Introduction (because I’m a civilized human):
Hey, y’all! Hope you’re doing well! As the title suggests, if you’re a noob at poetry, you’ve come to the right place. For this blog post, I wanted to take a shot at poetry. I might also admit that I wrote this poem for school a while back, but I followed a template that I’ll share with you as well!
Credits (they’re due!!):
The poem is called “Where I’m From” and essentially allows one to create a piece that is significant to one’s experiences. If you’re not familiar with the original poet, George Ella Lyon, she is an American author who is known for her published picture books, poetry, and other literary works. She was born in April 1949. She received her Bachelors in Arts in Kentucky in 1971, and later got her Masters in Arts in 1972 from the University of Arkansas, and later her Ph.D. at Indiana University in 1978. Aside from her published works, she has also taught at various post-secondary institutions and has been a part of various writing workshops, conferences, and author visits.
I was first introduced to the poem by my English teacher, in grade 9 (so around March 2020). We were given a template, and we had to fill it out, and then continue to refine it. So here’s mine:
My final “Where I’m From” poem (no judgy pls):
I am from a piercing crimson thread,
from Scotch and Pink Pearl.
I am from the gravel in the stormwater pond.
(Coarse, lifeless,
they were like velcro that never connected)
I am from the moss that camouflaged the tree’s disease
the Crab apple tree
its seeds I remember spitting out
so the poison wouldn’t get inside of me.
I’m from markers and disappearing purple glue
That never fully faded
from Dhaliwal and Farooq.
I’m from the wise
and the superstitious
and the stop-wasting-time,
from the bottle and the bird.
I’m from not sitting idle and the
verse I would always forget.
I’m from Windsor and Taradale,
the tomato juice and the tea
From aunt’s dish that was too watery, the tears
and the discoloration on her face
In the locked drawer there was a FujiFilm camera
that had captured hundreds of memories.
A blur of faces of people who once knew me as their daughter.
The quadruplicates were never erased from the memory card.
From Post Street and Conrich Road
I am from getting lost at Fisherman’s Wharf,
from Pineridge and the swings.
I am from those places before fifteen
The people I met before sixteen
The vocals I cherished before seventeen
I am from that time before I was thrown into the ocean,
below the red bridge and
before I learned to swim.
Here is the template if you’d also like to take a stab at writing poetry:
I am from ________(specific ordinary item), from ________(product name) and
____________.
I am from the _______ (home description… adjective, adjective, sensory detail).
I am from the _______ (plant, flower, natural item), the _______ (plant, flower, natural
detail)
I am from _______ (family tradition) and _______ (family trait), from _______ (name of
family member) and _______ (another family name) and _______ (family name).
I am from the _______ (description of family tendency) and _______ (another one).
From _______ (something you were told as a child) and _______ (another).
I am from (representation of religion, or lack of it). Further description.
I’m from _______ (place of birth and family ancestry), _______ (two food items representing
your family).
From the _______ (specific family story about a specific person and detail), the _______
(another detail, and the _______ (another detail about another family member).
I am from _______ (location of family pictures, mementos, archives and several more lines
indicating their worth).
Lyon’s original piece if you’re interested (why wouldn’t you be):
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 am 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 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
– George Ella Lyon
Conclusion (because I can):
I hope you enjoyed being a poet! I’ll admit I’m not much of a writer, but this poem has allowed me to get some creative juices flowing – and hopefully yours too! As always, feel free to reach out to me at ranyabajaj1@gmail.com with any questions or comments. Godspeed.
