Thirteen Ways of Looking at Lumb Bank

I’ve been running a residential writing week for ex-offenders this week. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a group of people travel so far in such a short space of time. Writing can – and does – transform lives. Some of the participants were writing for their very survival. What the tabloids fail to mention is that people who end up in prison have often been victims of crime themselves – grooming by paedophiles, grooming by junkies and dealers, terrible violence within the home, terrible violence within the so-called care system. Imagine watching your mother or father dying of alcoholism. Imagine being rescued from an abusive situation only to end up in another one, except this time it’s run by people who know how to work the system. If you believe your life is worth nothing, then the chances are, you’ll behave as though it is.


But, here on Thursday night was a group of people reading poems about the magic of numbers, stories about runaways and dogs, poems about the death of a child, about being a bird, about space travel and hiding under the stairs, about beatings and falling in love. For some of them, these were the first stories and poems they'd ever written. It was also they first time they'd stood before an audience. I saw poise, humanity, conviction and absolute professionalism. There were some exquisite deliveries that held us rapt. They shone. This was more than survival. This was a celebration of life, even with all its horrors.




Thirteen Ways of Looking at Lumb Bank
Pat Winslow

---

1
Through a square of old glass

a new day.

2
In the kitchen, cooking ideas,

they bend to the task

with vigour

while the fox pads

between them.

3
The thrush has thirteen ways

of waking me up

and does it twice

which makes it twenty-six

or sometimes thrice

which makes it thirty-nine.

4
A fat black sheep

in the field decides to be

a fat black cat for a day

and stumbles at the first attempt.

5
I know a man

who can tell you

all about the number 23.

If you ask him,

he’ll probably tell you about 13

but he won’t do it twice.

6

The pen or the needle?

The bottle or the book?

If one could kill the other

what then?

7
The thrush outside my window

also has thirteen different ways

of disturbing a poem...

8
...

9

Bring bedsocks.

10

One night I counted

twelve mountain bikers

with halogen lights

one tawny owl

and the three stars of Orion’s belt

but I did not count the cigarettes

in the ashtrays the next day.

11
There were five magic beans.

We all ate them.

We were all responsible

for what followed

even if it did make us cry

and hold one another tight.

12
Stone and moss

and stone and wood

and stone and leaf

and stone and book

and book

and book

and book.

13
Packed bags

and toast crumbs

and a brand new key in every pocket.

Not the best poem I've ever written, but it's an immediate reaction and picks out some  memorable moments.

Here's a plug for the Writers in Prisons Network 
and another one for my co-tutor, Melvin Burgess