Blog #11 Where I am From Poem

I love WIF poems  I think there is something beautiful and magical in examining our pasts, presents and futures.  I also have to admit, I love genealogy and  a good story and most WIF poems combine the two exquisitely.  I also think like we saw in the Poem Crazy chapter 17 sometimes where we truly are from may not be the place we were born.  Sometimes there are older stories calling us from the past and that is where we truly come from. They are windows to our souls and they are maps of our journey in life. Open the corridors of your mind and just explore. Remember you are you and this poem is you and let it come and reflect you; of course you are the expert on you and so it should encompass it all. Your blog assignment this week is to create your own WIF poem.  You can use the model from Poem Crazy, you can use Georgia Lyon's poem, Willie Perdomo's or Kelly Norman Ellis' poem as templates, or create your own. Pick whatever style you like but truly create something that tells us your story and where you are from.

Where I'm From

       George Ella Lyons

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.

Raised by Women

I was raised by
Chitterling eating
Vegetarian cooking

Cornbread so good you want to lay
down and die baking
"Go on baby, get yo’self a plate"
Kind of Women.

Some thick haired
Angela Davis afro styling
"Girl, lay back
and let me scratch yo head"
Sorta Women.

Some big legged
High yellow, mocha brown
Hip shaking
Miniskirt wearing
Hip huggers hugging
Daring debutantes
Groovin
"I know I look good"
Type of Women.

Some tea sipping
White glove wearing
Got married too soon
Divorced
in just the nick of time
"Better say yes ma’am to me"
Type of sisters.

Some fingerpopping
Boogaloo dancing
Say it loud
I’m black and I’m proud
James Brown listening
"Go on girl shake that thing"
Kind of Sisters.

Some face slapping
Hands on hips
"Don't mess with me,
Pack your bags and
get the hell out of my house"
Sorta women

Some PhD toten
Poetry writing
Portrait painting
"I'll see you in court"
World traveling
Stand back, I'm creating
Type of queens

I was raised by women

                  Kelly Norman Elllis

                                                                     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 montequilla 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. Mameeee!!” (her dead mother told her 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 unto 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.