Marked Men***(revised) Options

[RC James]

Through my fingers, as I kneel
to splash my face in the creek,
figures in stripes bend in labor
over rake and hoe in the field.

Unrelenting furrows confirm the ache
of forever in the inmates’ minds.
Indelible black stripes slash
white shirts and pants disarranging hope,
crossing out any advent of aid or mercy.

In files at sundown, they are spent,
rigid, mostly black, their lives abraded
by the uniform stripes as surely
as the creek erodes the stones beneath.




(original)

From the distance of the creek
the figures rise like tiny zebras;
they stand on hind legs and move
their front legs in lethargic rhythm.

Unrelenting, the furrows explore distance,
like the ache of a confirmed forever
that lacerates the minds of the inmates here,
hoes in hand, white caps, shirts and pants
slashed hard with indelible black stripes
that disarrange hope. Marked so, the sky
won't send down, soon, any aid or mercy.

They stand in files at sundown, they are spent,
rigid under the threat of the captain’s whip.
They are mostly black, and the uniform stripes
abrade their lives as surely as the currents
of this creek erode the stones beneath.

[Luce]

Brief glimpse of a prison crew at work. I've seen them in their black/white striped uniforms clearing rubbish along intersections and major suburban streets.

My encounters are surprisingly ordinary. There's no menacing guard with mirrored glasses, rifle and/or whip at the ready on horseback.

There's just an armed guard by the van, his arms folded, watching the prisoners as they work. There're no leg irons. When I pass by them, usually the guard and some prisoners smile and wish me good morning.

From the distance of the creek
the figures rise like tiny zebras;
they stand on hind legs and move
their front legs in lethargic rhythm.

I get the comparison of the zebras because of the black/white striped prison uniforms. But, the hind legs/front leg lines don't really work for me. It could be because I don't know what the prisoners are doing by the creek. If what they're doing makes them get on all fours, then that needs to be a little clearer for the reader to make a clear connection between the zebras rising and the prisoners rising on their feet.

Unrelenting, the furrows explore distance,
like the ache of a confirmed forever
that lacerates the minds of the inmates here,
hoes in hand, white caps, shirts and pants
slashed hard with indelible black stripes
that disarrange hope. Marked so, the sky
won't send down, soon, any aid or mercy.

It reads like a journalist describing a chain gang. I think you need to say something more, something deeper in a poetic way. Right now it just sounds prosey. However, I do like the phrase "disarrange hope".

They stand in files at sundown, they are spent,
rigid under the threat of the captain’s whip.
They are mostly black, and the uniform stripes
abrade their lives as surely as the currents
of this creek erode the stones beneath.
Luc
"Threat of the captain's whip" is a bit cliché. Not that it hasn't happened but we've heard the phrase too often in movies, TV, etc. Maybe the Warden's or guard's displeasure instead. It's a more subtle reference to physical punishment.

Unfortunately this stanza too sounds more like prose than poetry. With a little editing, it can sound like poetry. For example:

They stand in files at sundown spent.
Rigid, under constant threat of the whip. Their
prison stripes abrade their lives
like the currents of the creek that erode
the stones beneath.

Luce