This is a poem I wrote last year in the first semester of a creative writing class I took. Even with of all the poems I wrote and rewrote this one is still my favorite and probably the least personal. I am working on building up the courage to show all of you some of my more personal poetry so, stay tuned. This poem was a response to a poem we read in the class, (i can’t find the poem it was in response to). It brought back memories of the things I did at home and that everyone one did there and if you did that here would be frown upon or just looked at in a weird way. It made me see how different the city really was compared to my small town.
When looking and reading poetry I feel as though you are looking into the mind of the writer and you can feel the emotions they were feeling at the time of writing that poem. And in the this, it is obvious how I was feeling with having just moved away from my home town. So here it is!
|North of Suburbia|
In the over growth of a small rural town
the trees speak in pine needle whispers
and the whiskey jacks sing symphonies all day long.
Through the thickness of pines and poplars lays
a dirt packed and pebble plastered back road
that leads to home.
Only five houses subsist in this part of town,
Each with its own crooked character.
Spaced unevenly without a single white picket divide.
Each house had one thing in common,
a hunter and fisher family no bigger than four.
We were all family here,
all cousins, siblings, aunts, and uncles
but each with a different last name.
Each believed the bigger the yard and the small the house the better.