Where I’m From

Last weekend I was at a retreat, and one of the exercises was to first read the poem Where I’m From, by George Ella Lyon, and then to write our own version, in a similar style, in 15 minutes.

I love poetry, but writing it is hard for me – having a pattern and a time limit made it somehow easier, much like the using haiku or Shakespearean sonnet as a form. (That doesn’t mean it makes it easy to write, or even produces a good poem. It just removes a barrier, by adding a constraint.)

Anyway, I liked it, and am putting it here. I encourage you to spend 15 minutes writing one of your own. If you do, I would love to see it.

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I’m from rolling hills, covered in cedar trees, oaks, and broken dreams.

I’m from hog killings, Kmart blue jeans, and gift wrap saved and folded from last year’s gifts, kept in the drawer with the saved ribbon and string.

I’m from folk who knew my daddy and his momma, who had no doubt I had been raised right, and to whom I will always be Little Hugh.

I’m from a brick church my grandaddy — who I did not know – built. It was here that I learned about potluck dinners, Jesus, and to distrust authority.

I’m from a volunteer fire department that was all that kept my community safe. Tragedy might strike at any minute, but our neighbors would save us.

I’m from heretics and preachers,

Enslavers and abolitionists,

Trad wives and closeted lesbians,

Rebel flags and the Stars and Stripes.

They haunt me, and they hold me

And every day, I get to choose.