I Come From Poems

Laura Burden writes: On Thursday 8th February, celebrated author Juno Dawson visited the school and Year 10 pupils were given the opportunity to take part in a writing workshop. Juno asked us to write in a single word where we come from and then add more words and phrases, relating to the senses, favourite restaurants/takeaways and feelings. Here is what some participants produced. We had about fifteen minutes and nobody has had a chance to edit their work further.

I come from Portsmouth, born and bred.

I come from my mum and dad, a teacher and a lawyer.

I come from the smell of dog burning my eyes

Pulsating through my blood

I come from Sunday roasts and towers of chocolate éclairs

I come from rain and darkness

But when we switch the lights on, we are home, the darkness is gone.

I come from Indian takeaways on Saturday nights

I come from family snuggles on the sofa

Packaged in to the loose small crevices sit the needy

Dogs belly and George hoping for a cuddle.

I come from the warmth of my bed.

I come from the numerous cups of milky tea, frequently spilled

As I charge up the stairs.

I come from a healthy, happy family that loves me.

                                                                                                       Libby Rhodes

I come from a freezing environment, a synonym of England

I come from thick white Debenhams bed sheets to heal my frozen fingers

I come from a savoury lifestyle, with carrs water crackers as my default snack.

I come from white company winter candles, used to mask the smell of burnt eggs.

I come from Sunday roasts, a method to fit in with a traditional English family.

I come from perfectly shaped bay trees, which act as a magnet to nosey southsea mothers.

I come from binging gossip girl, in a way to blend real problems with fictional ones.

I come from Earl grey tea, which always seems to get too cold through excess amounts of milk

I come from endless Einaudi piano pieces, in which I am never able to achieve the right tempo

I come from loving parents who set way too high expectation of old fashioned romance in Dublin

                                                                                                             

                                                                                                         Tara Bell

I come from England

From my family’s fiery nature.

I come from the warmth of my bed.

I come from the tasty oven made fish and chips which lingers from the week before.

I come from the cosy bus ride home from school on a Friday.

I come from the noisy bustling of walking ten minutes late on a Monday morning

I come from the horrid frozen mist that haunts me when waiting for the bus

I come from the biscuit which has broken off and now dissolves in the sea of brown

                                                                                                            Sarnaz Hossain

I come from England,

I come from Chichester with its theatre and its park.

I come from the Waitrose Sushi aisle,

And Domino’s every Friday night.

I come from waking up every morning to the sound of the radio,

I come from cold weather and putting my coat on before leaving the house.

I come from train delays and cancellations.

I come from retreating back to bed with tea and two sugars.

I come from Netflix originals and Sky Atlantic exclusives,

I come from chocolate digestives.

I come from Death in Paradise and guessing ‘who dunnit’

I come from England, Chichester.

                                                                                                            Jay Pasricha

I come from England, Portsmouth, Hayling, home.

I come from the surname Taylor starting generations ago

I come from summer evening with a tragic broken barbeque balancing on the sea side stones.

I come from the tranquillity of silence of the poppies sprouting in my garden hedges

I come from the fresh and comforting smell of the sea salt breeze and flying kites

And the Gandi chicken ticka on a Saturday night.

I come from each Saturday spent lounging on my ‘mermaid rock’ which sparkled in the sun

And then growing up a bit and just saying “bye, I’m done”

                                                                                                              Grace Taylor

I come from plane journeys around the world,

Empty islands to bustling cities.

I come from muddy shoes dumped in the hallway,

Grey skies and the hope of snow.

I come from creamy chicken pie and black and white movies,

Laughing until tears fall and cosy blanket caves.

I come from Denmeads finest fish and chips,

Long family hikes and tired legs.

I come from Christmas decorations left out all year, being home alone and missed music lessons.

I come from forgetting my P.E. kit

And unread emails. Dozens of.

I come from closed down schools

Villages fayres and marks and spencer sushi.

I come from Netflix marathons

Family arguments and sarcastic apologies.

I come from tech magazines and

Forever lost stationery.

I come from long bike rides and South African sunsets.

I come from accidental skiing

Injuries and reading long books.

                                                                                                               Verity Glading

I come from the smell of damp grass

Clinging to rugby boots

I come from the taste of banana bread

Warm, sugary and freshly baked

I come from long-haul flights

Jet-lag on a summers evening

I come from rainy days

Being forced to venture outside

I come from off-limits biscuit tins

Bargaining for just one more

I come from long road trips

Traffic jams and radio ads

I come from floral patterns

Must needed colour coordination

I come from Instagram, Snapchat…

Is it all just fake news?

I come from Netflix binging

Telling myself this is the last episode

But ignoring myself till I am

I come from England

I come from Australia

I come from Southsea

I come from Home

                                                                                                            Emily Curwood

I come from the place where the aroma of ground spices fills the room,

I come from the place where

 the sound of mustard crackling

is a call for dinner,

a beckoning voice.

I come from the place where an amalgamation of crimson amber and

Jade is served on a smooth steel plate.

I come from the place where delicate meat dances on my palate

A festival of flavour

A festival of food.

I come from the bright skies,

Hot ground

And rare breezes.

The place where my grandparents were my life

My cousin, my brother.

       

                                                                                                          Arya Gowda

I come from the small suburb of Fratton in Portsmouth.

I come from the morning pat to which my mother my mother wakes me up.

I come from delivering my Brittany to his day-care

I come from the harsh struggle of staying awake.

I come from the small and respectable shambles of my abode.

I come from the quiet tranquil comfort from my evening Netflix binge.

I come from struggling against the indomitable ice sheet on the car windscreen.

I come from the full satisfaction of a full stomach from the Veranda.

From the peaceful violence of my nightmarish dreams.

The mould of the Ikea Maness drawing me close

The horrid heat of my duvet around me like a burrito

From the tempting call of my energy generator when in the frozen exterior

I come from tears dried on my salty cheeks.

                                                                                                      Lavinia Montgomery

I bounced into being where the lawns are wide,

cerulean skies starkly spread on spring mornings

and the dew dresses the fallen blossom from a pear tree.

Birdsong filtered through at first in mornings, followed

by a chaos of bells and boys. London

lay somewhere below, like a distant sea.

My Eden, really. The swimming pool on a Sunday

morning was crisp and cleansing. Light tickled the tiles.

My hair hung with chlorine.

On Fridays, we were given pizzas confiscated from the boys

and ate under their anguished stares, or ordered a Curry Mahal.

It’s strange to think it’s all still there. The large house, with new

boys and a new family. The smell of old books in the library. The heavy door.

                             Ms Burden (I grew up in a boys’ boarding school!)