John Corley’s poem, “Kaleidoscope Reprise,” won a second prize in poetry in this year’s PEN Prison Writing Award for poetry. That poem, along with “Servitude,” a prize-winning essay by Corley, will be published in the forthcoming 2024 edition of the PEN Prison Writing Awards Anthology.

The Lens is pleased to publish “Kaleidoscope Reprise” here and his essay, “Servitude,” here.

What is your writing process like? When and where do you get your writing done?

Writing is my life. During more than 20 years as a staff writer and editor with The Angolite, I have published almost 350 criminal justice and human interest articles and sectionals in the magazine alone. I love the job and am passionate about our publication.

Ideas for stories and poems outside the job come as they please, without prior notice or warning, many times as I am awaiting sleep to overtake me at the close of day. I keep paper and pen with me at all times because, like the most dynamic dreams, creativity is as wispy as Louisiana mist and dissipates quickly if not seized. I write in my dormitory, the news office, on the recreation yard—wherever I may be when creativity comes calling.

In your poem “Kaleidoscope Reprise,” the speaker of the poem works as an prison lawyer, and describes a collage of characters inside the prison — some who want his help on their cases. Have you worked as an inmate counsel? If so, has that work shaped your understanding of prison and the criminal legal system?

Yes, from 1998 until 2004 I was assigned by the Legal Programs Department as inmate counsel substitute, first with the Civil Litigation Team and then with the Closed Cell Restriction (segregation) Team. Prior to that I earned an associate’s degree in paralegal studies that gave me a broad overview of American law. After I was convicted I delved deeply into Louisiana law, to discover how I wound up with a life sentence and what I could do about it.

My years as counsel here expanded my knowledge of the mechanics and application of the law, and presented a window into the minds of my clients who may or may not have, in my opinion, deserved the punishment meted to them. I also learned that the prison’s internal disciplinary system is far more judicious on paper than in reality.

“My memory clock-click-click STOPs at 1989” you write. Your memories are “now idealized, stylized, idolized but/ probably as much production as reality,” but you “keep them alive/so I won’t disappear.”  How does your memory change when you go to prison? 

Everything you have known your entire life ceases to exist. Freedom becomes a closed chapter, and for the remainder of your incarceration, that former life blooms in memories as it was once upon a time.

In my memories, my loved ones are still young and vibrant and the paths I traversed and establishments I frequented remain as they were only yesterday. Except, 35 years have passed.

Loved ones have moved on, withered, died. The old haunts have given way to modern infrastructure. Technology I considered cutting edge is now archaic and obsolete. Yesterday there were no cellphones iand internet today, life demands these things. Everything I knew and loved terminates at 1989, the year I fell. In my mind I still live there, a make-believe person in a make-believe world.

You describe “the bug” — presumably a reference to COVID-19 — taking over the prison. “Every time we coughed we fell dead/ The virus was everywhere.” Can you describe what that time was like for you? Did you get sick? What measures of precaution were you able to take to keep yourself safe?

I think we were all sick at one time or another — most of us were simply asymptomatic. We wore the masks, washed our hands, kept our distance … But where will you hide in prison? What corner is immune from the germs our keepers bring in with them? Check out the article I wrote for The Atlantic, published online in April 2023, that describes the pandemic inside the state penitentiary. The Angolite also provided extensive coverage.

Covers of the Angolite from the spring and summer of 2020 (JSTOR).

Through your descriptions and the use of Kaleidoscope in your title, your poem has some aspects of almost a crazy funhouse. Does the prison often seem nuts to you? How do you stay sane in that atmosphere?

Prison is definitely a nuthouse. Most of the insanity spews from the people who are incarcerated only by their own incompetence, whose state-sanctioned dominion would be laughable if it were not so insulting. The key to self-preservation is, Never sweat the small stuff, and remember it’s all small stuff.

As you describe, work in some ways seems central to prison life. But much of it, especially the fieldwork, is forced labor. Tell us how the pecking order works — what jobs are sought-after and which are the most dreaded?

People get in where they fit in. Few want to work the fields, but for some chronic miscreants field work has become second nature. Years ago, jobs like The Angolite and inmate counsel substitute were the highest-paying at 20¢/hr., most respected and coveted occupations. Now, social and vocational mentors, sign language interpreters, qualified paralegals—anyone with a certification—all make up to a dollar an hour. Big money in the pen.

Angolite staff are on call 24/7 and spend roughly 16 hours a day in the office writing, researching, designing, and laying out the magazine. Staffers traverse the penitentiary almost every day, including weekends and holidays. There are only three who do the leg work and put it all together, because journalists make the same 20¢/hr. ($8/wk.) they made 30 years ago, and that won’t even buy a pound of ground coffee.

These days, it’s not so much about the job, it’s about the money. (See, “The 13th Exception,” The Angolite, Nov./Dec. 2023)

What does it mean to you to be a PEN award winner?

It’s an honor. I have been privileged to win five PEN awards for poetry, fiction, drama, and essay writing since 2006. More than any other, the PEN organization gives voice to the voiceless, and notifies the world that incarcerated people have redeeming value through the written word. I love PEN and its wonderful staff who inspires us all.

The Angolite has built an impressive reputation. Tell us what stories you’re most proud of under your leadership?

All of them. Every article or blurb, whether I author it or not, has my editorial fingers all over it, and I am humbled to meet the huge responsibility to our readers. I am partial to historical articles, and original reporting eclipses derivative reporting, but I am proud of everything we produce. Every article is important, has something to say, shines a light on prison, criminal justice, or the human condition.

In 2019, our outside researchers and I produced a 5-part history of the Angola media, the only one of its kind. I have written histories of musical concerts here, the death penalty in Louisiana, and more. Prior to COVID, I pitched a book-length collection of historical articles previously published in The Angolite to DOC underlings, but received only the cold shoulder in response.