Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt will get you a tune, some truth in a poem and a collection of home-grown doors. And then I left, or arrived, as you look at it.
First a tune to get into the groove.
Challenge 11: “We’d like to challenge you to write a poem of origin. Where are you from? Not just geographically, but emotionally, physically, spiritually? … And having come from there, where are you now?”
Where I'm from
Where I’m from
was the best place to become me
but then I left.
I never felt anything was lost
by bringing me here.
By driving myself, actually,
for seven hours or so,
all the way to Florence
where my prince, nodding beside me,
took over the wheel
and we got a little lost in Tuscany hills
because who cares, right?
If it doesn’t matter where you are,
getting lost doesn’t exist.
Where I’m from,
people rolled their eyes
and sighed “It won’t last, you want to bet?”
but not to my face,
to my mother’s face, which is worse
because I’d have said something back
while she probably didn’t
only her fear’s ears wiggled.
Where I’m from,
I moved either to paradise on earth
and the mention of Tuscany
gets me a fierce piercing stare
with eyes half closed
full of unexpressed
accusation – “how dare you leave us, bitch?”
regret – “oh, how I would too if I could”,
envy – “why you of all people?”
longing – “it’s my dream place!”
waiting for the invitation,
or rational thoughts prevail:
“You moved to God’s behind.
There is nothing there.
The only part of Italy without highway.
You live in the middle of nowhere.”
Yes, I and flamingos, dad.
We know what’s good for us.
So I arrived
and didn’t return.
It is as April now as it was then,
six years ago this Sunday.
I didn’t wear socks till November.
And now to the doors because it’s Thursday. Here is a look at Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia, my city of origin.
Above I may say that I didn’t return but I mean for good. I do come on regular visits and the doors below are from two such visits, one last summer, the other last October.
and for Day 11 of NaPoWriMo