Where I’m From – in poetry

My Great-aunt, “Big Clara” (the tall one),as opposed to “Little Clara” (the shorter).

Colleen, of Loose Leaf Notes left a comment on my blog yesterday and I found myself at her blog, thanking her and having a nose around to see what she is all about. She is a brilliant writer, who writes from the heart and writes in such a way as to immediately draw you into her world. I have added her to my links in the sidebar.

At Colleen’s blog, I read a poem entitled “Where I’m From”. Upon reading it I began to wonder if she would think it too bold of me if I should attempt a similar type of poem since it was such a wonderful expression of who she is. I was pleased to notice that she actually attributed this poem to another person’s blog and that there is in fact a template for anyone who wants to write one like it. I can see Michelle Hix of Sont les mots… taking this on, or perhaps Fenny . Here is the link to the template and a bit of the history of the origin of the piece. You can read Colleen’s memorable poem here.

Here’s my version of “Where I’m From”

Scraps of Me

I’m from sixties’ suburbia,
pb & j and cheese-spread
in the canteloupe kitchen
of the brick bungalow
on Pyramid Crescent.

I‘m from blown dandelions
plucked daisies, and the buttercup test,
from pixie stix, pop rocks,
Dickie Dee bells
and candy cigarettes.

I’m from best-suit Sundays,
candle-lit Masses
and my father’s tenor tones
carrying each hymn
from memory.

I’m from the seventh one
of the twelve bastard-spawned
Catholics of Rodney Drive, Belfast —
the son who crossed
the Atlantic.

I’m from corned beef and cabbage,
Feis Eirann and the Clancy Bros,
Murphy-jokes and miracles,
clay pipes and pots of gold
at the end of the rainbow.

I’m from the middle daughter
of the shunned ex-Baptist–
the Dominion Coal Company clerk
of Glace Bay, Cape Breton
Nova Scotia.

I’m from bloodsuckers, seaweed,
and salt-water… “out East Bay”,
the house on Cottage Street
with the “Aren’t they gorgeous?”
sweet pea-beds, and tiger-lilies.

I’m from, “Who’s like you
since Leatherarse died?”
and frequently:
“What do you think this is,
your Father’s yacht?”

I’m from the roll of the sea
and the rise of the hills,
from blueberry pie,
“Big Clara’s” strawberry jam
and outdoor lobster feasts.

I’m from the nun-chase
across the Santana schoolyard
and the tear-stained
train-station farewell
at the age of 15.

I’m from acid-free albums
of corner-pointed pictures
and pinked photographs
of British army days
and “the old country”
in the footed tin box.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2008