I love this!

Via Michelle I found this wonderful writing exercise that seems to be flying about the blogoshphere at the moment. It is based upon a poem by George Ella Lyons called ‘Where I’m from.’All the instructions and a very helpful but by no means restrictive template can be found at Fragments from Floyd.
If you need some inspiration then this post at Pratie Place is linking to everybody taking part, you will find some beautiful writing there.
Most of us agree that is will probably be an ongoing thing, so what I have here is only a first draft.
I enjoyed the excecise from a finding out about myself point of view, but here is sure evidence as to why I don’t usually attempt poetry… be warned.

I am from words,
from Alice in Wonderland under the Christmas tree
and Mr Small in a hospital bed
again
and again
and again.

I am from the narrow room above the garage,
barely big enough for a bed,
matching Holly Hobbie duvet and curtains,
from Littlewoods catalogue,
and the feel of pink, fluffy carpet underfoot.

I am from a fairy house in a hollowed out oak tree,
a den in a bush like an upturned mixing bowl,
and the first snowdrops of Spring.

I am from cuddles during a lunchtime episode of The Sullivans,
tears and tummy ache in the mornings,
from Ben,
Mikey and Janey,
and a long succession of hamsters.

I am from a fierce collision
between the Guardian and the Telegraph
and from dodging the political sparks that fly.

From a fear of Girl's World, Big Ben, and broken tulips,
from cruel taunts on the climbing frame,
humiliating rehearsals for the school play
and the shame of never making the netball team.

I am from the Church of the Holy Motor Car
and ‘Don’t kick the paint on your way out’
from ‘work hard’, ‘don’t be lazy’
and ‘you’re treading play dough into the carpet.’

I'm from a supermarket, once a hospital,
salt and sand filled sandwiches in the biting wind
and a shared whiskey and a wink when the women weren’t watching.

From a candle extinguished during childbirth,
a half-orphan bought up by a theosophical aunt
and a bold Communist bookshop in wartime.

I am from a box of old journals in a smoke damaged attic,
a cabinet of tiny china shoes
and many blank pages yet to be adorned.

***
OK, so I know you can do better, so give it a go.
And as this is a blog entry and none of this is overly private, feel free to ask me to expand on anything in the poem.