Today’s writing inspiration comes from Mo Dorsey. She is a reading specialist at Homewood School District 153 and the librarian of Little Free Library on Landings Lane.
Inspiration
Childhood is a magical time for many of us, but certainly not all of us. Write a poem in which you paint a picture of your childhood for the reader.
Process
What was your childhood like? How would you describe your hometown to someone who’d never been there? What was your household like? Brainstorm a list of memories from your childhood. Which moments, places, sounds, smells, sights resonate with you? In your descriptions, focus on poetic language such as simile, metaphor, imagery or onomatopoeia. Write an “I Am From” poem that shows the reader who you really are.
*Where I am From by George Ella Lyon has inspired similar poems for years. Check out the I Am From Project for more poems. Imagine the discoveries your students will make about themselves, one another, and people living beyond their neighborhoods in these materials. And here is a template that supports writers in accessing details.
Mo’s Poem
I am from the clamor and clatter of
doors slamming shut and creeping open.
I am from, “Whose shoes are these?!?” and
“Hurry up and get to the table!”
I am from suburbia, where everyone knew me
and I knew everyone.
I am from nightly dinners at the kitchen table
seated on the bench
made for three little ones.
I am from Ryan’s Trick Shop, where we would
all buy Swedish Fish for a quarter
on Fridays
on the way home from school.
I am from freshly cut grass and
burning leaves assaulting our nostrils.
I’m from the unrelenting BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ of the
17-year cicadas
desperately trying to attract a mate before it’s too late.
I am from a house with one bathtub,
two toilets, and 22 hands
pounding on the bathroom doors
each fighting for a few moments of privacy.
I am sympathy and trust and care and love
And, “I got you, no matter where you are or what you need.”
I am from DonLorettaSteveBrianChrisTommyTimmyBillyBobbyArMo.
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you today, that is fine– make-up your own prompt or a twist on this one. All writing is welcome. Please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Below are some suggestions for commenting with care. Oh, and a note about edits: The comment feature of this blog (and many blogs) does not permit edits. Since we are writing in short bursts, we all are understanding (and even welcome) the typos that remind us we are human.
I am from a small town
with people on every corner
shouting as you pass by
“Hey aren’t you so and so’s little sister?”
I am from Kansas
with sights of wheat fields
hills to roll down
and flatlands for miles
I am also from a big city
where the streets are filled
traffic is booming
and the nightlife is always active
I am from Tulsa but also OKC
the metropolis of Oklahoma
I know them both
half of me belongs to Oklahoma
I am from the lake
where summers were peaceful
full of family
plus the only constant home I had
I am from Ketchum
where I learned to swim
and played every card game
where I always made breakfast with my Papa
I am from a tight-knit family
where love was always there
where morals were enforced
and everyone tried to be equal
I am from the lord
where I go to church every Sunday
where I place my life
where I run to
I am from my friends
where we talked about boys/celebrities
and did our nails every night
where we poured our hearts out
I cannot place exactly where I am from
because there is no exact place
I am from everywhere and everyone
everything made me who I am
Brittany, I love the variety of places that have shaped you into you. I like how you sructured your poem so that the last four stanzas aren’t tied to any one place, but they really show us who you are.
Mo, I love the sheer volume of humans that inhabit your home – sounds of doors, all those hands, the unified name at the end. Finding a space to be alone must have been a rarity.
I am from St. Ann’s Catholic school – specifically Sister Ernestine’s third grade class. She wasn’t near as nice as Ms. Vessio in second grade. She had a moustache.
I am from a game of pennies against the back wall. Closest penny wins them all. Magic if you could stand one up against it!
I am from a school where gambling was frowned upon.
I am from scuffed dress shoes filled with sand after long-jump competitions during recess.
I am from ripped-knee, blue corduroy uniform pants and baby blue polos.
I am from two city buses and a big leather pouch full of dimes. Mom won them in a slot machine in Nevada.
I am from twenty-five cent bags of mint chocolate sandwich trimmings from Cumming’s chocolate shop where we stopped on the way home from school.
I am from rain-soaked sidewalks teeming with earthworms and snails.
I am from piles of wet gloves and moon boots drying next to the radiator.
I am from carefree days full of games and sugar and bicycles and early morning cartoons.
I love this Shaun! This line – She had a mustache. – made me chuckle.
It never ceases to amaze me how my I am from.. piece changes every time I write a new one.
As I read yours, it gave me ideas for things I left out of the one I posted yesterday.
(7th Grade Me)
I am from dirt roads and beagle hounds
Shrimp, Skeeter, Candy
I am from aunts who drive your school bus and
borrowing water from your nearest neighbor.
I am from country stores with penny candy and post offices inside
From plucking turtles out of Grandpa’s tomatoes every morning
From snap and purple hull
I am from two-tone Ford Rangers
that drive you across the country when your mom goes to jail.
I am from avocado trees and silver bicycles
The sound of waves crashing and
Fireworks over the ocean
I am from aunts who sell powder out of toolboxes in their closet.
I am from Martha White Blueberry Muffins
And learning to flip an omelet from the pan
From six beds to a room,
three cousins
and one sister
From mint and chip ice cream birthday cake with black icing
From birthday parties that end in accusation.
I am from matriarchs and paranoia
from COPD and “I want to retire back home”
I am from 1972 Custom Deluxe Chevys
with camper shells that can fit twenty people.
I am from here now, I guess.
“I am from here now, I guess,” kind of says it all. That’s sort of how my poem ended, too. Tentatively. All of the things we have been have led us to what we are now. So important to recognize them and you do in a raw way that really hit me in my heart. Thanks for sharing.
I’m from Steve’s Kingdom:
From “White nationalists, white supremacist, Western civilization — how did that language become offensive?”
From “What if we went back through all the family trees and just pulled out anyone who was a product of rape or incest? Would there be any population of the world left if we did that?”
From “We can’t restore our civilization with somebody else’s babies.”
From embarrassment
I am from striving:
From dialing D.C. outraged
From grassroots campaigns, organizing, calling, and door-knocking
From hope that change was coming
From the closest race in years
I am from Iowa’s 4th District:
Where immigrants are first loves in grade school, friends, and important community members
Where women’s rights are important and matter
Where progress is coming
THANK YOU! I, too, am from the 4th District and echo what you have bravely said here. Change is a’coming.
*snaps snaps snaps* I’ve read this four times now. “Where immigrants are first loves in grade school” is the loveliest contrast to the vitriol Steve spews. Thank you for this.
Rachelle— I SOO appreciate your outrage. I feel it as well. You’ve tapped my Sista-ness in being right there with you on these issues, this heartbreaking mess we witness each day. Stay strong! Persist in voicing your rage. Thank you, Susie
Have you seen this? NPR is inviting us to submit our “Where I am from” poems!
https://www.npr.org/2019/08/19/748776222/memories-of-home-share-yours-as-a-poem? utm_term=nprnews&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=npr&fbclid=IwAR38JzWSUmnD9Ety1jirvL_GKp5-9jgppWFMaC7fWKwP3RR1HiSSu3nNCUU
Oh shoot! The submission window closed tonight. #CelebrateGoodTries
Let’s rattle their cages in March and they can take our submissions for the April Poetry Month celebration!!
Whoa!!! That’s awesome!!!
Day #3!
I am from books and pens and paper,
from words and shouts and laughter.
I am from frijoles negros, rice, spices,
sweet plantains and chicken soup.
I’m from arroz con pollo and congris,
and flan.
I am from the white sands and clear waters of Varadero Beach and the palm trees blowing in the gentle breeze.
I’m from Noche Buena and family cuddles.
I’m from Gino and Nunu and Mayway and the Nini.
I’m from selfies, delicious dinners and family trips from hell.
I’m from my father’s smile and
my grandfather’s strength.
I’m from birthday morning songs.
I’m from Cuba and Eastern Europe and
Turkey and who knows where else.
I am from many places
and from nowhere.
“Who knows where else” ain’t that the truth!? Your opening lines hooked me right away.
All those delicious foods! I love how this poems appeals to all my senses!
Oh my goodness! When I saw this post this morning, I laughed out loud! I chose this as my first week activity for this school year. I LOVE IT! It gives me such insight into their lives, as well as, giving them the ability to learn part of mine. It really helps us learn that we are not alone, even across generations. This year, I wrote one channeling my inner seventh grader, one I would have written then. I honestly believe that a large part of why I am here is to help kids realize that they can use education to rise above their situation. I I’m not going to have time to post mine today, but I will tomorrow!
Such a busy time of year! We’ll look for yours tomorrow.
I am from
angry Sunday mornings
always late to
First United Meredith Church
we called it, since Meredith
seemed to run the place.
She popped a pot roast in the oven
then scolded the five of us into the station wagon.
Dad drove.
We hissed and bickered our way
into the domed sanctuary
where we squirmed
and pestered our way
through the doomed sermon.
Sunday school was
its own purgatory.
Is it any wonder I lost my saints,
find salvation in words
and fling poems at the little pot-bellied gods?
Wow! Losing saints and finding salvation in words. Well said.
Allison – Your shoes have walked some very complicated miles. As I read this out loud, I heard myself stumble over “domed” and “doomed” and recognized that was not a stumble. You have unveiled the “lost saints” and I am with you, understanding you, and wanting this to carry us both to the higher ground of honesty and the integral sense of who we are. This is a precious piece. Dang, girl, we are sure to find 20 minutes of shared time on your front porch. Thank you, Susie
Allison, I admire your ability to capture universal themes with your own specific and personal journey. I have written a lot about this subject, but you seem to effortlessly capture moments, loaded emotions, and questions with few words.
This reminds me of how when confessing my sins at the start of a service, I used to say “I am hardly sorry for them” instead of “I am heartily sorry for them.” Boy was I surprised when I learned how to read 🙂 Your final stanza keeps turning around in my brain and has me wanting to spend more time writing on this topic (which I mostly avoid).
I love how you took this prompt and made it your own! Isn’t that what we want our students to do? Sometimes I’m too rigid in having students follow a pattern, even though I know that doesn’t often work; a prompt is just an idea, a spark to get us writing. Rule follower, am I? Your poem is a great reminder of how we can take someone else’s idea and produce something more beautiful.
Mo,
I can certainly relate to this….I am from a house with one bathtub,
two toilets, and 22 hands
pounding on the bathroom doors
each fighting for a few moments of privacy.
One bathroom, one toilet, two sinks, 14 hands.
I’m not alone! ❤️ But then again, I never was growing up!
I am homemade and hand-me-down clothes,
I am new shoes in the spring,
I am egg gatherer, pea picking, corn shucking.
I can hear the mooooo’s of the cow,
I can see to far off lands from the top of the chinaberry tree,
I can taste the warm water from the garden hose.
I can walk down the road in Arkansas
And back again in Texas,
Wooo Pigs! Hook ’em Horns!
I can hear the piano playing,
Singers singing and
Guitars strumming.
I can see the flashes of the fire-flies,
Hear the warning of “It”…
“Ready or not, here I come”
I am……me.
Hand-me-downs and new shoes once a year- I can relate. Walking in Arkansas and Texas would have been amazing to ten-year-old me. Maybe even 50-something-year-old me, too. I love your ending that seems to recall your past and also suggest your future.
Carla, I love how your imagery of the simplicity around you comes across with such appreciation and joy.
I am from thousands of words, printed in textbooks, poems, novels and plays, double shelved
on groaning bookcases, overflowing from each room,
from Bradley University and University of Illinois, emblazoned on sweatshirts and in my mind,
signposts of my future,
I am from a suburban tri-level, white with red brick, green grass meticulously mown in
diagonals,
I am from the day lilies bred by my neighbors, flowering through three backyards, the little apple
tree planted one summer when I was eight, a family project, its branches still blossom
each spring,
I am from carol singing at Christmas, three part harmony, piano, and guitar, from Sunday naps sandwiched between church
services, and visits to every public library in a twenty mile radius,
From Saralee and Juanita Belle and Joyce May,
I am from can’t put the book down and just one more chapter before bed
From when the old dog is dead and play the piano, play the piano, play the piano,
I am from Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Sunday school stories, and brothers and
sisters in the Lord,
I’m from Sweetwater, Greenview, Massac County, Zetel, and Braemar, chicken and noodles,
strawberry jam and biscuits,
From an ice cream cone thrown at Frank’s nose, a snowball at Lewis’, an engagement ring at
Ronald’s, and generations of feisty women who demonstrated independence and love,
I am from handwritten books of Cramer, Farquhar, Pickrell, and McGinnis, the voices of my
grandparents still speaking their stories for me and the next generations.
I love your ending images, Aimee. Having grandparents who share their stories is a blessing. I’m so envious of your print-rich upbringing. We couldn’t afford to have many books in the house when I grew up. Maybe that’s why I surround myself with books now. More psychoanalysis through poetry ???!
I am from the edge of a big city
at a time when we didn’t lock doors,
and we played outside.
(without an adult watching over us)
I am from tending a large vegetable garden,
two peach trees and a cherry tree
which all made their way into canning jars.
(so we could afford fresh produce)
I am from a home with no cable TV,
no color TV (until Babci bought us one)
no remote control.
(I had to get up when my Dad wanted to change channels.)
I am from hardback, hand-me-down Nancy Drew books,
playing Barbies with my girlfriends,
watching my brothers play baseball.
(way before Title 9)
I am from playing outside until the street lights came on,
catching lightning bugs
and sleeping without air-conditioning.
(until we were lucky enough to get a few window units)
I am from stores being closed on Sundays,
visiting relatives after church, and
watching Lawrence Welk.
(because that’s what my Babci wanted to watch)
I am from a time when kindergarten meant
painting, playing, and eating cookies and milk.
When kids were allowed to be kids.
(coming home at lunch time and spending afternoons with mom)
I am from a long ago place
that speaks of a much simpler time
when kids didn’t have quite so many worries
(this makes me feel blessed, not old)
This is beautiful, and I especially like the parentheticals.
Oh Rita, I can relate so well to most every line, but when I got to the last line….”this makes me blessed, not old”, I really fell in love. Thank you!
Rita, I remember that kindergarten, and I loved it! My son and daughter-in-law live in a town where stores are closed on Sundays, which is hard for me now. We can’t just run to Dave’s for thyme if I’m cooking at their house and forgot to bring it. I treasured the times my friends and I walked to our houses for our hour-long lunch. Thank you for the wonderful reminders!
We must be the same age! You sparked a lot of memories for me. Can you believe we took a break in the middle of school day to walk home for lunch?
Oh, how beautifully you capture MY childhood. You wrote it about yours, but pretty much every stanza describes my childhood experiences. I love how you use parentheses!
I am from three point sermons
heard through my bedroom vent
before my father took the pulpit Sunday morning.
I am from crab apple trees
rows of soybeans and corn
and a small lily garden in my care.
I am from a family of introverts
a house made up of corners
and the sort of quiet that never felt lonely.
I am from tornado sirens
and waking up early in winter
to watch cancelled school names scroll.
I am from the Iowa State Fair
Casey’s breakfast pizza
and Fareway meat counters.
I am from the two-fingered wave
four blocks from a college campus
a stark difference in pace.
I am from following through
listening more than I speak
and striving to both notice
and create beauty.
Watching for our school to be named was one of the most intense experiences we had as children. Too bad today’s kids will never experience that!
I can’t imagine a house full of introverts or a house made up of corners, but I love your image of the quiet that never felt lonely.
Your second stanza inspired my version of this poem. Thank you! I am an introvert who lived in a very noisy household. I would have appreciated some of your “corners” and “quiet.” Oh how I loved waiting to seem my school name (and later number) come across that TV screen.. It was probably the only time I willingly got up early on a school day!
Such great images! Truly love the “sort of quiet that never felt lonely.” How comforting.
Interesting that Rita used your second stanza as her inspiration tonight. I try to write before reading others’ poems (so as not to feel intimidated!), but I did scroll through tonight to see how many were using the “I am from” form. It was your FIRST line that sparked my Madeleine moment of Sunday mornings.
I love your choices: hearing poems through the vent, the house made up of corners and silence that never felt lonely, the two-fingered wave just blocks from the college…. Each stanza provided me with images and connections. This is why I read poetry. Thank you.
Lauren, I’m salivating at the thought of Casey’s breakfast pizza. Love how you descend into the particulars. I remember the early mornings I also sat in front of the TV waiting impatiently for GEHLEN CATHOLIC SCHOOLS to scroll across the screen.
Mo,
I was introduced to the Where I Am From poem by the genius Glenis Redmond during a Kennedy Center poetry training. It has generated so much great poetry in my classroom. I am so glad you challenged us with it today.
I think we had VERY similar upbringings. I felt very at home in your poem.
I positively love how you ended with the names strung together as one. Because…aren’t they?
Thanks Susan! As I said yesterday, we are all so very different, but we are tight!
Are you familiar with Glenis? She is dynamite (and unfortunately facing a massive cancer battle). I recommend looking up her work.
I’m not familiar with her, so I will definitely check her work out. Thanks for the tip.
Mo, when I saw today’s prompt I thought, oh I know all about “Where I’m From” poems. I’ve used them as community building tools in English classes and as the first speech in speech classes. I’ve used them as a form of character analysis, too, yet I had no idea how much I’d love reading the poems members of this community have generated, no idea the direction my own poem would take, no clue about the closeness these poems would generate. Goes to show I should dispense w/ assumptions.
Your poem is a wonderful model. I love the last line w/ all the family names jammed into one construction, suggesting both the many and the one family. I see those 22 hands reaching for privacy and jockeying for a turn in the bathroom. The opening alliteration in “clamor and clatter” replicates the noisy home. And I hear the cicadas’ mating song, yet another image of love.
I’m not done reading and commenting, but want you to know how much I value your choice of prompts today.
Thanks, Glenda. I wasn’t sure if had been too overused, but like you, I find that every time I write this kind of poem I’m coming at it from a different place.
Mo, your poem demonstrates so well the variety of poetic devices that help recreate an experience in the mind of the reader. Your olfactory image is particularly evocative because you use an active verb instead of an adjective. ” burning leaves assaulting our nostrils.”.
I liked that one, too. I lost my sense of smell seven years ago, but I agree with studies that have shown smell is the sense most associated with memory. It can really get me down sometimes thinking about the things I’ll never smell again. I had a group of sweet students take extreme pity on me a few years ago when they found out I couldn’t smell. One girl told me she prayed for me every night! I let her know that working in a middle school is probably the best job for someone with my “condition”! ?
I am from the slamming milk house door,
While milking units clink and clank and hoses drag.
I am from, “Watch the gate!” and,
“You alright up there?” as the hay elevator chain rattles between bales.
I am from almost being lulled to sleep in the tractor
As the haybine does the hard work.
I am from pinching the same finger every year during the silage harvest,
Which leads to, “You alright down there?”
I am from the half-mile lane that my car crunched gravel on
as I headed “West, young Knight” for college.
I am from, “I love you,” from Mom, and “Behave,” from Dad.
I am from farther west, from the hollers and bellows and screeches and honks of Denver.
I am from the chirps and bleats and moos and “Ope”s of the Midwest.
I am from home, and because I can always take a little home with me,
I am from everywhere I’ve ever been.
Greg, your closing lines are comforting, especially this time of year when many are sending their teenagers off to college for the first time. “I am from home, and because I can always take a little home with me,/I am from everywhere I’ve ever been.”
Many of us parents spend thousands of dollars to send our kids away to school, praying that home goes with them…wherever they end up living after college.
Your last line is beautiful! I love the shift from
Home to school and the return. Beautiful imagery. So Is your pinched finger okay?
Greg, many of your images have nothing to do with how I grew up, yet I can still somehow picture them with your vivid descriptions. I particularly like “from the hollers and bellows and screeches and honks of Denver.” I had never thought of Denver like that. Well done.
Great job, I love the contrast you put in from the farm life to city sounds. Great job with the closing: “I can always take a little home with me.”
Where I’m From
I am from a dead end street nestled between famers’ field,
a block away from the volunteer fire station.
I am from willow trees whose long vines were perfect for swinging like Tarzan.
I am from a move to the city,
from sidewalks that led to the homes of friends and more freedom.
I am from hard work pays off
and always do your best.
I am from Flowers in the Attic and Stephen King.
I am from the love of my family,
with a grandfather whose mind was lost years before his body died.
From being the first to receive a college degree and the first to receive a Masters.
I am from the city that has become my own
a place filled with heartbreak and hope
a place that has cycled from greatness to despair, over and over.
I am from a place where grit is needed
and hope is as close as your own heartbeat.
I am an amalgamation of experiences combined into one individual.
I am finally me.
Tricia — Every line tells a story that can be a poem all its own. I keep imagining (as I read these poems) how everyone could write a verse memoir with these poems collected. Each captures something while leave much unsaid, and that is how poetry and story are, right? What we say, what we write, what we don’t say, don’t write, what we have yet to know or discover, what we can never know.
I love the “dead end street nestled” because of the consonance and contrast and the “willow trees whose long vines” for the personification and extended consonance of the S from the previous lines — so musical and symbolic .
Sarah
Sarah, I agree with your verse memoir comment. Who knew we had such a fascinating group here!?!
The place filled with heartbreak and hope – what a beautiful line! It’s life as we know it, in cycles as you write. An amalgamation – love the vocabulary! “Finally me” indicates you’re happy with you as you know you.
I love the use of the phrase “amalgamation of experiences.” What an image.
Trisha, your poem gave me all the feels. I’m jealous that I didn’t think to include any books in my poem. You don’t say exactly where you grew up, but I can relate to a lot of what I perceive as midwestern values in your poem. The despair and grit are too true in so many towns. I love your hopeful ending.
It’s a lovely reminder that the place we are from might not feel like our own. This exercise has me left wondering what I genuinely connect to as being part of me versus what might be biographically true. I love your use of the word amalgamation. I mean… come on! It’s such a good word! 🙂
Trisha – I love your lines “a place filled with heartbreak and hope” and “cycled from greatness to despair.” They really helped me to put some of my own memories in perspective. We really do have to acknowledge the difficult times and savor the good ones. I am still trying to figure out if I am finally me or not.
Where I’m From
I am from
a father who aspired to be
a Father
but opted instead
to love
a woman with deep grey loyalty
and raise children
like a parish.
I am from
an Irish wit,
mischief mixed with devotion.
I am from singing and humming
“When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” and
“Tura Lura Lura,.”
I am from
Claudia Tolbert Hutchison
who never quite let go of
the Tolbert.
I am from
a mother plagued by health woes
too tired
not strong enough
detached
but affable, adventurous, and funny to others.
I am from
the youngest of four
christened the “princess”
in mocking, not loving, tones.
Excluded, picked on, used as target practice
“Does she have to go? uttered by each.
Later avoided with bitter resentment
dripping from mute mouths.
I am from
a tri-level house
mirrors and railings
shag carpet
walls screaming with pictures
mementos, clutter.
Coming home from school to a
cleaning lady drinking a coke,
smoking a cig, and watching
“As the World Turns,”
the scent of Pledge saying hello.
I am from
Jack Buck’s leathery voice
booming from a scratchy radio
on the back porch
with cicadas chirping
in the background
and lightning bugs dancing around.
I am from
playmates at St. Vincent’s orphanage
incisions blooming open
priests coming for dinner.
I am from
ballgames at the Coliseum
the supply of popcorn being constantly replenished
Dad, the sentry underneath the north goal
chairseats like thrones
reserved for the rich and connected.
I am from
Sunday morning breakfasts
of dippin’ eggs, bacon, and toast
made by Dad,
fresh home from 8:00 mass
while the rest of the house
slumbered off a late Saturday.
I am from
“Kids, your mother’s tired”
“Kids, your mother’s ill”
“Kids, your mother doesn’t need any stress”
I am from
a nephew born when I was 12
to a mom newly-licensed and a
dad mastering the curly-Q on the
cone at the Dairy Queen.
I am from
Thanksgiving nights at the New Moon
to see the latest release
back home to a heated
game of Trivial Pursuit with
arguments about Trapper John.
I am from
“Come on over Zeabarts!” when we
crowded into a room too small to hold us,
the irony being that 20 years
had passed since the families
had spoken.
I am from
“This is not to leave this room!”
after kernels of truth or morsels of privacy
were shared.
I am from
“Pot, kettle, black”
when my argumentative self
disagreed one time too many.
I am from
many things
many people
many sayings
many moments
many ideas
many heartbeats
many breaths
But . . .
Where I am from
pales in comparison
to where I am
and who will be
from
me.
Your description of the tri-level house perfectly captures the 1970’s of my youth, especially the shag carpet. The description really worked for me.
Susan — Thank you for this. The thread of religion pulls through your “from” as it did “mine” and I love how you use the line breaks and anaphora to help us (and you) process the complexities and volume in the “many, many, many.” This is not simple work, this remembering. So appreciate the ending of hope of “will be.” We are and that is enough and we are still becoming which means we can shape the next “from” poems we write.
Sarah
I love how many different stories wind their way through this piece, while it still makes a coherent whole. I’d love to read more about the different stories contained in this poem!
The removal
Of the finality at the end to leave open a future that is more promising than the past is creative and clever.
Susan, the stanzas about your house and cleaning lady, Trivial Pursuit, Zeabarts, and this is not to leave the room are pure magic. I love your hopeful tone, too. Lovely.
That final stanza! Yes!! As I wrote my own I kept thinking about the choices I’ve made so some aspects of where I’m from don’t become who I am now. I think this piece would resonate so much with your students and I hope you share it with them.
BITS OF WHERE I’M FROM…
I’m from…
playing rummy with Deanie
in her crib,
cheating ‘cause she didn’t know how to count
by fives yet.
I’m from…
sitting in the hay
watching Judy milk ol’ Silver
strategically squirting milk
in Kitty’s ready mouth
and anxious to be big enough
to be like Judy.
I’m from…
building forts in the snow drifted woods,
and peanut butter saltines
in waxed paper
in a red handkerchief hobo bundle
on the end of a stick and over my shoulder,
kicking rocks down the road
to play among the sumac
with Deanie,
knowing to come home
when we got hungry enough.
I’m from…
going in to town on Saturday mornings
with its IGA bubblegum machine
that dispensed freely if I poked
my finger up the shoot,
and waiting outside the saloon
at the far end of Main Street
till Daddy was good n ready
to drive us home.
I’m from…
hand-me-downs
from big sisters and cousins,
and woolen leggin’s that never quite fit,
and near frozen red fingers
that never wanted to “get in here” —
snow knee-deep and too many snowmen to build
to ever want to sit indoors and “be still.”
I’m from…
collecting lightning bugs in mason jars
so Mr. Masterson could take them to “the lab”
in St. Louis for
mystifying research,
whatever that meant;
mounting their glow on our fingers
pretending we had diamonds —
way more logical.
I’m from…
watching Mama’s lips move
while she read
to us.
I’m from…
bathing in the galvanized
washtub in the kitchen
on Friday nights,
no shred of privacy,
trying to hide my parts
under a washrag,
embarrassed to death.
I’m from…
catching huge bullfrogs with my hands,
stealthy and adept
at following their bubbles,
grabbing them
from the muddy bottom;
and loving fried froglegs,
‘cause Mama could make anything
taste like fried chicken.
I’m from…
field guides
and the 1919 Compton’s encyclopedias
and Funk & Wagnall’s
and heavy dictionaries,
naked peoples in faraway places
in stacks of Mrs. B’s National Geographics,
and The Carpetbaggers
slipped under my mattress
for late-night reading
when everyone had gone to sleep,
and crying with my students
as I read Where the Red Fern Grows.
I’m from…
Joey’s Fender Stratocaster
and my acoustic 000-S15 mahogany Martin,
and singing every song and every lyric
till all that was left were carols
in August driving the long two-lane
to see Aunt Marie and Jackie and Billy
and being “careful not to bother Jimmy,
‘cause he had all those radios and wires
and gizmos in the basement.”
I’m from…
white enamel, red-rimmed aluminum wash bowls
under the kitchen pump,
and scooping “only the whitest snow”
when the well froze up in January,
and poking wood into the cast iron
kitchen stove, teakettle spewing steam,
the smell of bacon and the sizzling
that drew us all to the red Formica table
with the yellow painted chairs,
black and red and cream cracked linoleum
beneath our bare feet.
I’m from…
lying on the newspaper
spread on the floor
while Mama drew around us,
making her patterns
for new summer shorts
and crop-tops
sewn from old cotton curtains
and gathered skirts she’d dismantled
to create new fabric
for our new sizes.
I’m from…
playing quiz games
sitting on the floor around the kerosene stove,
Dad in the only cushioned chair,
posing questions from the Compton’s in his lap
as one-by-one we wiled away the Sunday afternoons
on days too cold to play outside any longer,
Mama in the kitchen,
claiming some private moments.
I’m from…
standing out by the well
for seeming hours,
punishment for saying “hell,”
when I no more would’ve said that
than the man in the moon,
but you didn’t argue,
you didn’t sass Dad,
you didn’t sass —
period.
Or else.
I’m from…
French fur traders
and Austrian folks
who came to make a new life,
and know we are each new
and each a mix
both up and down
the ladders
of our stories.
by Susie Morice
I love that each of your stanzas reads like the unfolding of a paper, taking us further and further in. It was difficult to pick a favorite! But the image of your mother drawing sewing patterns around you is visually perfect. You end so beautifully (both up and down the ladders).
Susie —
So good to be with you again in this way. I love and treasure your verse and your life. This is so amazing to me how we come to care about one another in this way, this bearing witness. As someone just coming to look out from the shelter of my Illinois life, I also appreciate how I learn from writers and get to visit new places and experiences. This one:
I’m from…
sitting in the hay
watching Judy milk ol’ Silver
strategically squirting milk
in Kitty’s ready mouth
and anxious to be big enough
to be like Judy.
I want to there (am there) with you and Judy and Silver and Kitty.
Sarah
Susie, I giggled to myself when I read “I’m from…
going in to town on Saturday mornings
with its IGA bubblegum machine
that dispensed freely if I poked
my finger up the shoot,”
I have a sense of you as a tad ornery as a child and love this and the cheating at rummy w/ Deanie peak into your life. Then you hit us w/ that ending, the nonspecific genealogy of stories and storytellers. Each poem you write teaches me something new, not just about you, but also about the craft of writing poems. I feel like if of those students reading and weeping as we read “The Red Pony.”
As I’ve read today’s poem responses, I’ve become more convinced that poetry, more than any genre (even memoir) is who we are as sentient beings. ❤️
Susie, this is my favorite:
“I’m from…
white enamel, red-rimmed aluminum wash bowls
under the kitchen pump,
and scooping “only the whitest snow”
when the well froze up in January,
and poking wood into the cast iron
kitchen stove, teakettle spewing steam,
the smell of bacon and the sizzling
that drew us all to the red Formica table
with the yellow painted chairs,
black and red and cream cracked linoleum
beneath our bare feet.”
I love it all, but I’m THERE in these lines. I’m smelling that bacon and sitting at that table barefooted right along with you and the enamelware on the table.
I wish you’d said “hell” since you got punished for it anyway.
I always love your poems. I simply go there when you write.
Susie, it’s to hard to say what my favorite part of your poem is. It is filled with such amazing detail and imagery that I feel like I was right there with you the whole time. What’s your secret to remembering so many details?!?
What a wonderful life of cherished moments. Your poem had me with you on every adventure. The vivid details had me painting a picture in my mind. I could relate to a few. Your words made me smile. Thank you.
I grew up in the Southern Baptist Church. This poem took a turn I didn’t expect, which is I focused only on the church part of my life. It wasn’t until my late 30s that I abandoned organized religion. Trigger warning: I have used a taboo word in this poem.
“Where I’m From: Church Edition”
I’m from Sunday morning Sunday school and photos of white Jesus hanging in the sanctuary.
I am from thou shalt nots, Just As I Am and repent to be saved from eternal vacation in the lake of fire.
I’m from Wednesday prayer meeting and after church pot lucks.
I’m from red rover come over in the church basement, and playing football with the preacher’s kids, all boys.
I’m from bible drills and step forward to recite from memory book, chapter, verse—in that order.
I’m from the Lottie Moon Easter offering and Christmas in August funding drives.
I’m from vacation bible school soap-on-a-rope crafts & sequins scattered like Old Testament stories and Jesus feeding the multitudes through my memory.
I’m from GAs, and church camp near the Mount Vernon, Missouri woods.
I’m from church members asking about my ill father but never calling or visiting.
I’m from “I’m praying for your family” and
“God won’t give you more than you can handle” bullshit.
I’m from prosperity Christianity teachings before Kenneth Hagin first stood in a pulpit.
I’m from Mark Twain’s belief “there is a god for the rich man but none for the poor.”
I’m from seeing religion as both savior and destroyer. I’m from atheists and devout believers of all things church.
Now I’m from Bedside Baptist and waving at my LDS neighbors walking to the ward each Sunday morning on my way to Winco.
I saw the shift And I appreciate it. Funny how this exercise ends up
In places you don’t expect.
Your line, “sequins scattered like Old Testament stories” is my favorite. Somehow, this remains a religion saves you poem with the your stepping away from it being the saving part!
I am from a similar religious background, and I totally felt the stanza about the ill father. I am from that too.
Oh, Glenda!
This…
I’m from church members asking about my ill father but never calling or visiting.
I’m from “I’m praying for your family” and
“God won’t give you more than you can handle” bullshit.
I love the strength there and the use of quotes to echo and resonate the word-meaning contrast. Pieces are coming together for me about you and your family the more poems I have the privilege of reading. I see the narrative emerging that beckons you to tell it. Gratitude.
Sarah
Glenda, friend, I am right there with you. I’m the Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid who wished I’d been in YOUR town so we could have played those games together. The shift is real. Those of us who have grown up in churches understand fully the reality that religion can be both the savior and destroyer. I love God, but I detest Legalism, which is what I see taking a stronger hold than faith. In my own church, I often find myself asking what Jesus would do…… I love your poem. It’s the real thing. Honesty and firm resolution. Double High Five!
“I love God, but detest Legalism.” Amen! I often tell people and explain to my Jack Mormon husband I have faith and a personal theology. Both sustain me, and learning the Bible has been indispensable in teaching Western literature.
Incredibly powerful poem. The raw emotion shows through yet at the same time you seem casually unaffected if that makes sense.
Yes, what Susan said. I really appreciate how deep you went with this.
Where I’m From
I am from the hustle and bustle
of the Lower East Side
of New York City,
otherwise called Losaida.
I am from multiple movements –
from Rivington St. to 5th St.
to 9th St. to 3rd St. to 4th St.
I am from music blaring from the pool hall,
from across the street,
from the bodega downstairs,
from my Boricua neighbors.
I am from walking to and from school.
I am from staying indoors.
I am from Spanish as my native tongue.
I am from visiting my aunts and abuela
in Brooklyn during Christmas,
and eating arroz con dulce,
arroz con habichuelas,
arroz con pollo,
arroz con salchichas,
arroz on every plate.
I am from the unceasing chaos
of arguments between my parents.
I am from the fists that land
on my mother’s face.
I am from pots and pans
as missiles and my mother as the target.
I am from the folded black belt
that found my behind and my back.
I am from tears streaming down
the faces of my siblings and I.
I am from no books at home
and devouring any readings from school.
I am from watching Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood
and Sesame Street and Telenovelas.
I am from Zacarias, Monserrate, Carlos, and Blanca
Zacarias — This is so, so rich. In such few lines, I am taken so deeply into your life. I appreciate the honest sense of reality, the noises…musical and yet a cacophony of hurt (that damned belt on your back… the blaring) and the fists on your mom’s face. I hear that. I see that. I, sadly, know that. And even with all the tough stuff, you “devour[ed] any readings.” Triumph! And the sweetness of Mr. Rogers. Aah, geez, I LOVE this. It amazes me how I can come from such a different place and yet find resonance… that common ground we walk is there when we take the time to share. I thank you for sharing so much of yourself in these lines. Susie
Thank you for your words.
Zacarias, this is so good. You really took us all over the place with it. You’ve dealt with so much, but clearly have figured it out. The last lines are so touching and hopeful. You are a talented writer!
Thank you. I didn’t want to end it on just the negative aspects of my childhood. Reading was my escape route from all the chaos.
SO WHAT?
Born in the Motor City
But a few years lived, on a farm
A stinky pig farm with no inside water
Had to prime the pump and then pump much harder
Just get a drink
But a roiling river ran through it.
And, great, green grapy vines grew on it.
Blackberry bushes and apple trees
Roosters and hens galore.
We could eat what we grew, and we seldom even had to
Go to the store.
Walking along the highway to school
Watching the yellow bus pass me
Prepared me for hiking blocks to school
Once we moved back to the city
When the reason for walking was money,
Not melanin. No, this is no reason for pity.
In that small, country town I learned to read
I learned to sing and play rhythm sticks with speed.
I learned to live through the nighttime fright
When thunderstorms rumbled, making the night sky bright.
I’d cry out “Help! Help!” How I hated the night!
But singing and reading and playing outside
Taught me so much that has helped me to ride
Through the storms that would have pushed me aside.
And thwarted my becoming a teacher, a mom, and a bride!
Your rhyme was so natural that I only noticed it halfway through. Then I went back and admired it thoroughly.
I agree with Gayle – it wasn’t until the fourth stanza that I even realized it was rhyming! You draw us right into your world in the first few lines. Roiling river is a great use of alliteration as it rolls around your mouth when you read it too.
Your talent with poetic devices is so clear in this poem. The story is charming, but it’s on the rereading where your work really shines. Love it.
I am a tall girl from a short family
in a tiny house near a small town
Near nothing else
I am the long ride on Stan Harrington’s school bus
Clambering over the snow drift to
The tall step into the bus’s welcome warmth
And the long ride to school
I am from not-being Julie Malinowski
Who lived in town
Had a cute nose and tennis and a cheerleading team
And an orange brown plaid kilt with a matching orange turtle neck
That she actually bought at Sears.
And boyfriends
I am from ice-fishing with my grandfather
Walking the beaver traps in snow shoes
Avoiding the Bambi hanging in the front yard for the hunters to see
Converted magically to venison in white butcher’s paper
And cooked in a cast iron pan.
I am from home-cooked food
Home-made clothes
And home-grown pride
“Do your best”
“Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back”
“ I thought you knew better”
I am from standing over the register on cold mornings
My flannel nightgown a hot balloon in the rushing air
Stand wide, or you would burn your feet.
I am from words-were-magical
Diagrammed sentences
Spelling bees
Books that were too old for me to understand
Read on the radiator, gazing at the snowmobiles on the lake
The words are still with me
the memories retrieved
Beginning with I am statements vs I am from statements made an impact. I loved the sizes in the first stanza, which make you the feature while everything else pulls away or reduces. Your last stanza resonates most with me and the last two lines work so well.
Gayle, I like the change in the formula you begin with. I, too, diagrammed sentences. Did it all year in eighth grade. I think I know a “Julie Malinowski” who in my class was Gretchen. Us poor kids see the contrast in our lives, yes? And although you don’t say it directly, that image of “Bambi hanging in the front yard” evokes the rawness and necessary violence inherent in family survival. Such an evocative poem you’ve penned.
Gayle, I really like the home-cooked, home-grown, and home-made lines. I think it brings your memories together nicely.
And Julie Malinowski…don’t we all know her?
I am from wastebaskets
from Johnson & Johson’s talcum and Comet scouring powders.
I am from the bedrooms of plywood and glue,
the bathroom of mildew and dripping faucets,
the dining room of picnic tables and benches
with scratches and knots of battles and laughter.
I am from the rose bush
with temperamental blooms.
The magnolia tree
whose teacup blossoms I remember
as if they were my own palms.
I’m from Cream of Wheat packets
for breakfast and
french toast out of the skillet
for dinner.
I am from Skippy and Corky
skulking late to Mass
and Mother’s Day breakfast at McDonald’s with placemats
and from vacuum hums in the middle of the night.
I am from “go to confession” and “help your sister”
and “Islands in the Stream.”
I’m from Poppin’ Fresh after concerts.
I’m from Chicago and Collodi,
lasagna and Steak-umms.
From Papa, taking on Capone’s goons
immigrant, educated in shake-downs. and alleys.
From rosaries of wood and glass and wire
wrapped in fingers,
resting in drawers,
hung on nails
waiting for prayers.
I am from long arms that have harmed and hugged.
Blue streams in my wrists,
I am from
the branches that scratch and knot.
Palms up, fingers nimble
I am from
the blossoms that cradle hope.
The way these pieces allow us to see into another’s world, often in layers normally buried, is fascinating. I’m so intrigued by the last two stanzas. I want to know more about Capone’s goons! I love the visual of the rosaries, and that despite the conflicting feel from long arms, you end by cradling hope!
Sarah, Your last word—hope—is such a positive way to culminate the poem. It resonates strength and resilience. That reference to Cream of Wheat evoked a bad memory of eating that awful stuff when I was a kid, but we didn’t have the packets. That meant washing the pan was/ dried CoW every night. Your inclusion of dialogue really offers a sense of your home and family.
So much to relate to and love.
“I am from long arms that have hugged abs harmed.” Powerful. Honest. Raw.
I’m curious about the vacuum hums in the middle of the night.
I can’t say it enough…so relatable!
I was mesmerized by this, especially the last two stanzas. I, too want to know about Capone! I love the image of Mothers Day breakfast at McDonald’s with placemats.
Mo, I love these memories. They remind me of my own childhood, as they are meant to do (shopping for Swedish fish and fall leaves burning. Your use of sensory details helps ground us your world. Love the 22 hands pounding on doors , which conveys the size of your family perfectly.
Mo, those hands pounding on the door of the two-toilet house! Oh, what a memory for so many of us growing up. I love the Cicadas hunting for a mate before it’s too late. Your human parallels are all too real. Thanks for another day of a fun verse challenge. Your prompts rock!
I’m From
I’m from paperbacks and hardcovers,
pages turning into journeys and adventures
from Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys.
I am from sap in springtime, slow drips
as winter snows melt into marsh marigolds
and maple trees offer a touch of sweetness
waiting to be slow-boiled into syrup.
I’m from Christmas tree farms and scholars
from Bauers, from the running-in-at-the-last-minute’s and
from “Sit up straight” and “Clean you plate.”
I’m from night time prayers and guardian angels.
I’m from Mark Twain Street, the beginning of my literary journey
from fried egg sandwiches and chocolate cookies,
warm from the oven and washed down with ice cold milk.
From the fingernail ripped away by the teeter-totter
and the cinders still embedded in my left knee,
the result of a biking accident.
I am from stockings, crafted by hand and love,
lined up over the fireplace and handmade ornaments
nestled between spruce boughs from trees grown on our own land.
From over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house
and wood burning stoves barely breaking the winter cold.
I am from old slides shown in flickering images
projected briefly in the clicks, clicks, clicks in,
reminders of a childhood caught and captured,
The kaleidoscoping colors holding memory.
Jennifer – I’m tiptoeing through your childhood…it almost feels like I’m peeking in the windows of your house and seeing and hearing parts of myself. The “clean your plate,” “over the river…,” the wood stove and cinders in your knee, When a poem brings on the reverie and pangs of nostalgia, I am always smitten by the magic of the poem. You’ve served that up this morning, and I’m having it for breakfast. Thank you for the fine repast. Susie
Jennifer, the details you name, from Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew to Teeter Totter and “clean your plate” situate you generationally in time. This makes the poem not only personal to you but to me as well since I, too, shared similar experiences and books. Lots of strong alliteration here, too: caught, captured, kaleidoscopic colors. Lovely poem.
Jennifer, I am so here with you in these lines: “I’m from paperbacks and hardcovers,
pages turning into journeys and adventures from Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys.” You really targeted every single sensory awareness in your poem – – vivid imagery here: I am from old slides shown in flickering images. You gave us the smell of the spruce and the taste of egg sandwiches and chocolate cookies and the cold of the winter and warmth of the oven and stove – the sound of the click, click, the sight of the flickering movies. It’s simply divine to read a poem with 360 degrees of sensations – especially rustic ones and homemade holiday ones that remind us of our own childhoods! I love it.
You had me drawn in at the “Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys.”
Details like that help people with a common experience instantly relate.
The details! It’s all in the details. I kind of felt like Ebenezer Scrooge peeking through the window at a wonderful scene.
Where I’m From
I am from the mud-caked running shoes with the fraying laces and worn-out tread
from once Asics, to Brooks, to now Hoka. – anything to prevent insanity.
I am from the Johnson Funny Farm in the rural Pike countryside and Guale, the Marshes of Glynn –
both breathtakingly beautiful,
both rechargingly relaxing,
each wildly waving welcoming Loblolly or Spartina arms.
I am from the free-range eggs
for which the (not once but twice) almost-murdered rooster Chanticleer mistakenly believes that he is necessary.
I’m from one side that event-izes everything elaborately, the other that celebrates every day simply.
From Haynes and Johnson.
I’m from the wake-up dog breath full-face kisses of Boo Radley the valiant nightwatch-Schnoodle
and the morning nuzzles of a broken-leg-and-cancer-cyst Schnauzer Fitz
who sleep with us because Mom’s last words were, “You take good care of these dogs!”
And sleep-tight nights with books piled high throughout the house.
From “Fasten Your Seatbelt!” and “Watch Your Speed – You Know They Hide Up Here!”
I’m from the glass house of a Southern Baptist preacher dad, the closed curtains and deadbolted doors
of a maddening mother.
I’m “Kimberly – (English) from the royal fortress meadow,” my birth meadow the Okefenokee Swamp,
cracked pecans, a churn of homemade peach ice cream.
From Georgia Lee and Eunice and Miriam, whose long-gone but lingering voices of dementia prompt
reluctant visits….
to the pantry….
to be sure….
I can still….
smell the peanut butter.
I am from these haunted corners – holding on to the jagged edges of life,
sometimes remembering, sometimes wanting to forget, always wishing their voices were still here.
– Kimberly Haynes Johnson
You immerse us in your childhood so well. Your word choices (event-izes and sleep-tights) help settle us in. Love the dogs name! The last two lines are beautiful!
Kim – You’ve opened so many closets in this poem, sharing so beautifully bits of yourself. Coming to know you through these glimpses feels like a sort of sacred gift. Every one of these images runs deep. You’ve made them feel like a peeling back or a lifting up of a layer of pastry, getting to the sweet peachy treat inside. I so love phrases like “birth meadow of OKeefenokee Swamp,” “jagged edges of life,” the “glass house of …dad,” those old loving dogs, the Loblollys — all these things remind me that we are a grand mix of moments and voices both seemingly simple and profoundly complex. Your poem feels like an intimate connection this morning, and I’m glad to be invited to the parlor of your memory. Thank you so much. Susie
Kim, I love that Chanticleer has made another appearance. Your doggie references melt my heart, and your list of running shoes inspires me to write another poem about all the weight-loss programs I’ve tried. The way you move from specific memories to dementia and loss of memory is spectacular and heartbreaking. I ❤️ everything about your poem.
Kim, my favorite line is “I’m from one side that event-izes everything elaborately, the other that celebrates every day simply.” because it could have been in my poem if I’d thought of writing about that aspect of my family. My mother, especially, loved to plan (over-plan) celebrations…especially of her own birthday. 🙂 But..that’s another story. Maybe it’ll come out in a poem during another challenge.
It seems like Chanticleer is going to need his own prompt soon! This was lovely.
I love “wake-up dog breath” – and homemade peach ice cream. Wakes up a lot of fond memories.