Where I am From

Untitled This is a poem I shared with my cohort this past week- it was a great exercise for getting to know my classmates, and for our teacher to get to know us. It also lets our poetic voice shine for a brief moment (insert snaps all around) and is an assignment I will be sure to use in my classroom. I have also added a recent painting of mine that I created when thinking of my hometown, that I miss so dearly.

Where I am From
I am from the ski boots patched with duct tape,
From the wooden snowshoes older then my Dad
I am from the fire logs piled high on the back porch (that crackle and sigh when ablaze)
From the red toolbox that dirties your fingertips and smells like ripe metal

I am from circles and squares that bed my mother’s flowers
From the heavy shovel that sees spring and summer long after winter
I am from fireweed, and moose poop that should plague my yard… but doesn’t

I am from small furry escapees free from Mr. Black’s training kennel
From the old man who runs every day rain , shine or snowstorm
From the village with street names that inspired many paths (down Stanford, stopping at Brown and rounding Berkley)

I am from a land of flannel and extratuff’s where the “odds are good, but the goods are odd”
From a place the raven has supreme power and sleeping bears should never be poked
I am from fresh halibut and smoked salmon
From fried bread and where mayo is added to everything
I am from a land that houses many memoires
Carved in the purple mountains
Flowing through the Kinik arm
To freeze in time on the Portage Glacier.
This is my home that I carry with me , this is where I am from.

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5 thoughts on “Where I am From

  1. I absolutely love your painting and the different textures and layers it offers us. I remember you saying that you were concerned that your poem didn’t reflect yourself more deeply (correct me if I’m wrong). I actually remember really liking yours. I think the subtle details you wrote are almost as fine as what you painted. Thank you for sharing!

    Also, ski boots that need tape might not be the safest boots, eh? 😀

  2. When you were reading your poem in class, it reminded me of many things that I didn’t put in my poem, but are also very dear to where I come from. I patched my soccer cleats with duct tape like your ski boot, and we also had firewood piled out back ready to be burnt.
    I’m curious about the moose poop though. Why doesn’t i plague your yard even though it should?

    • Ahh the ever amazing duct tape , thank you for the response! It’s always those little details of our childhood and hometown that we never realized shaped us until we have to purposely reflect on it- the moose poop being something that should be bothersome (like a neighbors dog poop in your front yard!) but when I think of it now –living in a place with no moose poop- I actually miss it a little. Side Note: I absolutely loved your poem and though you painted a beautiful piece of your history.

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