Sean Donoher

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THE ROSE GARDEN

By Sean Donoher, HM Prison Garth

Ampitheatre of aroma.

Burning dew, intoxicating vapour.

Offering to sensations,

Floral breakfast.

Paranoid bench seats one.

Angst ridden heavy coat.

Pocket Lao Tzu mocking.

Eden with personal serpent.

Guardians on natural valium.

Motes in sun, dance.

Birds hushed by cathedral.

Worlds breaks through in whispers.

Busy bees enter brain,

Designing interior nightmares.

Sunburnt mark of Cain.

Bootlace redemption screaming.

Mist filled sunken garden,

Memory an ethereal see-saw.

Nirvana stained with monsters.

Karma offers knife or cloud

The blog just realised that this year’s best Koestler artwork (and still my screensaver) had an accompanying poem of the same title in the written works category. Sean Donoher really owned this year’s competition, and although this effort was kinda overlooked, it had probably the best line of all: Paranoid bench seats one. Alicia Stubbersfield (poet and judge) had no time for this though, saying he should have started the poem from there. Garth is a lifer’s prison by the way, so that’s quite sad, but take nothing away from his talent. He’s been man enough to put his name on his work publicly. Anonymous rings alarm bells. Personally, anyone going by the name anonymous should not win. And a poem should not win over prose. But there you go. ATD don’t make the rules. I just [try] to judge. Sean, at time of writing, has no idea he is featured here. Much like an author has no idea when someone reads his or her book when he or she is brown bread (dead).

Below is verse from a long and disturbing poem done 5½ years ago. See the similarity between Donegan and Donoher? Writing like this is where it all began. Quick-fire ideas, three-word lines, 4 word verses, bam.

At market stalls

In shopping malls

Upheavals in cathedrals

Demons wonder medieval 

Easily defeated

From inside unseated

A single word ‘Nooo!’

Conquers it so

But once in its grip

The balance is tipped

Foreseeing years ago

Our destiny’s flow

Panel Discussion

I was on a panel for the Arts Alliance back in March, hosted by Tim Robertson (above), Chief Executive for The Koestler Trust, in the Contemporary Urban Centre, Liverpool. To my relief and delight I was alongside author and prison education extraordinaire Pat Lemsatef who I got to know back in 2007. I couldn’t have read the script back then that I would be speaking alongside her in the future. I give her full credit for my first ‘career earnings’ from writing.

Also alongside was best-selling author and poet John Siddique. He confidently assumed a central seat. He surprised people in the room by saying he was against self-expression in some respects, admitting that he wasn’t too fond of any old wannabe artist “squirting their smallness all over him.” This comment had me fighting off the giggles which I couldn’t afford to let consume me. That’s the thing with giggles though – they are only giggles if people are looking and you shouldn’t be laughing*. Afterwards, John and I had a private conversation, and it was the most I have ever engaged with a professional writer. I'm pleased to report that we both refrained from squirting our smallness all over each other!

My heart was beating so much when it was almost my turn to speak that I thought it was visible through my shirt. I wished I had worn a T-shirt underneath. I was sure they could see it thumping away. Taking deep breaths didn’t help. It was out of control. This was only my second ever public speaking engagement about writing, and the 1st one had been over a year ago. But once the ball got rolling it was okay, and I remembered saying something along the lines of “Art is the difference between getting up in the morning and rolling back over.” I thought this one dreary morning after a ruff ole night and the idea really resonated with me, but I never made a mental note to say it in the future. It just came out live, from memory, on the spur.

A Cambridge student in the audience, Daniella Elson-Drummond, has agreed to quote this line from me to open her thesis with. I feel like I have flicked a chink of my soul out there and she has caught it in her little skilled hand. Great, great stuff. Subsequently, completing the questionnaire she has since devised for me as part of her studies was a unique opportunity to write about myself in an open, informative fashion. It was once suggested by a medical professional that I figure in some university studies, when I was a teenager, and I declined. Not this time, baby.

Also in the audience to ease my nerves were Sarah Grainger-Jones and Catherine Chamberlain, who have both helped me within the Koestler. And I must say that it was a real booster to see playwright Dean Stalham present, of Art Saves Lives, because Art Really Does Save Lives.

I’m not one for blowing my own trumpet, because I need another couple of inches to do that, or a rib removed, heehee – no, the object of this post, the hidden gem, is apparent below. You see, the pretty young lady standing in the bottom photo (who just so happened to be Pat Lemsatef’s daughter) is asking a question which is then addressed onto me, and I was too busy with my camera to fully absorb it all. I therefore had to pretend like I had heard the whole question and not just the last bit and give a half-assed answer in return. I nearly had slimy undercooked egg on my face and I felt like a right drill bit. I was so busy taking back some of the experience via my turdy antique camera that it almost backfired. Lesson learned.

l The moral of this post then is to just enjoy some opportunities. Too often these days we are recording things with our phones and cameras, and we are in danger of missing the woods for the trees. We are like dogs peeing on every lamp post on the block. Some things need to be savoured, without pictures, without tweets, without distractions. Some moments demand our rapt, undivided attention, because they don’t last long, and they are easy to miss l

Take nothing but memories. Kill nothing but time. Leave nothing but footprints.

*Giggles are living. Giggles are life. I can't wait for the next set. Let them erupt, let them rip, because that's all we have, our laughs and our cries.

Koestler Fiction Visuals

Digital Accompaniments for some of this year's best short fiction

I prefer to devour a short story in a single sitting to take it in properly. Some of them might take you along into the tale from start to finish, so you become familiar with the narrator/writer/characters (Erwin James is this kind of author – it’s like being a kid and sitting on Granddad’s lap as he reels off an engaging saga). Others might lose you in the first paragraph but leave you with a single lasting image or impression come the last.
Prison writing, eh? The bad are very bad, but the good are awesome. I get the feeling that some of the KOESTLER entries were written besides cell bunk beds by individuals screaming out their intent quietly through a pen onto the page, tight lipped, soul burning. They are trapped in a place (mentally and physically) where their best option is to let the ink flow, full steam ahead, with turmoil and/or passion on tap and enough time to channel it into something constructive. Something talented. Something meaningful.
Prisoners and secure patients are forgotten about in society. Lock them up, shut them away, out of sight, out of mind. That’s how we like it. This is them reminding us that they are still there, in a structured, disciplined, creative fashion. They are given an annual opportunity by Koestler to dump their artistic voices out into the airwaves and I have privileged access on the other end of a direct line.
Forget Dickens and Shakespeare. This is the kind of dynamic stuff that I’d much rather be reading. People hurling their voices at you from whatever cycle of oppression or retribution they happen to be in; desperate voices, calm voices, demanding to be heard, coated in adjectives, sprinkled with verbs.

“Writing is all I have, a lament and a boast.”

William Orlando

...so impressed with the top stories...had to arrange these visuals to accompany them...live on a little longer...

Art Till Death

Koestler Judging Preview

This year, the exhibition in Royal Festival Hall London was curated by Victims of Crime. Last year it was by prisoners themselves and next year it will be Magistrates.

Piebald77 will provide the winners with visual accompaniments to their stories in 2010. This type of representational artistic feedback must be a first of its kind.

~

Only two more stories left to read and comment on for this year's northwest Koestler fiction entries. So far, it's taken about 10 hours to get through them. The short stories range from Risley, Liverpool, Preston, Manchester, and Ashworth hospital, among others. I get the feeling most of them are by younger prisoners and patients. The content ranges from the war in Afghanistan to the more predictable themes of crime, loss, separation, drunkenness and the like. What has genuinely surprised me is how 'downright nice' some of the stories are. Writing for children is obviously very popular in prison, as you can imagine how many fathers are detached from their children.

~

The quality is a mixed bag, but nothing is poor or very poor. The good stuff is really good and I am learning tricks myself, which goes to show. It's odd how I have now judged far more pieces of work than I may possibly ever have judged myself! I've only ever received feedback on a couple of my stories, and one judge in particular said that she DIDN'T HAVE A CLUE what was going on! She even underlined CLUE!

~

My role is to encourage, and not deter a single person from wanting to fill their time with such a productive activity. I am honest though. Last year I told a guy I thought his writing was too conservative, which I regret. It's not his fault my own stuff is off the radar! Because I write what I want to, I therefore must like what I write, so if someone has a similar style to mine, I tend to like that too, and if someone doesn't, I most probably don't. It's subjective, of course.

~

For years I've wondered what people meant by a WRITER'S VOICE. I once got told I didn't have an original voice and it addled my brain. Now I know. It's when one work in particular is screaming at you above the rest.
~

So, 2 left to read (luckily, this year's entrants have been mercifully short - not everlasting first chapters of novels in double-sided scrawl like last year), and unless they impress, I have the top 3 places sewn up, and most of the partnering illustrations done (be about 6 in all).

~

http://www.koestlertrust.org.uk/

Cups - results

Inside Art

Titles from top:

Molten Outreach, by Serb Zero and Hubble telescope.

Assorted personalities in a drug induced wisteria reality, by Steve Twigg, Ye Hao Yan and Anonymous person.

My Art Teacher before Prism Negative 1, by Lee Timperley and Anonymous person.

Portrait of Queen Elizabeth II within Earthly Delight, by Paul M'Kali and Anonymous person.

These are reproduced from the 2010 official Koestler handbook. Koestler is the UK's biggest and best Arts Charity, and a Godsend for any creative person behind bars, or for anyone in a secure unit. It expanded to Manchester for the first time this year, previously exclusive to London and Edinburgh, and exhibited in the Holden Gallery, a university area full of hip babes and funky chicks, which I adore. What gets me though is how people remain anonymous, and allow a cool piece of work to go out without a name. Sometimes, when 'in the zone', I feel like I have to sign my toilet roll before I flush it (I even use ink now and again). Men are like dogs, spraying their scent all over the show and claiming pockets of territory to stick a sign on. We dream of our names in big letters. I don't understand 'Anon'. Make up a pen name!

Note: The above images are mixtures of 7 separate entries.

JENNY (my valentine)

I did some voluntary work over Christmas that involved reading some creative writing from people in secure mental health institutions, and I think I came across a gem. Not in the quality of the poem to follow, but because of who I suspect wrote it. I’ve actually been inside a secure unit myself, when visiting a friend, Clarence, back in college, and I’m 90% convinced that one girl in particular I met there, on a number of occasions, was the same girl whose entry I read for this years Koestler competition. Same Christian name, same hospital……I think it is her. There is no way of checking, but in my mind I will make it her anyway, for my own pleasure. Although I’m sure I don’t have to.

Although I was there to see Clarence when I found myself inside one of these institutions, it was actually Jenny who I was most interested in laying eyes upon. Clarence didn’t need me, he was having a great time playing darts with and taking the piss out of a pyjama-clad slobbering nutter from Ireland. Her room was just by the table where we sat. We weren't in a visiting room, oh no, but right there in the middle of the ward. Dangerous. Clarence wasn’t on the high-risk floor, but you still had to watch your back. The slobbering nutter, to me……(this might be difficult to explain, but here goes)……okay, the slobbering nutter looked like he felt he was armed, with those darts. That’s it. He looked like he felt like he was armed. Hence I didn’t play. I just sat watching Clarence act like he was still down the youth club.

The first room I would see whenever I came onto the ward would be ‘Jenny’s’ room. The door was always open. The window was always open. She was always fully-dressed in brown corduroy pants and a heavy red wool pullover. She always had a small porcelain angel on her table, and she was always sat on the edge of her bed, hands resting on her knees, staring out the window. She had short thin dark hair, kind of like a big fluffy flattop brushed forward, and thick-rimmed specs. She never moved, like a statue, peaceful.

Whenever I left I would see her turn at the last minute, as if she had made a note to say goodbye but saw me too late in the corner of her eye. I never had the courage to retreat a couple of footsteps and lean back to smile or say hi. Until the last time I was there, when I knew Clarence would be getting out, and I would not be coming back. Then I stuck my head in and said, “Bye, Jen.”

The look. That look on her face. The warmest expression I’ve ever seen. So welcoming and hopeful. So warm. Not a single haunt or shadow in it. From a block of concrete to animated light. She edged further along the bed as if expecting me to sit down next to her, which my stupid idiot self didn’t do. I’d always wondered why Jenny was in such a place, as she looked perfectly normal, but now I could see how her arms were horribly disfigured. There were tidy blocks of neat slash marks, as if she was counting the days of every month and ticking them off in her flesh.

She explained, apologetically, embarrassingly, “Days without masturbating.” Then it was time to go. A nurse was telling me to leave the room. So I did, saying bye again. Jen said goodbye back. And that was it.

Not much of a verbal exchange by any means, but there was so much of a connection deep within I still feel it to this very day, and often wonder if she still ever thinks of me. She was so pretty and gentle, so delicate and soft in nature. I could tell immediately, within seconds; it was in her aura. She would never harm a fly, or a soul, but inside I could not imagine the complexity of whatever turmoil felt it necessary for her own hand to guide blade over skin. And yet I wanted to know every detail. I wanted to fix her. The bad part was knowing for sure in my heart that I could fix that girl. The even worse part was believing that she would have actually liked me to fix her.

A Trip to the Shops by Jenny

I unpeel myself from bed and dress
Then realise I forgot to wash
I face the morning with empty guts
Treading warily as if lost

Taxis, wagons, planes and trains
Assault my senses in the light
Counting pennies in preparation
Groggy from my medication

I stand in the queue for things I need
And I cannot breathe
It is rush hour beyond the automatic doors
My will is melting through my pores

Chocolate and cola until I am sick
Then water and today’s fresh drugs
Radio and telly till midnight comes
Take me away if this is my home