Monthly Archives: July 2014

The Bubble Pot

John and JoannaI met him quite by accident, although later
I’d concede that it was Fate, that tripartite
goddess alert to put a twist in things.
Spoke in the wheel. Bird in the bush.

Round about the caldron go;
in the poison’d entrails throw.

As if they cared tuppence what would
become of us. Those Weird Sisters.
Harsh Spinners. Maiden, mother, crone.
Witches, stirring at the bubble pot.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
in the caldron boil and bake.

He wrote to me, you see. That piece
out of my novel in the paper, the cat
in the next cell whose mother
looked up my address. All that.

Eye of newt, and toe of frog.
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog.

He asked me to come see him, and I came.
Lamb to the slaughter, peat to the flame.
It was, he told me later,
as though it had been planned.

Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing.

I had never been inside a prison
in my life. He had barely been outside.
So it was up to me to take that giant
leap across the tracks.

For a charm of powerful trouble,
like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

One small step, the spaceman said.
Moonwalker. Moontalker.
The moon is cold.
The witches’ brew is hot.

Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
then the charm is firm and good.

From An Innocent in the House of the Dead

John Lee in the Red Jump Suit of Death Row

John Lee in the Red Jump Suit of Death Row

 

DEATH ROW

He was an accidental package, thrown away
to float upon the surface of the world,
an obstacle, a mouth to feed,
the nuisance bastard of a rough man’s wife,
a punching bag, a dog to kick,
a pale-skinned black boy good for nothing
but to shove aside, to mock,
to stare at with that hard and silent
slow-neck-turning straight-on stare
that sees so little and yet says so much.

An ordinary story his, the giddy highs off gasoline,
the Bull malt liquor and Wild Irish Rose,
the swift onrush from foster home to foster home,
group home to group, as though he traveled
down a glass-slick tunnel with the four harsh
winds of fate exploding at his back,
his panicked hands flung out to seize
whatever shone along the way—a box of donuts
and an apple pie, a winter coat, a pair of shoes
with solid soles, a pack of socks, a watch, some bikes—

until a handgun, loaned out of his grandma’s purse
to a cat who called him cousin, friend,
slammed him, spread-eagled like a cartoon character,
against the tunnel’s silver-badged,
blue-uniformed dead end.
And then the slave-like hobbles, lost-child mug shots,
and the prison label black, ignoring half his ancestry,
the stunned astonishment at what he had become.
And after that, beneath a high, shrill,
ever-burning light, the long slow dirge
of days and years toward the needle’s fatal,
sympathetic slide into his arm.

John Lee & Prof. Gorman Gilbert

John Lee in the Red Jump Suit of Death Row

John Lee in the Red Jump Suit of Death Row

Why are we posting a series of episodes in John Lee’s imprisonment? We felt that it is vital for people to know the kind of man they are being asked to help. It is easy to hear the words “murder”, “death row”, “prison”, and have an image which is hard to overcome. Even with the lack of evidence against John Lee, the deals made with his accusers, the botched legal representation, sometimes it is still hard to see beyond them. Hopefully, these stories will help you to do that and move you to support the freedom of an innocent man.

Sister Ann was not the only one who helped John Lee educate himself. Here is what he told me about Professor Gorman Gilbert, a civil engineering professor at NC State University, in walking distance of the prison.

“After the passing of my beloved grandmother in nineteen ninety-four, I was going crazy. My family had abandoned me. I had no peace, happiness or love. All I could think of was my grandmother being gone, the only person who ever loved me, and all I had in this world. I needed help but I had nobody to turn to.

“So I asked this young lady who was working on my case at the time for help, and this is how I came to meet my father Gorman Gilbert.

“When Gorman came into my life, I had nobody to love me and cherish me and so when he came along and loved and cherished me and wanted to help me, to make me the best I could be in my situation, it was a shock. I couldn’t understand it. Nobody had ever done anything like that for me in my life before, and so it was very, very precious. I learned from him that color doesn’t matter when it comes to love.

“Me and Gorman . . . we had a bond. He was the first white person from the world to really do anything for me. He wanted to give to me. Anything I wanted he would give me and I didn’t even have to ask. He always wanted to buy books for me. Not ghetto trash like you call it. He sent books that were hard to read, he forced me to think. So I would read these books and he was willing to sit with me and listen and reason with me so that over the years what the writers were saying got into my head and educated me. Gorman taught me like a father. He made up for the one I never had.

“Even after he got Parkinson’s and went back to Oklahoma he still wrote me regularly, and he would get on a plane and fly to Raleigh and rent a car and come visit me.

“I could see him deteriorating right in front of my eyes. I’d tell him something and five minutes later he would have forgotten, and it got worse and worse. I told him, ‘You mustn’t be doing this. You mustn’t be getting on a plane. You mustn’t be driving a car. I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way just because you love me.’

“I still have mad love for Gorman, even though he doesn’t know me any more. It hurts me that I can’t be there to help him now he’s sick. A son is supposed to take care of his father when he’s old and sick.

“And now my sweet Sister Ann is getting old and forgetful too. I love her so, so much. If I am blessed with freedom, I want to go to Michigan so I can hug her and kiss her and say thank you for all she’s done for me before she dies. She and Gorman helped make me into the man I am today.”