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.
Where I am from
ReplyDeleteI am from Comic Books
From Marvel and D.C. alike
I am Cheerios in the cafeteria
(dry, whitish-tan, they tasted like cardboard)
I am from the Botanical’s Family garden
The huge oak in the woods behind it.
Whose long limbs I remember
Strong enough to hold my own
I am from Ice Cream and Elvis shades
From the Bronx and Pelham Bay
I’m from “I-think-I-know-it-alls”
And “ Two for flinching”
From Shut Up! And Hey Bro!
I am from the Beastie Boys brighten my day
And 7 verses I can say myself
I am from Eddy and Carol’s Branch
French Fries and Iced Coffee
From the finger my great grandfather lost
to the electric saw
The jelly eye my father gets on Halloween
On my bed stairs was a box
Spilling with old comics
A sift of lost talent
To drift in my dreams and fantasies
I am from those worlds--
Created before I budded--
Leaves blowing in the wind of my family tree…
Where I'm From
ReplyDeleteby Erin A. Flynn 8F Pd. 6
I am from paintbrushes,
from Vans and iPods.
I am from the lavender bush in the backyard.
Pale purple, flecked with blue,
its fragrance attracted orange Monarchs.
I am from the marigold patch next to the mint
the pink rose bush
whose large blossoms stretched elegantly skywards
as if they were graceful dancers.
I'm from sushi and soccer cleats,
from Karen and Richard.
I'm from the nerds
and the adventurers,
from Speak louder! and Shut up!
I'm from Our Father who art in Heaven
with a lit candle
and two Testaments I can study.
I'm from John and Linda's Branch,
salad and grape-seltzer.
From the scar my mother developed
from the stapler,
the allergy my father has to seeds.
Inside my bookshelf was a photo album
spilling photographs, old and recent,
a record of my past
to drift in and out of my consciousness.
I am from those events--
snapped before I became myself--
the next leaf on my family tree.
Where I'm From
ReplyDeleteI am from the shade of leaves,
From the overhead showers as wind stirs them
After rain,
From the slow shadows of leaves
Cast through my windowpane.
I am from grey,
Silver rain,
When the fog is a silver blue mask
Creeping through trees.
I am from quiet streets
From tall, rocky houses
From darting squirrels
That eat my mother's flowers.
I am from giant, warm hands
That felt soft against my face.
I am from sweet potato scones
On Thanksgiving night,
From snow on the porch
That we would carve smiles in.
I am from Colorado driveways
The snow in the sky
The icy air
The christmas tree
Lit up in the darkness.
I am from the strings on my fingers
From the wood in my arms.
I am from my mind,
Rising and falling,
With time,
With time.
I am from the country of accents that most Americans mock.
ReplyDeleteI am from the neighborhood that we consider the “The Salad Bowl”
instead of the “The Melting Pot”.
I am the sad yellow daisies in front our apartment.
I am from the children of the most populated country
(approx. 1.3 billion people) in the world.
I am from where there is no such thing as day or night,
I am from the belief that there is no such thing as giving up.
I am from my colorful variation of shoes, from ballet flats to Converse.
I am from the things I scribble on the colorful post-its I have
lying around my apartment.
I am from that 30 cent plush hippo I bought at IKEA,
smiling on the outside, crying on the inside.
I am from the smell of chicken soup that surrounds my apartment in a friendly manner.
I am from the home of PCs, while everyone else owns a Mac.
I am from the Calvin & Hobbes comic books I am overly influenced by.
I am from all the songs that I know all the lyrics to, when no one else gives a damn
about that genre of music.
I am from the sadness of the New Yorkers that lurk in the air.
I am from the fake smiles from flight attendants.
I am like the local Starbucks at every corner.
I am me, somehow involved in part of your daily routine.
I am from shiny, wooden floors,
ReplyDeleteFrom apartments that smell like lemon-scented window cleaner.
I am from elevators whose door close buttons don’t work
(you can press it as much as you want, it won’t help)
I am from the only empty street in SoHo,
But still near Broadway bustling with a thousand languages,
I am from the world of stores and art.
The second side of me is entirely its own.
I am from the rolling hills of Austria,
Yes, where yodelers come from.
I am from sweet German words in the silly rhymes my grandmother taught me.
I am from crickets chirping long through the night.
I’m from old farms,
From fields to play in before they are harvested.
I’m from the smell of secret cigarette smoke creeping out from behind the house.
I’m from wheelbarrows full of wood,
To heat up the tile ovens,
I’m from cold, stone floors,
And trophies hunted by my great aunt.
I am from Schnitzel with lots of lemon juice, and the top-secret recipe to birthday cake.
I am from the Gulasch made by my grandfather’s wise hands.
I’m from a tiny village,
Where everyone knows everyone and their brother.
I am from my little sister’s laughter and worries,
From my father’s perfect brush strokes,
And “Try this salad” from my mother.
I am from the letters I’ve received,
Each word carefully scripted onto a postcard.
I am from sneaking a second piece of candy off the Christmas tree.
I am from the tears I have shed over my dead dog,
From the scrapes and bruises of adventure.
I am from the finish lines I have crossed,
I’m from “Use your arms!” “Almost there!” “SPRINT!”
I am from the songs I have sung,
The places I have been,
The art I have made ,
The people I have met,
And the poems I have written.
I'm from the dirty streets of New York City to the peaceful haven of my home.
ReplyDeleteI am from the many e-mails my dad gets everyday.
I'm from the clients my mom deals with.
I am from the 410 mile/ 7 and a half hour drive on the New York State Turnpike to Buffalo.
I'm from the books I have read and the characters I have learned about.
I am from the notes on my carefully practiced music, like the defined lines of the paper it is printed on.
I am from striving to excel.
I'm from the places I visit over vacation to my inevitable return home.
I am from Jewish beliefs and traditions.
I'm from modern thinking and connecting old to new.
I am from the want of more to the need of less.
I'm from these words.
I am from me.
Where I am From
ReplyDeleteI am from worn clothes
from giant t-shirts and faded skirts.
I am from songs sung by famous people
(dancing, laughing
with my sisters and singing)
I am from the blueberry bushes
the pear and plum trees
whose fruits sweet taste I still remember.
I'm from books and pillows
from bookmarks and alarm clocks
buzzing early in the mornings.
I'm form red envelopes
from good luck signs.
I'm from Go Away! and Come here!
from scribbled notes
and secrets whispered at night.
I'm from slashing blades
from violins and pianos
and unsure, wavering voices.
I'm from broken arms and sunset bike rides,
from track & field and textbooks
I am from all these things
By: Sophia Maciel 8f
ReplyDeleteI'm from Puzzles with missing pieces,
and a closet full of stuffed animals.
I’m from the big tree in front of my house
(thats flowers barley smell when they bloom)
I’m from the beaded bracelets
I wish I made.
I’m from mis-matched socks and birthday cake,
from truth and lies
I’m from the names my sister calls me “lazybutt”
I’m from my mom yelling “Unpack the groceries”
from “Hurry Up!” to “Chill, slow down”
I’m from popped bubbles,
and ugly dolls
and the songs on the radio.
I’m from Genia and Leo’s branch
From Spaghetti to vanilla bean fraps with caramel and whip cream.
From the bump on my mom’s hand
and the cracking noise that comes from my dad’s ankle.
In a package on my desk,
are pictures I took
frozen moments I miss.
Shielded by a thin layer of dust
I am from that time
behind the camera.
Freezing everything I saw with the click of a little button.