Hydebank Wood
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 Morvern
Facilitator, Biromums
November 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 inside
But her arm hurts most,
But nobody knows how
To help her,
She only feels pain, anger
And hurt,
I am a wall apart from
Her, 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 much
Pain, anger and hurt.
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
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.
Cultural
things being over the line.
I came from a Catholic, working-class family.
Connections
I was one of four children until my
I’m from a farming background, the
middle one of five children. Money
I grew up with nannies and garden boys, my
was scarce and I was sent to live
father was always building something or fixing
with an Uncle and Aunt in Belfast,
things. The hired help was always black and
50 miles from my home. My uncle
although they were paid to work, we became
was not very pleasant to me and I
very close and fond of them, we would have to
remember those five years away
as we were leaving our most valuable
from home as being a very
possessions with them - our children
unhappy part of my childhood.
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)
What a long struggle to make
her dreams come true!
She has trouble speaking
She is brave and honest,
Spanish; she will be helped
she has trouble thinking
by the spirits of the ancient
straightforward. She will be
Warriors. She has trouble with
helped by her guardian angel who
a mad, bad temper. She will be
has known her forever. She is
helped by doctors and nurses.
wearing gold earrings, she has
In the end, she becomes herself
trouble understanding
again and realizes the true
things that are out of her control.
meaning to life.
She will be helped by someone
she trusts and believes in.
She is dark-haired and beautiful,
In the end, she ended up
rosy cheeks and lips,
speaking German!
she has trouble with
giant, man-eating frogs but
She is my foster mum. She has
she will be helped by
trouble understanding me. She will
her own thoughts
be helped by a gorgeous, well-
and common sense.
built male; in the end the frogs
In the end, she lives
explode and disappear forever
happily ever after but
more!
Teaspoon
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!
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, but
People can be demanding, causing
My friendliness to disappear.
I am kind, but kindness runs out
When people take advantage of it.
I am calm, but when I struggle to
Get help I need
Anger creeps in.
I am a good
mum, but
He won’t let me be a mum
Child Me
Adult Me
I was a carefree child,
Afraid of nothing and soon
Became someone afraid
Of a lot of things. I was
Young and adventurous and
Things didn’t seem to
Change. As I grew up, the
Adventures I took
Erased my freedom.
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 end
My life. I'm now a very
Happy Mum and a kind and
Caring wife.
In my cell
(Group Poem III)
I’m anxious and stressed,
The washing-up powder box is
Nearly empty, I can be a bit
Annoying 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 the
Memorial of my son.
I was very ambivalent to learn
I could be leaving prison this week.
Lying in bed I felt really grateful,
I’ve learnt to stop isolating myself
In my cell.
I miss my kids and love them
So much and being in here
Helps their needs.
I learnt that my daughter who is
Two and a-half years old knows the Alphabet.
My flowers look really destroyed.
The choir girls looked beautiful in their T-shirts.
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 thank
Geraldine 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 Facilitator
Belfast Biro Mums
http://biromums.wordpress.com/