Read the "Where I'm From" pieces by George Ella Lyon and Willie Perdomo. Click on the "comments" button below, type your emulation then hit the "post comment" button.
Writing Directions:(20-30 lines)
--Emulate the repeating, sometimes parallel structure of these poems ("Where I'm From... I am From...I'm From").
--Emulate the usage of concrete sensory detail-- the first 5 lines of the G.E. Lyon poem illustrate this.
--Use at least 2 lines of figurative language in your writing
--Write about your own life, heritage, family names, conflicts, culture, food, travel etc.
Where I'm From
By George Ella Lyon
I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I'm from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger,
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments--
snapped before I budded --
leaf-fall from the family tree.
Where I’m From
by Willie Perdomo
Because she liked the “kind of music” that I listened to and she liked
the way I walked as well as the way I talked, she always wanted to
know where I was from.
If I said that I was from 110th Street and Lexington Avenue, right
in the heart of a transported Puerto Rican town, where the
hodedores live and night turns to day without sleep, do you think
then she might know where I was from?
Where I’m from, Puerto Rico stays on our minds when the fresh
breeze of café con leche y pan con mantequilla comes through our
half-open windows and under our doors while the sun starts to rise.
Where I’m from, babies fall asleep to the bark of a German
Shepherd named Tarzan. We hear his wandering footsteps under a
midnight sun. Tarzan has learned quickly to ignore the woman who
begs her man to stop slapping her with his fist. “Please, baby! Por
favor! I swear it wasn’t me. I swear to my mother. Mameee!!!” (Her
dead mother told her that this would happen one day.)
Where I’m from, Independence Day is celebrated every day. The
final gunshot from last night’s murder is followed by the officious
knock of a warrant squad coming to take your bread, coffee and freedom away.
Where I’m from, the police come into your house without
knocking. They throw us off rooftops and say we slipped. They shoot
my father and say he was crazy. They put a bullet in my head and say
they found me that way.
Where I’m from, you run to the hospital emergency room because
some little boy spit a razor out of his mouth and carved a crescent
into your face. But you have to understand, where I’m from even the
dead have to wait until their number is called.
Where I’m from, you can listen to Big Daddy retelling stories on
his corner. He passes a pint of light Bacardi, pouring the dead’s
tributary swig onto the street. “I’m God when I put a gun to your
head. I’m the judge and you in my courtroom.”
Where I’m from, it’s the late night scratch of rats’ feet that
explains what my mother means when she says slowly, “Bueno, mijo,
eso es la vida del pobre.” (Well, son, that is the life of the poor.)
Where I’m from, it’s sweet like my grandmother reciting a quick
prayer over a pot of hot rice and beans. Where I’m from, it’s pretty
like my niece stopping me in the middle of the street and telling me
to notice all the stars in the sky.
Alec Kulakowski
ReplyDeleteWhere Im From: POV of Jimmie
Im am from ragged streets,
murderous parents and neglecting sisters.
From screaming nabors and thieving fathers.
Im from the sprawling avenues,
the violent corners of Manhattan.
From the small house, no hope,
from angry parents, pain and poverty.
Im from the fighters,
the yellers, the in your face’ers.
From the immigration for nothing.
From disappointment and hatred,
beating and chains.
I am from the streets of New York
My parents told me to post this i dont quite know why.
Where I'm From: POV of Fia Hargil
ReplyDeleteI am from Prospect Park
from the lumbering trees that are taller each day.
I am from the old piano(perpetually out of tune).
I am from the warm covers of the bed,
from the snuggling with my bear,
from the goodnight kisses.
I am from the nurturing of one million souls,
from the power of love.
I am from the wind whistling,
from the winter snowman(I've only made one)
the late night movies.
I am from the carefully peeled tangerines,
the heathly lunches,
I am from the safety of the city,
as well as the danger of it.
I am from the studying from age 5
to the studying at age 13,
the breathing information(but only breathing in).
I am from not being able to let go,
from hating goodbyes,
from loving hellos.
I am from "No time, sorry"'s,
from the "Maybe next time"'s.
I am from nowhere.
I am from everywhere,
pushed into one.
it follows me around,
reminds me of who I am.
I am from me.
I am from home.
Fia Hargil
Where I'm from, the iMac stands.
ReplyDeleteI'm from the screenshots I take while video chatting.
I'm from the bold letters of F-A-C-E-B-O-O-K.
Where I'm from, the white of my room follows me.
I'm from the night table next to my bed.
I'm from my walk in closet that serves me good.
Where I'm from, the black words lie across think white pages.
I'm from the pictures I draw every day.
I'm from the trees people make paper out of.
Where I'm from, a soft pillow lies.
I'm from the color of the teddy bear that lives in my childhood days.
I'm from the extra blanket that I cannot sleep without.
Where I'm from, my dog stays right beside me.
I'm from the wee-wee pads my naughty dog won't stop ripping up.
I'm from the name REES that I will always look up to.
Where I’m from, candles are lit and put out,
ReplyDeleteFood blended, mashed, fried, toasted, boiled and everything else you can think ofed.
Where I’m from, the din of wood against furry claw wakes me up in the morning,
As I throw the pillow, my pillow at the source.
Where I’m from, fur and fat jiggle on a small sphere as is sings the hymn for food,
A beautiful hymn.
But not to a grumpy sleeping person.
Where I’m from, we tune in some nights at 8, and watch,
Till 9
Or 10.
Where I’m from, Nat Geo posters are hung up on the wall, entitled
HIDDEN WATER, or Great Migrations
People come and say it’s interesting, but I know
That they really don’t care.
Where I’m from, we stay real still and quiet when the a cat sleeps on the corner of our bed.
(There have been some incidents)
Where I’m from, school breaks are a haven,
A haven away from all the noise, chaos, and drama of New York City.
Or, a haven away from all the noise, chaos and drama of school.
Where I’m from, magazines named
National Geographic, Knowledge, and Popular Science are a source of raw excitement.
Where I’m from, weekends are respected and revered.
Nuff said.