I read with great interest the other day a letter to the editor that said, in essence, the way to make children and teens less violent is to make incarceration less attractive. Dress them in frilly clothes, he said; video tape them doing stupid things, he said; make them write poetry he said.

Write poetry?

Yes, by all means make them write poetry, but as a reward not a punishment.

My young poets and I met again this week, including a newcomer, who has some severe learning disabilities. This remarkable young woman weeps shamelessly over all the ills and follies of this old misbegotten world.

As for herself, she says, ”I suffered a lot of real physical pain in my life, but the only real pain I ever felt for myself was the pain I received living with my mother.”

There’s poetry for you. There’s drama, there’s dealing with life and getting on with living. There’s beauty in a young woman’s face that was never told she was beautiful.

Then there was Jaime writing about friends who betray you, and how young girls (teens) want friends, any friends, and will stick around after the fact and even laugh it off, saying “It’s no big deal I’m a stupid honky, I am white trash, after all they are my friends, aren’t they?"

Jaime pulled a fast one here; she asked Kat to trade. "You read my poem and I’ll read yours.” This brought Kat to her knees in tears, because after all, this poem was about her, but this poem ended with, “You’re better than this, don’t let anyone ever put you so neatly in a corner. You are not white trash. You are you and good enough for anyone.”

Then came the discussion about Maya Angelou and “How come she is not part of black history month?" And someone said “Everyone used to say English is about dead white men, but I say black
history is about dead black men.”

And so came the discussion about the definition of history. Is it only about the past? We all voted for Black History - Past, -Present and Future.”

And then Jamey (a different Jamey) couldn't find the right word to end his poem, and we came up with syncopation. Wow, what a POW that word was in that poem.

Judy P. said writing keeps her sober and read a poem that said “The heart is a muscle that cannot break.”

And then Smokey came tearing into the room, saying “I wrote this, this morning. I have to read this right now.”

And he did, and it was about the success and failures of black men.

Then Cresha, who is pregnant, read to us all, and the beauty of the words just hung in the air like a mirage.

And Jamey said the most powerful weapons in the world are "a pen and paper.” So we all took pen and paper and made a Mandela dedication to peace.

And then we went home, leaving all those words and emotions in a locked room waiting to spring out at whoever comes into that room with poetry in their mind.