 |
| These are the purple flowers mentioned in Mrs. Jackson's poem. |
If you are working on the poem at home, here is the rubric:
The
poem touches readers’ emotions, and stirs fresh insights, makes us see what
is unique about you.
|
The
poem shows creativity in the use of language including the use of metaphor
and simile. The poem creates sharp new
images (imagery).
|
The
poem is inspired by the model poem. (Evidence: Uses the line “I am from…” and “From….” as the framework for the images.) It
has a shift that clearly reveals an important image. Changes to the format after the shift are
purposeful and effective. It follows the guidelines for poem length
(20-40), number of stanzas (4-7), and appropriate line breaks. (It should not look like a paragraph).
|
The
poem is formatted neatly, (if typed use black Times New Roman size 12),
single-spaced with an extra space between stanzas. Careful proofreading for spelling, typos,
and other errors is evident.
|
In class, we offered students several tips based on having read hundreds of versions of Where I'm From poems. Be sure to take these to heart as you write.
- Avoid the “from-____to“ pattern.
Ex: I'm from the figs in the yard to the kumquats on the bush.
This makes it sound like you have reached your destination, and makes the poem sound done too soon.
- Avoid the "I AM" pattern.
- Avoid being too literal.
- Avoid the words “that” and “which” These make your details sound over-explained. Try taking it out and making the line make sense without it.
- Plan for a shift. How will you change up your last stanza to reveal your meaning?
Where
I’m From
by Christianne Blumberg
I am from the neighborhood of my dad’s own childhood,
From the duck pond, cracked sidewalks, and a snake-filled creek.
I’m from towering oak trees,
swaying giants providing shade from the brutal sun.
I’m from imagination,
a loud, disorganized friend that I’ve always known.
From bagel bites, lemonade sales, and The Tiger Club.
Red roller racers, my little ponies, skip bo, and boom boxes.
I’m from made-up music videos, forts under the dining room table,
and annual live nativity scenes.
I am from Perkin’s lot,
home to slimy earthworms, a decrepit dock,
a make-believe baseball diamond, and a gritty rock wall.
I’m from Momma’s chocolate pies, boiled peanuts, and fried okra.
From Daddy’s cheeseball on Christmas Day.
I’m from Aunt Teeny’s gumdrops, Sissy’s Coca-Cola,
Johnny’s doughburgers, and Osteen’s shrimp.
From a birthday party filled with salty popcorn and pickles.
I am from the strong smell of Chlorine,
the crack of a bat,
the flash of a camera,
and the squishy tumbling mat.
I’m from “Sleeping Booty” and holding books upside down.
From Wee Sing and Raffi,
during long car rides over the bridge.
From library cards glued into the back every book in the house,
an intricate check-out system,
charging a dime per hour for overdue fines.
I am from Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, and Dylan.
From “watch me” dancing in the den
(my fist as the microphone, a milk crate as my stage, my parents as my
audience).
From tenor saxophones, piano keys, oboes, and boys who played drums.
I am from “play louder” and being happy with second chair.
I am still from the neighborhood of my dad’s childhood,
The neighborhood of my past, present, and future.
Sidewalks that still have stories to tell,
Oak trees that still have protection to provide,
Memories that still have yet to be made by those who follow.
Where I'm From by Morgan Jackson
I’m
from Far-Mor
and Far-Far,
Clyde, and Manuel
From
opening
all the presents
From
Swedish meatballs
and Swedish fish.
From
go carts, trampolines, metal mailboxes,
and
a Georgia accent that’s too heavy to carry home.
I’m
from Mallory, Donald, Cherry, Willowbranch,
and
Oak, where I put down my roots.
I’m
from trapped tadpoles and freed frogs.
I’m
from magenta azaleas, and sulfur water sprinklers.
From
figs in the yard,
the
outside sueded
and brown, the inside pink and slimy,
(I
never ate them).
I’m
from the tart, fuzzy violet-striped flowers in my yard
(I
ate them all the time).
I’m
from “You’ll spoil your dinner” and “go play outside.”
I’m
from curls and ponytail-poppers
From
hair rolled into buns like princess Leia
From
grape bubble gum and Flintstones vitamins
I’m
from Annie, Francesca, and
Henrietta,
the Wild Woman of Borneo.
I’m
from my front steps, bricked and mossy
From
the city bus and the rusted floor of the VW
From
waiting
alone.
But I awoke each morning under a pink dotted
canopy,
A
ballerina music box spinning on my nightstand.
I
can still hear my mother’s voice:
“Morgan,
wake up. It’s the seven o’clock whistle.”
I’m
from that sound,
A
low, sweet sound like a train pulling the day behind it;
A
sound I thought she created
just
for me.
Where I'm From by Natalie Schoof
I am from antique furniture and shells,
spiny, shiny treasures from the
shore
finding a home
in our house.
I am from forts in the woods,
marshy, dense, mysterious.
From spring azaleas of pink, purple and white,
the giant magnolia tree with blooms
opening slowly, like phases of the
moon.
I’m from Selmer saxophones and #3 ½
Vandoren reeds.
From Sounds good! and Mark
time hut! And
jazzy lead-ins of a
one,
and a
two,
and a
three
and a
four…
I’m from our family’s collection of
cats,
orange stripes and spotted calico
softness,
wiry whiskers,
love and loss.
I am from early morning fishing
trips on the lazy green Gulf,
and day trips to springs,
waving eel grasses of the Ichetucknee
framing mermaid moves.
I’m from our family’s porch,
a stage that hosted this Solid Gold
dancer,
this Phantom and Les Mis singer
this Charlie Parker wannabe.
I’m from Stevie and Carl:
a platform from which I was
encouraged to dive headlong
into any stream –
any dream I wished.
