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I Come From...
March 2015


I come from

I come from the coutryside, i live on a farm
A quiet peaceful place where all is calm
I love the farm life especially in spring
with lots of baby animals and birds with songs to sing
I come from a place surrounded by nature
with lots of animals to nurture
I have been bought up with animals livestock and doemstic
where all animals are treated with kindness and respect
i have a collection of horses dogs and cats
the cats make themselves useful by hunting rats
I am always happy when i am around animals and nature
nature itself is the best creator

by Elizabeth Jury

Un Saludo a Las Estrellas Más Hermosas en la Planeta en el Día Internacional de la Mujer

Guaguancó No. 4

Y donde el pasado jamás fue libre o bueno o verdaderamente pasado
Gloria a las mujeres que trabajan y luchan para 15 dóla res cada hora
Gloria a la mano de todas las madres y las hijas
al derecho humano en nuestro mundo
Y las 33 mujeres de la libertad de Oscar López Rivera

Guaguancó No. 5

Gloria a Nuestro Amor
Que Raimunda escribió la historia de mi vida
Y yo tengo una canción para cantar
Eres alma eres luz a dulce amor

Guaguancó No. 6:

Gloria a la Palabra de Julia de Burgos
Como un sol que brilla que es cantar
oscura a la noche de hambre y de frío
Reconocer que la vida en la colonia es dura

Guaguancó No. 7

Gloria al Valor y Sacrificio que Ella Baker dió a los jovenes
El Camino Libre
El Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee
Como el principio a conocer tu voz
Y amar la misma lucha
A la democracia, a la justicia
paz sin Guerra y la alma de la nación puertorriqueña

Guaguancó No. 8

Viola Liuzzo en el año de la marcha para los derechos humanos
pa’todos de Montgomery a Selma después de una larga viaje
Detroit en la marcha para la libertad ahora
y el 25 de marzo ‘65
y por el sonido del silencio de la muerte
calló a los enemigos sin justicia

Guaguancó No. 9

Gloria a Lorraine Hansberry
este es un verso a una timba libre
como dulce dulce Lorraine
la hora más Hermosa de la vida
SNCC y Raisin in the Sun
To Be Young, Gifted, and Black
Les Blancs
con una voz contra una miseria
sin derecho y sin justicia
Gloria a las manos enero 12 1965
cincuenta años pasados

Guaguancó No. 10

Harriet Tubman y su nombre es Mosea
por los ojos de la alma para mi esclavo pueblo
lengua de polvo podrido
Casas sin luz
Para los heridos cruzando la agua
el movimiento del tren clandestino
olas de agua
al Río de Niagara
entres a Santa Catalina, Ontario, Canada
siguiendo la estrella del norte
a la libertad

A Salute to the Loveliest Stars on the planet on International Women's Day

Guaguancó No. 4

And where the past was never free or good or truly past
Glory to the women working and fighting for 15 dollars hourly
Glory to the hand of all mothers and daughters
toward human rights in our world
And the 33 women for the freedom of Oscar López Rivera

Guaguancó No. 5

Glory to Our Love
Raimunda wrote the story of my life
And I have a song to sing
You are soul you are light to sweet love

Guaguancó No. 6:

Glory to the Word of Julia de Burgos
Like the sun that shines is singing
dark night of hunger and cold
Recognize that life in the colony is hard

Guaguancó No. 7

Glory to the Courage and Sacrifice that Ella Baker gave the young
The Freedom Walk
The Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee
As the beginning to recognize your voice
And loving your struggle
To democracy, to justice
Peace without war and the soul of the Puerto Rican nation

Guaguancó No. 8

Viola Liuzzo in the year of the march for human rights
for all from Montgomery to Selma after a long journey
Detroit in the march for freedom now
and March 25 '65
and by the sound of silence of death
silenced the enemies without justice

Guaguancó No. 9

Glory to Lorraine Hansberry
This is a verse to a free drum
as sweet sweet Lorraine
the most beautiful time of life
SNCC and Raisin in the Sun
To Be Young, Gifted, and Black
Les Blancs
a voice against poverty
without law and without justice
Glory to the hands January 12, 1965
fifty years past

Guaguancó No. 10

Harriet Tubman and her name is Mosea
through the eyes of the soul for my enslaved people
language of rotten dust
Homes without light
To the wounded across the water
Underground Railroad movement
water waves
Niagara River
enter St. Catherines, Ontario, Canada
following the North Star
to freedom

© Carlos Raúl Dufflar 3/8/15
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective


I come from my mother
where the power of Borikén
echoes with thunder
and was heard far away by
the rush over Niagara Falls:
not so distant.
When love is Abya Yala Madre Tierra
in poems built on Miami Valley Mounds
and Quinnipiac Valley Sleeping Giants.

© 28 mar 15 Ángel L. Martínez
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective


One grandmother was Russian,
One grandpa was a Pole.
The other side, I think, was Dutch;
The Russians didn’t like them much
And it all ended up with me,
A bit of a miscellany.
An Englishman from Tottenham;
My foreign roots, forgotten them.
I was a cockney rebel,
Never far from trouble.
But from a youth that was misspent
I entered the establishment.
I got some qualifications
And then I got a wife
And when I got a mortgage,
I got a debt for life.
Then we produced two children
Who went to university.
They both took out their student loans
And now they are in debt, like me.
Worked hard to get my pension,
That’s much too small to mention,
From which I pay my debts and bills;
Yet, get free travel and free pills
And when I’m dead from all my ills
I still won’t be debt free.
I could have been a Russian,
A Dutchman or a Pole,
But as I am an Englishman
The bankers own my soul.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers


The waters break, they cause a spill
Before the thrill you get from birth.
No longer carried, borne in pain
But born to claim a place on earth
And have the thrills and spills of life
From that first cry until you die.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers


Push Mush, here you come,
Head exposed before your bum.
It’s a boy, oh what a joy.
Cut the cord and pass to Mum.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers


The bump has gone down,
The baby arrives.
He's sucking her breast
To make sure he thrives.
They cannot decide
What name he should have.
Perhaps he'll be Rodney,
Named after Dave.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers

An Englishman

Oh why did my folk come to Britain,
To this place at the end of the line,
For there’s nothing here but the weather and beer
In this land where the sun doesn’t shine.
If they would have crossed the Atlantic
And I’d have been born in the States,
From the age that I am, I’d have seen Vietnam
And I may have been killed, with my mates.
I admit, they could not stay in Europe.
There was nothing for them over there.
A place where our past is destroyed, by the Nazis,
So we had to make lives elsewhere.
The Amazon seemed a bit risky
And the far eastern heat makes you ill;
An African Jew is no good in a coup.
We were better off in Stamford Hill.
While the rest of the world has attractions
There are troubles throughout, as we see.
So although I complain, it is here I’ll remain,
Cold and wet in the land of the free.
In a land where we pay increased taxes
Whilst reducing the cost of the State;
Where the bankers are plonkers and workers are shirkers
And that’s how we’ll keep Britain great!

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers


Was I me before I was born
Come to live in the body I have?
I guess I was, I’ve always been me,
The same near my end as I was at my start.
And is there an end, will I just stop?
If I existed before, I’ll exist after.
Where did I come from and where am I going?
My essence is mine, not formed in the womb
And no one can share it, I call it my soul;
At one with the world, a part of the whole.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers


Ancient town ­ you call me still
To wander on St Catherine's Hill
To tread the maze in mystery
In tree­circled history
Where rabbits hole and sheep call
Amidst the skylark's song.
And standing here
On the old chalk down
I see church spires rise above the town,
The great Cathedral close
And leaning in it's watery bed
Beside St Swithun's Bridge
Where the Itchen flows
With trout and reed.
And the street's are choked
With traffic now
The old flint walls
Passed too fast
To see the depth and contours
So solidly made, so long ago.
And the old West Gate still stands
But rather lonely now...
Walk through and remember
Walk through and remember.

Lucia Birch 2006
Stevenage Survivors


We are not musicians

We are not musicians
coming from Czech lands.
I don't know how to play.
We don't know it also.
What you don't play?
I don't know how to play
guitar, banjo, ukulele,
washboard, tamburine
and fagot.
Just name it
and I will stand
like scarecrow
in the middle of the field.

I don't know how to play
citera, trombon, flute,
harpsichord, alphorn
and my throat.
I don't play
and I am out of the game.

Variation on Czech folk song.

Marie Neumann

I Come From

I come from slum clearance, waiting forever
for posterity and re-generation
the men at the bookies and the bar
and the women and kids just survived
washing day on Monday’s
and back to backs
I come from riddled streets, hammering,
woodbines and smog
I come from Co-op divi,
Clarks sandals, knitting
games of cards on a Sunday night
an inside bathroom when I was eight
I come from a Christmas annual
free school milk, skipping, Enid Blyton
and home-match football programmes
a family of hard labour and clocking on
a Welsh Nan and an unknown Grandmother
from the past before me
I come from a secret
I come from Sunday morning; Family Favourites
variety shows, party games, picnics
and days out from the bricks
I come from ants disappearing in cracks
and drunks to avoid on a Saturday night
except I nearly got caught once
I come from busyness
I come from a back-yard
from my dad cutting air, turning the knife on a stone
from tarmac, walls, gates and entries
street-games; British Bulldog 1-2-3
from the sound of demolition
of rubble, rubble, rubble

Jan Hedger
Words 'n' pics Open Writers

This poem was written as ‘homework’ (as I suggested) from a local writing group I have just joined (Chirk Writers Circle). One lady read a poem in this style – by Robert Seatter - Seren 2006 from ‘On the Beach with Chet Baker. The brief was to follow the poem style – of writing, of where one lived in the past – but ‘clipped’ without falling into nostalgia and rounding the poem off by linking the beginning lines to the end lines. Repeating the original poem – and repeating the words ‘I Come’.


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