Poem

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19 Responses to Poem

hansol says:

November 15, 2011 at 2:28 pm

I’m from

Hansol Lee

Eye-blinding yellow:
He climbs up the rocky Book-Han Mountain,
Carrying Jinho on his back.
His black sunglasses and the smile.
That never-changing portrait of him.

Forgotten white:
I hear his footsteps on the wooden floor.
Light, but determined.
I breathe silently (or at least I think I did.)
I hear him clank clank through the coats in the closet.
I hold my breath in, I hold my laughter in.
I hold my breath, I hold my laughter.

Seeping orange:
through that long, huge back veranda glass door.
(This may make her seem typical. But believe me.
She is not. She is extraordinary.)
Blue-white apron.
No matter what it is, I know we always love it.
I don’t think I ever didn’t, except that one time,
(she made me eat this healthy porridge for one month.)

Dark, dark, black, brown:
With just the desk light on,
Because it just feels like home.
Click, click, click.
There,
Grieg’s Peer Gynt.
Sheets spread, books stacked (some orderly, some not so much).
Grieg and the desk light (or Dvorak and the desk light).
That was almost a decade ago.

Pause, then Resume:
The symphonies of sirens,
The lines of lights,
(Rediscovering urban air, and
Redefining gourmet.)
I’m there.
I’m here.

Reply
Rebekah Misir says:

November 15, 2011 at 6:18 pm

I’m From
Rebekah Misir

I am from the house with the teal door
On 183rd
And morning glory vines on a small-squeaky front gate
I am from the back porch
My castle when I was the ice princess
On snowy days
I am from my mother in the warm kitchen
That led to the back porch

I’m from the popcorn ceiling
That watched over me as I slept
In my parents room
I’m from playing childish games under tables
With Chris as my father gave the sermon
In the old church
I’m from being baptized and
Experiencing worship
I’m from leaning about the Bible
And deciding to follow God for myself

I’m from doctor visits
When my mother got sick
I’m from crying after failing a math test
For the first time
I’m from Dasarat (my father)- the math professor
I’m from Ruth, Hanna, Deborah, and Sarah
Who show me love and care

I’m from Anne of Green Gables
And Matlida
And my family
My role models
I’m from the sound of Music
Each Christmas
And falling asleep on my fathers shoulder
Halfway through

I’m from P.S. 205, M.S.45, and LaGuardia High
Where I learned
To play kickball and softball
To compete in spelling bees and science fairs
To immerse myself in the arts
How amazing friendship is

I am from the moments of joy
And sadness
That have helped me to mature
I’m from people who care for and support me
I’m from that warm fuzzy feeling inside
That we call
Love
I’m from the desire to pass that love on to others

Reply
timosha21 says:

November 15, 2011 at 6:43 pm

Where I am From
By Tim Migliore

In an apartment I was raised.
From the dawn of time
I saw from the window
A parking lot, a busy street
It was a fun apartment but
With no basement to relish in

I am from the mocked state of New Jersey
From the North
Englewood, New Jersey
The smell of secaucus
Life shaped by grand New York City
Just across the river

I am from a room
That I shared with my younger sister
Oh how we fought constantly
My hiding place was under the bed
For there nobody would find me.

I am from the world
Every summer visiting every country
From Greece to Russia, from Egypt to Turkey
Each new place opening my understanding

My roots, they are from the great mother Russia
Russian traditions reigned supreme in my life
From being baptized as a Russian Orthodox
To celebrating Russian Easter and Christmas
(two Christmases for the price of one!)

The music of my childhood
So mixed, so diverse
Whether it be Russian folk
Калинка, калинка, калинка моя!. (Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka moya!)
В саду ягода малинка, малинка моя! (V sadu yagoda malinka, malinka moya!)
techno, or heavy rock.
I listened to it all

I am from the land of music
Forced time after time to play the piano
Fingers running a marathon
Annoying my teacher with sour notes.

I come from the dead
When I was young I walked to far
Into a lake and drowned
But my mother saved me
For some time I was terrified of that lake

All in all
I come from a desirable background
I come from a childhood that was good
I come from an eternity of thankfulness
For my loving parents
Who supported me all the way.

Reply
Giona Vazhappilly says:

November 15, 2011 at 6:44 pm

Giona Vazhappilly
From Somewhere, From Something

I am from the hot, blazing desert with luscious greenery
To a snowy, lonely island
From large parties to small gatherings
I am from Muscat to Amityville
And hen to Westchester
I am from Edgemont to Lehman
Home to another home

Can’t resist the smell of her tomato curry, rich with spices and color
She strangely looks like me at times
He loves the Mercedes and…to smile
The name was Joshua but we called him Dosha, mmm perhaps cute enough to eat…?
Anyways, he is hardworking, with an obsession w/ Cristiano’s abs
A fear of death and sickness
She finds strength in her belief
An oddball stalker that likes to laugh
She’s a procrastinator, with a rarely serious nature

I am from the saffron, the green, and the blue chakram on white
From business casuals and dresses to the pattu pavadas and onam settu
From the Big Mac with fries to the steel pathram of chore
From Eminem to Jayam Ravi & Asin

Reading under the moonlight to blogging under laptop light
The mallu from home & the english from school back in Oman
I’m from the hindi I learned by watching movies and the espanol from mi clase
The korean from dramas and japanese from animes

In the end
I am from “dey njan Vazhappillya”, to the “I am, Giona”

Reply
Taylor Biegel says:

November 15, 2011 at 7:03 pm

Where I’m From:

I am from the town across the old one-lane bridge.
From the backyard made for exploration, and the dog I was sure could leap over the fence.
I am from lollypops at the dry-cleaners, puppet shows with mom and hoola-hooping with dad.

I am from family dinners every night,
Tell us about your day, don’t interrupt, speak clearly, speak up.
I am from do as you are told, don’t talk back, yes mom, yes dad.
From morals and ethics.
From Do the right thing.
Learn from mistakes.
Think clearly.
Stay calm.

I am from secret sharing with Hayley.
Tiptoeing into her room, staying up all night (in child’s time), laughing till we cried.
From the days we fought, glaring, unspeaking. Petty arguments, refusal to forgive.
To the days we played in a forever. Hide and seek, house, our dangerous spinning game.
I am from searching for leprechauns, and finding fairies in the garden.

I am from traditions.
Thursdays with Grammy and Sundays with Grandpa-with-the mustache,
Picnic at the bay,
Family rides on the surrey bike.

I am from the water.
From freezing morning practices to steamy winter meets indoors.
From team dinners to angry coaches.
Shivering anxiety as I tower above the water, then my mind filled with a cold blast.
Cheers from the crowd mixed with water in my ears.
Shaking hands with the competition, learning to be part of a team.

I am from exotic vacations to warm and beautiful places.
Costa Rica, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Hawaii.
No worries, no stress.
Just me.
And us four.
Us four on horseback rides, waterfall swimming, rainforest zip lining, and jumping into the middle of the ocean.

I am from piano lessons every Tuesday and Kindermusic class.
From recitals at age 5 with sweaty hands and Mary had a Little Lamb.
To performing Mozart and Beethoven, confident, a second language.

I am from New York, new beginnings, new friends.
From lonely high school to teenage adventures.
Flying off rope swings,
Surfing behind a jet ski, trying to prove the boys wrong,
Our snowboarding disaster,
Long days and longer nights. Falling asleep in the back of his car, sunburnt and sore.

I am from nights spent around the fire- wearing his jacket, secretly holding his hand, hair smelling like smoke and happiness for days to come.
From cold winter nights, botching brownies, scary movies, cozy and crowded on the couch.
To scrambling up a mountain, terrified of falling.
But knowing he will catch me like he always does.

I am from sleepovers and sharing secrets, getting advice and giving hugs, arguing and agreeing, forgetting and forgiving, making mistakes,
And learning from them.
I am from late-night phone conversations with best friends and boyfriends.
Words, whispered under the comfort of the covers.

I am from new friends and new love.
To best friend and true love.

Reply
Daisy Berisha says:

November 15, 2011 at 7:13 pm

Where I’m From

I’m from the grass between my toes,
And the bumblebees that stung me,
The scent of grass beneath my nose
Underneath the plum tree.
I’m from the frog under my fingers,
Squirming, fidgeting until I set it free.
The slimy feeling that lingers,
The way we knew it’d always be.
I’m from the tree house we built on the ground
And all the cigarettes we snuck in
“Do I look good with this?” we passed it ‘round,
The four of us laughing there within.
I’m from sleeping on the floor next to you
Military style, we’d call it
And you’d rub my back and tell us stories too,
Packed together so tightly knit.
I’m from the haystacks my grandfather put up
“Bismi Allah…” whenever we’d do something crazy
Like sneak into the Mosque, barefoot, close-up
Copying the men, on the floor being lazy.
I’m from the dark, dark nights
Listening to a cat sneak into the kitchen
Knocking down dishes from the heights
Waiting for Nana to catch that kitten.
I’m from the long walks in the sun
To get to those cliffs and that rock
To jump off, starting with a brisk run
Into the sea with our fingers locked
I’m from plum picking and ladder climbing
And trying to dodge the beehives
Grape grabbing and good timing
And having the time of our lives.
I’m from the beaches and the bars,
Starbathing on a sunbathing chair,
Pointing out every fleeting glimpse of shooting stars
The smell of salt and fire in the air.
I’m from playing cards on the veranda and in the yard
Sitting near or under the fig tree
“Xhol!” you’d say and throw down hard
But without the red joker you can’t beat me.
I am from the nights you’d sing
E bukur është vallja
And all the dancing that would bring
Kur kërcen sorkadhja.

Reply
Jonathan Moallem says:

November 15, 2011 at 8:14 pm

Where I’m From
I am from worlds far apart
From clashing lifestyles
I am from “Bayberry”
Kids playing after school leading to fights
I am from the reservoir
From a packed house that gave not even an inch to escape
From dark streets filled with the voices of restless children
To sleep talking with my brothers from across the room

I am from Manchester United every Sunday morning
My dad, my brothers and I screaming at the tv as if the players could hear us
I am from New Ro soccer and New Ro rugby
I remember the feeling if scoring my first try

I am from Nana’s famous potatoes
To the aroma of Safta’s Kuba and Falafel, drawin g my into the kitchen
From her “pets as children” and “children as pets”
To her number one rule of never leaving food on your plate
I hear stories of growing up in my town
To stories of terrorists on the roof of the house
I am torn between the American dream
To soldiers with guns on every corner

I am from four siblings on a cot
No A/C and sweaty nights
I am from busy streets
And everyday beach days
I’m from the overwhelming smell of cigarettes
And a world in which communication is nonexistent
I am from the birthplace of religion
And feeling like a stray cat that roamed the paved streets

I am from that moment when two different worlds come together
Not understanding each other, but giving a smile of acknowledgment
My life is a bridged gap
Ramat Gan meets New York
I am old school and new school
I am a family tree
With roots deeply situated throughout the world
A human who understands humans are humans

Reply
Harry Chen says:

November 15, 2011 at 9:10 pm

Harry Chen

I’m from tropical weather
Blazing sun and lingering heat
From a big family with big shoes to fill
Undisturbed by the world outside a daycare

I’m from sweet cold drinks and swirly popsicles
Warmed by the breath of the world
From climbing over an urban jungle gym
Undisturbed by the world outside of my own

I’m from Taiwan to Canada
Stepping onto red and white soil at the age of three
From bok choy and a rich oriental language
To the metropolitan city of Toronto

I’m from continental weather
Tirelessly taking off and piling layers
From the diversity of an unique capital
CN Tower rising above the culture of the immigrants

I’m from a quiet residential neighbourhood
Lines of houses resembling one another
From suburban to urban
Waiting anxiously for my working parents to return

I’m from exotic foods to sandy layers of paste
Squirting them down with a swig
From the Chinese yo-yo to Chutes and Ladders
From making new friends through the ups and downs of my fate

I’m from years in the public school system
Learning my French conjugations as well as ways to break the rules
From hide and seek tagging along to hockey
Scraping my knee carelessly along the way

I’m from language mastering to loss of words
Language standing me out like a sore thumb
From awkward greetings and judgment
Thinking of the life back in the old days

Je suis du saucisson et de les baguettes
Les saveurs etrangeres dancent sur ma langue
From bad accent to stares at my culture
Asked and given just as many questions

I’m from learning about the world on top of the world
Rain cleansing the building and drowning the streets below
From soft green fields to urban playground
From chasing around classroom floors
Where laughter and sneakers echo through the empty building

I’m from apartments stacked high
Conversations and odd news diffusing across the walls
From oriental noodles and bubble tea
Filled with enough taste to start questioning

I’m from the life at night
Stalls and stores opening when the world sleeps
From owners seeking commoners to naïve tourists
Games of skill appeasing fun’s appetite

I’m from hot pots steaming with seafood and meats
Adding sauces to enhance and tame flavour
From slipping noodles to sipping soup
Causing passers-by to stare into the heat filled room

I’m from forever family and friends
Celebrating the rich diversity that makes me
From one place to another
Bringing along my experiences to very new face.

Reply
Stephanie Chung says:

November 15, 2011 at 10:02 pm

Where I’m From

I am from the city that never sleeps,
Whose parks I never fully explored.
From bike rides to the Bayside Marina,
to lovely wintery nights down Bell,
I am from suburbia.

I’m from hours of Mark Kistler on PBS,
From proud displays of chalk art lining the sidewalk
From jewelry made out of weeds from the backyard
that were almost always too loose.

I am from a world of forts made out of picture books I’ve outgrown
From sticker packs too nice to use,
From countless trips to the public library,
To impromptu camping trips throughout the country.

From macaroni necklaces
and burnt experimental brownies,
I am from a world of righties,
when meant to be a lefty
struggling to figure out which hand to use
when cutting hearts out of pink construction paper.

From a place halfway across the world
filled with people speaking in my mother tongue-
(Something I still haven’t quite grasped)

I am from self taught finger painting classes,
unsuccessful tennis lessons,
and endless hours of entertainment
from two tin cans and a single string.

I am from my imagination,
Where anything goes.

Reply
Alison Wong says:

November 16, 2011 at 1:21 am

Where I’m From

I’m from bicycles with training wheels
And hopscotch and tag
The trees stood between
the warfare we had
there was always the one
who sobbed and whined
she would never play fair
when we could fly
she’d circle the bushes
as we hid beneath
the twigs slightly protruding
into our feet
she’d moan and sob until
we came out
she’d bottled her force
and tag us all down.
She’d raise her hand
With a victory wave
Her laurels rusting
With her blissful gaze

After the day of tag and deceit
We’d walk back home
For the dinnerly feast
I’d leave my house to cross the way
In which my grandmother’s door remained

It is there where the laurels reside
Atop the head of my grandmother’s pride
She stood with modesty
A slight hunch to her back
Her curls untwisted with the sweat
down her back
as we’d arrive she’d smile and raise
her two fragile hands
with no shake to her gaze
as we’d lean down for a hug and kiss
we knew the red lipstick would always stick
Once we left it
and she smiled so bright
we knew this simple gesture
had made her night.

The shy house clanged
With swift metal knives
The sharp steel barely
Cutting five fingers at a time
She’d take the knife
As large as her foot
And raise it high
Determined and suit
And we’d watch all
Our fish turn into food
The rice scooped onto plates
Setting the mood
The sizzles and pops
Raced on the stove
Which were transferred to plates
In minutes or so
The green beans and garlic
And shitake and beef
The mei-fun noodles
Which only she can complete
The lobster with black beans
And scallions and sauce
The scallops and shrimp
And no desire to toss
There were seconds and thirds
And fourths for some
As I had a spoonful she’s ask “Was I Full?”
Either yes or no, it did not matter
The nod or the shake still made me fatter
When I was full I’d shake my head
One hand resting upon my stomach
Asking for my bed
We’d run around and chat some more
Chasing my cousins out the door.

As we left to our house
across the street
We’d hug and we’d kiss
And we’d walk the big leap.
But before we left she’d smile and raise
Her two fragile arms
With no shake to her gaze
we knew the red lipstick would always stick
And not until now did we noticed how thick
It stood time and mortality
And suffered the loss
But still it remains stuck to all of our hearts.

Reply
Jordan Fogle says:

November 16, 2011 at 5:50 pm

I am from
Under a southern sun
Suburban streets orange-ish gold
Thrusting arms toward the sky
Head-cocked and starry eyed
Mumblety-peg by the Lake
Cypress trees, pumpkin seeds
Smoked brisket and blues
Sprawled out in dew grass
Drowned in sensory
The high school field’s a savannah
Where we hum away the days
Living solely on music
and on movies and cigars
worried and restless
always dreaming of stars
blocking out the drone
of a torn, adult world
Sonic youth meditation
A Wikipedia weekend
Our self-expression was therapy
I remember shitting my pants at a daycare one day
I remember planting yuccas in a summer-laden haze
Like a droplet of water
A deflating balloon
Struck down in the mud
on a Sunday at noon
My headstone blooms, silent
from a tangle of ferns
beneath it, a void
that bitches and burns
kissing the scars
with fingers unfurled
sucking on lemons
in a forested world

Reply
stevem says:

November 16, 2011 at 11:37 pm

Steve Mathew

Me kanha se aya

I am from the once quiet capital of India,
Where suburban areas still existed.
From 146 LIG Flats, Sarita Vihar.
Small flats with rooms and dark streets,
And a large open park with giant eucalyptus trees.
I am from 6948956,
Before the massive population growth that forced a antecedent

Njan Keralathinna vanaranu,
Par meh Hindi me hi bathe karta tha.
Roz Mummi danthi thi, pur kbhi nanhi suthra.
I am from the local customs,
from lights and booms of Diwali,
The colors and waterguns of Holi,
And the fiery effigy of Rawan on Dussera.
Pashe njaan catholican aa irunu,
Praying and attending mass.
Singing the joyous carols in Christmas,
From “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” to “We Three Kings of Orient Are.”

I am from parents who faced poverty,
Benny Mathew and Beenama Thomas
Bright and Brave in every way,
Beyond me, Way above my level.
They had no choice but study,
And make a treacherous trip to Delhi to find higher education and jobs,
Or suffer from unforgiving society that devours the poor.

Meh Don Bosco se aya.
DON’T TALK IN HINDI.
Par saare rules bhool gaya.
From weekly tests and three hour long final exams, and Board,
That I never cared about.
Getting A’s if I liked the class,
Which was not often.
Njaan adhium idiumne wannadannu,
Bullied for my difference,
But willing to stand up for what was right.

I am from March 16th 2006.
Reaching the US for renewal.
College education, and high school academics.
From awkward interactions due to my Indian accent when I was in PS 29 ,
To Great but short-lived friendships,
With Issa, Omar, and Seth.
Overcoming shyness when talking to girls.
Getting A’s without trying.
I cant forget the half-hour TV shows,
Drake and Josh, Power-rangers, Ned’s Declassified, Zach and Cody.
Copying the American accent, while forgetting Hindi.
“Tuh Angrezh ban gaya”

I am from Edgemont High School.
Getting A’s when I was focused,
Receiving B’s just as quickly for negligence.
From the cold sweat and nervousness from math tests,
Unfocused To the chatter and non-sense during lunch.
I am from fast personality changes,
From a focused loner who gave a “dead-eye” look,
To a digressive debater talking about Zizek,
To a sleep deprived fool with a messy beard and red eyes,
And the last change from a fearful, nervous senior to a sociable graduate,
For this, I forever thank my friends.
True friends that I found at last.
I will never forget Lawrence, Kevin, and Susanna,
Others too, but there will be too many names for this page.

College will be an interesting journey,
I have got great friends—a sort of an extended family
And, I hope to achieve my dreams for medicals school.

Reply
romiz says:

November 16, 2011 at 11:38 pm

Where I am From

I am from 101 avenues,
Where the screeching of toddlers and trains breaks the silence.
I am from apartment number 77-17,
Three small rooms on the second floor.
I am from stealing the remote and striking the cable box,
Because the static only responds to threats.
I am from arroz con pollo and platanos con salami,
A scent that causes the hungry to grow impatient.
I am from always sharing a bed,
Dodging kicks in my sleep.

I am from going across the street to the Ozone Park bodega.
I am from tailing my mom on her errands,
Scouring three different supermarkets to get the best food.
I am from crying for help when I was lost,
Afraid of being left behind or taken somewhere strange.

I am from birthdays in the fall booming with bachata,
Music that makes the family lively on every occasion.
I am from never having to ask what type of cake it is,
Dominican with a no longer surprising pineapple center
I am from New York winters pelted with snow,
Hiding from the cold under layers and puffy coats.
I am from sunburned summers at sparkling Caribbean seas,
Offering salty fried fish and refreshing coconut drinks.
I am from exploring the land where I meet new family,
Everyone struggling with my Spanish.

I am from flying back in the fall to renew the cycle
With that first ride on the yellow bus.

Reply
Natalia says:

November 17, 2011 at 1:00 am

I am from Englewood NJ
From a basement with a bar and a rusty door to outside
I remember the bunk beds we slept in, my older sister and I
I am from my grandma sewing costumes for all my 3 sisters and me every Halloween, my favorite was the Belle costume from Beauty and the Beast
From fried ripe plantain with white rice which she also cooked for us

I am from the bright red Saab my uncle used to drive
The Hunchback Honda my mother used to drive

I am from The Lord is My Shepard,
Our Father,
Hail Mary Full of Grace

I descend from Colombia by nationality – Black, Caucasian, Native American by race
With hair that is soft and stubborn

I am from Teaneck NJ 07666
From the Harry Potter books my 2nd grade teacher used to read to my class
My mother, the Librarian, she seemed to have read every book she processed
I am from an older and a younger sister who are natural bookworms, like mommy and unlike me

I am from the math gene
Algebra 2 division of polynomials
I am from the trigonometry I never memorized
The calculus I underestimated

I am from a rich culture
Dance – Folkloric, Interpretive, Modern

I am from Independence
My first car, a white Toyota Camry
I am from responsibility, my first car accident
A Toyota Camry with a crashed in fender and distorted hood

I belong to Macaulay Honors College
And my political science class that forces me to climb more than 6 flights of stairs in Carman Hall
I belong to Lehman College and CUNY – I have a new triple identity

I am a first generation born American citizen, from naturalized parents and a huge extended family
I am from more than words can express
Each picture worth a thousand words, each thousand words too insufficient
I am Natalia A Oliver

Reply
jlawlor says:

November 17, 2011 at 1:22 pm

The Look Back

I am from Morningside Heights
From the council flats in Liverpool to the mansions lining Southport
I am from an archivist, a teacher
From a naval diver and a soccer legend
I am from steeped traditions
Four-leafed clovers screaming “Irish blood”
Morrissey screaming “English heart”

I’m from bike racks to overflowing bookcases
From midday rides to midnight reads
I’m from Folkmasters, Huangs, and Harper Lees
Delta blues and “Whammer Jammer”
I’m from Chinese fish and chips
From five tins of Cadbury roses for Christmas

I’m from the one and nine trains
From eight years of MTA “service” and a transit strike
I’m from 165 to Computer School
From salutatorian to SAT prep
I’m from the charms of the Upper West Side and Tom’s Restaurant

I’m from 112th street
I’m from Friday nights
I’m from living for the weekends

I’m from macho men and bookworms
Lifelong friends and a pair of brothers
I’m from football games in Riverside Park
I’m from too much Sly Stallone and DBZ
From study and stoicism and “change we can believe in”

I am from Saturday vigil masses
From English Anglicanism and Irish Catholicism
I am from graduation parties and a funeral
I am from a promising future
From a Lance Armstrong look back to arms raised in victory

Reply
hayoung says:

November 18, 2011 at 3:35 am

I am from Busan,
the city of beach
at the margin of South Korea
Where people are in love with seafood
And baseball is a religion.

I am from a factory
Spending whole day in the office
playing Super Mario with my brother Bobby
Waiting my parents to finish their works
And to hug us with their colorful arms

I am from a Kendo dojo
Hoping to be a longhaired samurai
Killing a lot of imaginary enemies with my wooden sword
Including many lightbulbs on the ceiling in my house

I am from the country of bananas
with halohalo and rompiyas melting my tougue
and mangoes on the tree doesn’t perish
Oh, Be careful, when you are eating durians
Do not talk to your friends unless you wanna lose them
Because you will be smelling like poo poo

I am from small Korea in the Philippines
Where I had only four male classmates in my senior years
Whom I spend entire high school years
and fourteen hours a day together in a small classroom
Meaning,
I had four brothers rather than four friends

I am from a huge backpack
walking without a destination
dancing to give smiles to whoever loves us
playing Jang-goo for whoever I met on the road
from a travel to find the true meaning of life

I am from an English camp
Where my love for children became bread and juice
Making chu chu train
Dancing to make them laugh
All I want is your happiness, my dear student
Do not forget me, your sarah teacher

I am from the Dolphin class in kindergarten
Beginning every morning with kisses of my little yellow chicks
Happiness comes from these little ugly letters
From Sunshines that brightens darkness of life

I am from Jung family
With two missionaries and a seaman and a future musician
And a Chinese dog
From the place where I can find a peace
From the shelter where I can call home

Reply
Sifaat says:

November 21, 2011 at 9:51 pm

“I Am From”

I closed my eyes and saw
A prairie.
It rolled softly under the
Carefree clouds.
I then remembered the
Sun at its peak
While the Red hawks
Shadowed the cornfields below.
Bicycles rolled on earthly paths.
Highways led to
An endless horizon.
Children loved the swings
At Weber Elementary.
And time sometimes stopped
At the plain’s beauty.
From the rich Iowa dirt
That cooled my prostrated
Forehead,
I am from those who said
SubhanAllah- glorified
Is God.

When my hands fell
At a late afternoon,
A straight road ran through
A school of purple trees.
Roses sighed as the
Wind passed by.
Leaves shimmered as the
Street bathed in sunlight.
Surgical tapes wrapped
My seasoned wrist
So the mat can become
The canvas for my art.
Youth coming together
In the alliance of a bigger picture.
Brotherhood united strongly
In the community of one faith.
From the bowed remembrance
At the street of Throgs Neck,
I am from those who said
Alhamdulillah- all praises
To God.

Dusk arrived and snow fell.
Winter’s breath began to stir.
It raised its howl and
Whispered in my frosted ears.
Sadness, daydream
Empty, contemplation
Monotony, despair
Feelings and thoughts ran
Through in a mix
Reflection and Reminiscence
Wed at sunset.
From the lit Chicago lamps
Silhouetting my contemplation,
I am from those who said
InshaAllah- if God wills.

Then darkness shrouded
My raised hands.
Footsteps hurried as they
Echoed with the prayer’s call.
Constellations loomed
In the endless heavens.
Cars circulated
In the temporary world.
Mistakes were made.
But intentions were renewed.
Humility, modesty
Loyalty, Chivalry
Truth, patience
The will and hope
Still ignited alive in the heart.
From the solitary supplication
In New York City’s
Last third of the night
I am from those who said
Astaghfirullah- God please
Forgive me.

Now dawn approached
And water raced down
My chin.
I mentioned peace
At my right and left
And tranquility descended
Like sakura petals.
From the singing birds
To my wide open eyes,
I am from those who said
Allahu Akbar- God is
The Greatest.

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Karem Penalo says:

November 22, 2011 at 10:10 am

Where I’m From

I’m from early Sunday mornings and wearing shiny black shoes.
Tired and sleepy, not one of us a ‘morning person’,
we constantly nodded off in the pews, awakened every once in a while by the choir.

I’m of the clunkers my Dad would fix in the mornings and then drive to school to pick us up in during his lunch hour.
Frankenstein-esque cars of different color parts welded together which made all kinds of sounds as he drove down sun-lit streets.
I’m of the appreciation I felt at having been spared the long walk home.

I’m the contour of the chalk drawings my sister and I made
on the plywood underside of the coffee table.
Lying down on our backs on the itchy rug,
our arms extended upward.

I’m of Grandma’s kitchen— its scent, humid and heavy regardless of season or dish.
My nose having been sculpted by its odd vapors.
There, I learned of misleading first impressions: everything that came from within was nothing but delicious.

I’m from afternoons spent holding down the rewind button on a VHS player for what seemed an eternity,
my index finger becoming red from the pressure,
knowing it’d be worth it when colors appeared and the adventures began anew.

I’m of the catalyst of a fire hydrant,
I’m witness to its convergence of a dry and deserted sidewalk into a summer oasis,
the sluggish moods of the neighborhood being washed away by a glistening, watery arc.

I’m of the stories Mom would tell us in whispers at the foot of our bed.
Stories of her childhood, of a rustic, magical quality even in their mundaneness.
The haunted mill, the woman who’d lost her mind and wandered the town,
All of them with a cast of family members so far from us on the tree,
we weren’t really sure if it was still the same one.

Oddly calming and riveting, they seemed to be the sort of events that only took place where stars still shone at night, the perverse glare of a light bulb still unknown.

I’m of these moments, miniscule and fleeting,
humdrum and commonplace, but every single one distinct.
Every single one fond.

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lucas vizeu says:

December 6, 2011 at 1:26 pm

From a home on 15th between 7th and 8th
Living with windows with gates
Had a cat, a train, N 64
And a Mom that never ignored
It was great

From a catholic nursery
Across the street
With smiling nuns
It was lots of fun
Playing basketball incompetently

From an elementary institute
When we were bratty yet cute
Learned subjects with unit FM
Some people, I liked them
It was an odd time, it’s true

From an island that’s always sunny
Except when it’s cloudy or rainy
With plenty beaches
As far as the eye reaches
It’s a pleasant place to be

The language is simple
Like Spanish yet minimal
Con curaçao
Era um educaçcao
Qui era mui facil

From a Brazilian catholic school
With a school uniform rule
And various core subjects
Somewhat comprehensive aspects
And various educational tools

From the Old man’s home
With just a TV and phone
A go-cart and swings
Birds and antiquities
It’s quite nice in tone

At least when there is light
It’s scary at night
When it’s dusty and creaky
And super creepy
I really can’t sleep right

The beds are hard,
The room is dark
Couches are plastic
Borderline spastic
Probably cause I’m on guard

From the Island of Manhattan
Brazilian and Dominican
Raised in Chelsea
In a New York City
Awake constantly, it can

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