cutter for C. because she wouldn’t eat a boy cookie. Or maybe she would –just to bite off its head. Are there girl-shaped cookie cutters? Is there a Mrs Cookie Cutter? And baby cookie cutters? Now I feel I am going slightly mad talking to a cookie cutter in my mind like some weirdo. At least you can’t tell anyone about this. (How many conversations have you overheard?) I just ate two cookies and forgot about the diet I’m supposed to be starting today, so don’t tell anyone about it. Just realized you don’t actually have a mouth so I think I’m safe! I picked you because you remind me of baking with and for my children. I like your colour, but I think you should be bigger, two bites and the cookie would be gone! I feel a mixture of emotions, almost like a cake batter, all sorts of ingredients are swirling around in the bowl. I feel sad, I feel hopeful, I feel the togetherness with my family but at the same time I feel lonely, I feel flat and I feel lost. If I were a cake, I would be a rainbow cake, it’s my children’s favourite. Also rainbows are happy things, aren’t they? I always smile when I see a rainbow. Rainbows are proof that it has to stop raining sometime or that the rain has stopped. My rainbow will show up on my release date.
Monday Morning
Monday morning in Hydebank. I am glad to get off the landing, I wasn’t going to attend but when I saw which officer was on, I decided to pack the sack and hit the track! Anyway, there is so much infighting, bickering, bitching, that it is good to be out for a while.
I always enjoy the walk through the garden as I feel I am walking to my own garden at home as a child. I love to see the stages the vegetables are at as I loved the anticipation of the freshness of them, not to mention pinching the peas, beans and the mouth-watering strawberries.
God, how I miss my children now, and what I would give to be part of their world. My life revolved around my children since I was seventeen years old. I was pregnant when I got married, worried when my daughters were teenagers that they would fall pregnant and now grieve that they are in their thirties and that neither of the girls have babies.
She’s in the next cell to me,She’s screaming but
No-one can hear,She’s hurting bad insideBut her arm hurts most,But nobody knows how
To help her,She only feels pain, anger
And hurt,I am a wall apart fromHer, covering my ears
With my hands,I wish that wall was
Not between us so that I could give her a big
Hug to stop her sobbing,I can’t,
There is nothing I can do for her,I think to myself.
We are brought into this Life made out of
Pure love and innocence,Though we leave this life
With so muchPain, anger and hurt.
Screaming
I’m from a farming background, the
middle one of five children. Money
was scarce and I was sent to live
with an Uncle and Aunt in Belfast,
50 miles from my home. My uncle
was not very pleasant to me and I
remember those five years away
from home as being a very
unhappy part of my childhood.
I grew up with nannies and garden boys, my
father was always building something or fixing
things. The hired help was always black and
although they were paid to work, we became
very close and fond of them, we would have to
as we were leaving our most valuable
possessions with them - our children
I came from a Catholic, working-class family.
My dad was a lorry driver and he worked all
the hours God sent to support us. My mum
was always at home for us though she did
work some part-time jobs. I vaguely
remember her working as a dinner
supervisor in my primary school canteen.
I was one of four children until my
youngest brother came along when I
was ten. I shared a room with my two
sisters and our space was divided up
by my sister who calculated to the last
millimetre what was hers and what
was ours. I remember rows about my
things being over the line.
Cultu
ral
Conn
ectio
ns
24/7(Group Poem I)
I feel like being in prison has Taken my identity away from me,
Everything seems so out of my Control. And prison tea tastes
Like dog’s breath, although I guess I Should be grateful for it.
There are twelve bars on the two small Windows in this room.
I miss my family so much I think of them twenty-four-seven.
I’ve learnt to appreciate small acts of Kindness in here, a
Smile, a roll-up, a friendly word: makes it bearable. I can hear the staff talking outside the classroom: “Is
he not on ‘til this afternoon?” (Male voice) Prison isn’t scary.
Prison is depressing. It is soul-destroying
And nobody leaves prison the same Person they were at arrival.
I never want to smell lemon gel again, or Eat spaghetti hoops, or jam rings. I can
hear a buzzer going off. Orange light flashing in the corridor now.
Out on Friday
Tired, anxious, could be getting out on Friday, scared I could
have to come back in. Happy because I could be back home with my family
who I have missed so very much. Tired, have not slept since I have been here,
not a proper sleep so tired and weepy at times the slightest wee thing and I would start crying.
I felt so proud when my daughter had her daughter. She went through so much pain and she didn’t moan and had such a beautiful child -that was the proudest day of my life that will always be with me ‘til the day I
die.
I think I have done well as a mum. I know my daughter misses me and can’t
wait ‘til I get out and pick up and be a family again. I want to get back to the me everyone
knows and loves and not this tired, weepy girl that has had four months taken from her
that I will never get back again.
My heroine(A modern fairy tale)
She has trouble speaking
Spanish; she will be helped
by the spirits of the ancient
Warriors. She has trouble with
a mad, bad temper. She will be
helped by doctors and nurses.
In the end, she becomes herself
again and realizes the true
meaning to life.
She is dark-haired and beautiful,
rosy cheeks and lips,
she has trouble with
giant, man-eating frogs but
she will be helped by
her own thoughts
and common sense.
In the end, she lives
happily ever after but
What a long struggle to make
her dreams come true!
She is brave and honest,
she has trouble thinking
straightforward. She will be
helped by her guardian angel who
has known her forever. She is
wearing gold earrings, she has
trouble understanding
things that are out of her control.
She will be helped by someone
she trusts and believes in.
In the end, she ended up
speaking German!
She is my foster mum. She has
trouble understanding me. She will
be helped by a gorgeous, well-
built male; in the end the frogs
explode and disappear forever
more!
Spoon: Yuck, I’m covered in muck lying here buried under a kitchen cloth. Smelly nasty cloth that always rubs too hard to dry me! Don’t they know I have sensitive skin? I can see my mates all neat and clean in a cup. Help!
Me: I need coffee. Where’s the spoon to stir it? Spoon: I’m here. Half buried under nasty cloth! I’m here! Me: Can’t find the spoon, it’s not in the cup...
Spoon: I’M HERE! DO YOU NOT SPEAK SPOON?! I’m going to try telepathy. I’m under the smelly cloth.
Me: Oh well, I guess I can stir my coffee with a fork. Hang on, maybe it’s on the counter somewhere?
Spoon: Yes! It’s working! UNDER THE CLOTH!! People are stupid. I understand them but I have to resort to telepathy!
Me: Oh, there you are, spoon. Under the cloth. Oh, this cloth needs washing.
Spoon: You think? Try sleeping rough under it the whole night.
Me: I can hear you! I must be mad, I’m talking to a spoon!
Spoon: You, you, you...snap out of it woman and get this nasty, smelly thing off me! How could you abandon me like that last night? I’m calling the Spoon Protection Helpline!
Me: I’m so sorry, spoon! Please forgive me! Let’s give you a wash!
Spoon: Soap in my eyes!
Teaspoon
Me: You don’t have eyes! Spoon: Well, if I did, there would be soap in them.
Me: Okay, I know you’re mad at me. I’ll never lose you again. Now let’s finish washing you.
Spoon: NOT COLD WATER! Do you shower in cold water?!
Me: Sorry, sorry...is that better, spoon?
Spoon: Mr Spoon, to you.
Me: Oh, stop it. Let’s get you dry.
Spoon: Clean cloth! And softly please. You dry me like a piece of cheese in the grater.
Me: Oh, do I? I’m sorry, I didn’t know. It’s good I talk spoon now, isn’t it?
Spoon: Oh, that’s better. Could you rub around my neck a bit as well? It’s all stiff from sleeping on the street.
Me: Fine. I guess you deserve it.
Spoon: You can say that again
Me: Listen, spoon. I really missed you last night. Funny how we don’t miss things til we lose them!
Spoon: You missed me?
Me: Yes, do you know what it’s like to eat your soup with a fork? I’ll never lose you again spoon.
Spoon: I hope you won’t. I sort of missed you too.
Contradictions
I am a happy person, but Sometimes I can’t find my happy
place.I am patient, yet My patience gets lost at times.
I am friendly, butPeople can be demanding,
causingMy friendliness to disappear.
I am kind, but kindness runs outWhen people take advantage of
it.
I am calm, but when I struggle toGet help I needAnger creeps in.
I am a good mum, butHe won’t let me be a mum
Tickles always
made
Me laugh,
Now they just
hurt
My sides.
Innocence was
happiness,
Now it’s hard to
trust.
I loved to dress
up in
Adult clothes
and
Pretend to be a
mummy.
I am now a
mummy.
I am a
Biromum!
I was shy now more open,Quiet on my own.I am now more expressive And happy in my zone.I felt unloved and Lonely and tried to endMy life. I'm now a very Happy Mum and a kind andCaring wife.
I was a carefree child,Afraid of nothing and soonBecame someone afraidOf a lot of things. I wasYoung and adventurous andThings didn’t seem to Change. As I grew up, theAdventures I tookErased my freedom.
Child Me Adult Me
I’m anxious and stressed, The washing-up powder box is Nearly empty, I can be a bitAnnoying and need to calm down; Control my bipolar and ADHD.Nutella chocolate does not melt.My in-laws are coming to visit.Life goes on as normal while You are incarcerated.
It’s coming up to theMemorial of my son.I was very ambivalent to learnI could be leaving prison this week.Lying in bed I felt really grateful,I’ve learnt to stop isolating myselfIn my cell.
I miss my kids and love themSo much and being in hereHelps their needs.I learnt that my daughter who isTwo and a-half years old knows the Alphabet. My flowers look really destroyed.The choir girls looked beautiful in their T-shirts.
In my cell (Group
Poem III)
Pieces published by Biromums Hydebank Wood 2014 Contributions from:Anna, Dawn, Geraldine, Janine, Joan, Josie, Katja, Linda, Mandy, Sherie ,Vicki and Ruth. Biromums would like to thankGeraldine Keenan and Carol Carser for their support.A special thank you also to Arran Ferguson and Anne Scullen for their help and suggestions with illustrating this publication.
Anna Morvern- Course FacilitatorBelfast Biro Mums
http://biromums.wordpress.com/
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