Where I'm From Poems (Poems about Who We Are)

Reading “where I’m from poems” makes you question your individuality and identity. Poems like this are very philosophical and racial specific, with an aim to poise the reader into self-awareness.

Where I’m From Poems

Below are poems about individuality and identity. When you read these poems you will understand the power of identity.

Individuality

O yes, I love you, and with all my heart;
Just as a weaker woman loves her own,
Better than I love my belove’d art,
Which, till you came, reigned royally, alone,
My king, my master. Since I saw your face
I have dethroned it, and you hold that place.

I am as weak as other women are
Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb.
Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far;
Sometimes I think there is not space or room
In all the earth for such a love as mine,
And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.

I know that your desertion or neglect
Could break my heart, as women’s hearts do break.
If my wan days had nothing to expect
From your love’s splendor, all joy would forsake
The chambers of my soul. Yes, this is true.
And yet, and yet–one thing I keep from you.

There is a subtle part of me, which went
Into my long pursued and worshipped art;
Though your great love fills me with such content
No other love finds room now, in my heart.
Yet that rare essence was my art’s alone.
Thank God you cannot grasp it; ’tis mine own.

Thank God, I say, for while I love you so,
With that vast love, as passionate as tender,
I feel an exultation as I know
I have not made you a complete surrender.
Here is my body; bruise it, if you will,
And break my heart; I have that something still.

You cannot grasp it. Seize the breath of morn,
Or bind the perfume of the rose as well.
God put it in my soul when I was born;
It is not mine to give away, or sell,
Or offer up on any altar shrine.
It was my art’s; and when not art’s, ’tis mine.

For love’s sake, I can put the art away,
Or anything which stands ‘twixt me and you.
But that strange essence God bestowed, I say,
To permeate the work He gave to do:
And it cannot be drained, dissolved, or sent
Through any channel, save the one He meant.

By, Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

By, Robert Frost

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Where I’m From

I am from cardboard box rockets,
from books and unicycles.
I am from a tumble-down shack, white paint peeling,
a kitchen floor perfect for hopscotch on winter days.
I am from the ancient elm outside my window
whose leaves waved “come play” like a good friend- now gone.

I am from bare feet and grand forts built in the summer heat,
from grandfathers, Ralph, and Mike.
I am from half-truths and whole lies,
from missed opportunities and possibilities.

I am from the produce box my father carried on his shoulder,
from a kaleidoscope of vegetables for dinner.
I am from a grandmother who had twelve children
and little time for poetry,
and from birds of prey perched on my father’s fist.

Each week, the bookmobile delivered a new adventure
tucked between pages.
I am from these moments—
the good, the bad, and the in-between
that both tethered me
and gave me wings.

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The River

I am a river flowing from God’s sea

Through devious ways. He mapped my course for me;

I cannot change it; mine alone the toil

To keep the waters free from grime and soil.

The winding river ends where it began;

And when my life has compassed its brief span

I must return to that mysterious source.

So let me gather daily on my course

The perfume from the blossoms as I pass,

Balm from the pines, and healing from the grass,

And carry down my current as I go

Not common stones but precious gems to show;

And tears (the holy water from sad eyes)

Back to God’s sea, from which all rivers rise

Let me convey, not blood from wounded hearts,

Nor poison which the upas tree imparts.

When over flowery vales I leap with joy,

Let me not devastate them, nor destroy,

But rather leave them fairer to the sight;

Mine be the lot to comfort and delight.

And if down awful chasms I needs must leap

Let me not murmur at my lot, but sweep

On bravely to the end without one fear,

Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near.

Love sent me forth, to Love I go again,

For Love is all, and over all. Amen.

By, Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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Where I’m From

I am from clothespins,

From Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.

I am from the dirt under the back porch.

(Black, glistening,

it tasted like beets.)

I am from the forsythia bush

the Dutch elm

whose long-gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I’m from fudge and eyeglasses,

from Imogene and Alafair.

I’m from the know-it-alls

and the pass-it-ons,

from Perk up! and Pipe down!

I’m from He restoreth my soul

with a cottonball lamb

and ten verses I can say myself.

I’m from Artemus and Billie’s Branch,

fried corn and strong coffee.

From the finger my grandfather lost

to the auger,

the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box

spilling old pictures,

a sift of lost faces

to drift beneath my dreams.

I am from those moments–

snapped before I budded —

leaf-fall from the family tree.