ALABAMA PRISON ARTS + EDUCATION PROJECT
Kyes Stevens
FOUNDER/DIRECTOR, THE ALABAMA PRISON ARTS + EDUCATION PROJECT
Kyes Stevens is a poet from Waverly, AL who earned her MA in Women’s History and MFA in poetry from Sarah Lawrence College in NY. She is the founder and director of the Alabama Prison Arts + Education Project at Auburn University, and has been teaching poetry and literature in prisons for the past 15 years. She is also a co-leader in the Sustainability Study Abroad program through the College of Human Sciences at Auburn. Her poetry often explores places on the periphery of rural southern lands and peoples.
Through 15 years of teaching poetry in prisons and building the Alabama Prison Arts + Education Project, I find myself endlessly dwelling on confinement, art and the ability of humans to adapt and survive. I was transfixed by Ramirez when first introduced to his work by Brooke Anderson, and the awe and wonder has not diminished. He hardly spoke with words, Ramirez. He opened a world with his art. I keep thinking, what does he say, inside, to himself, to his family, to his home he cannot return to. These poems are an attempt to answer that.
Martin Ramirez, a Sequence
I. Tracks in Stacks on the Mountain
The crayon fits between
thumb and forefinger
a reign (would) rests there
back and forth razor
back drop flakes of red
down to a pile
snow on the mountain
tracks in stacks
left beside
the black cloud that
disappears in
back
and forth pull the brush
smooth the flank
tie the reigns to a tree
II. The Horse Had Wings
the horn lights
the path—the earth, it rumbles
I run from here on him
animal stretched
night stretched
to hear bells and chase
dreams
and what becomes of the light
when it moves
in the tunnel
shapes disappearing
I cannot
will not remember
the smell of Mexico
III. El Norte
from here, trains disappear
over mountains toward
invisible lines in the earth
marking like here, the earth
is mark, lines, veined,
given in parts to people
and taken from people
like silence singing from
church
the bells rock back and forth
and hooves distance
dust, memories
I remember her lips
and red
lines drawn like this
down the page
over the edge
to a train
to carry me back
IV. The Horse Does Not Understand the Mountain
it comes and goes
the tunnel
through the mountain
build it round
with red and yellow
flowers the sun the past
trapped behind my eyes
smelling of summer
winds distant from the sea
the arc expands the lines
hard
they will divide this
stop the movement
he stands stuck
frozen in a frame
on a stage
trying to figure
leaving how the cars
go and come
but there is no room
for hooves
to travel the dark
to disappear
in the mountain
V. Painting Is a Memory
the tape is from the ward
the nurse
the paper, scraps from Tomas
from the trash
metal bin
round like an open horn
the bits together
together and paste
glue
spit
oatmeal smeared
hold down paper
down
make it flat to spread
and fill orange lines
frame the horse
the sun sideways
Juana’s fingers knotted
rolling down
that little mountain
eyes in light
glistening, papa
VI. The Object
Into this pocket
the hand finds a tobacco pouch
and the familiar takes
place without much thought
a tight pack tip to end
the pull of the paper
a surround of white
over a gnarled and twisted mix.
The match struck
on this boot bottom
and dusk glows for a moment.
A heavy draw
then lean, the Virgin
of Guadalupe ignites
and I hear children
running, smell tortilla
beans. The match is so tiny
in this hands.
The object of light.