Hometown Poems Quotes

you’ll find the buildings taller, that the halls are full of ghosts but everything still here is what you remember most

When he was fifty, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the most famous American writer of his day, went back for a visit to his hometown of Portland, Maine. While there, he wrote a poem called “Changed”;

They call each other ‘E.’ Elvis picks wildflowers near the river and brings them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him. In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports Levis and western blouses with rhinestones. Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers and T-shirts, a letterman’s jacket from Tupelo High. They take long walks and often hold hands. She prefers they remain just friends. Forever. Emily’s poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs, Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile. Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon he will play guitar and sing “I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed” to the tune of “Love Me Tender.” Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone in their cabins later, they’ll listen to the river and nap. They will not think of Amherst or Las Vegas. They know why God made them roommates. It’s because America was their hometown. It’s because God is a thing without feathers. It’s because God wears blue suede shoes.

My love of publishing goes back to my first job on the hometown newspaper when I was a 16-year-old cub reporter, but I caught a novel version of the word and the idea at a 1980 poetry reading by Allan Ginsberg. That night he exhorted all in the audience to remember the original sense of the word when he said that every public reading of a poem was a bona fide form of publishing, taking the good word to the people. For the last word on getting published let’s turn to one of the least recognized, in her own time, of all great writers, Emily Dickinson, who said, “Publication—is the auction of the Mind of Man.” Of her 1775 poems, only seven were published in her lifetime, which flies in the face of the academic exhortation to “publish or perish.” Dickinson rarely published, but her poetry is imperishable.

Dear father, It's been five years today, but makes no difference! Not a day goes by without me remembering your pure green eyes, the tone of your voice singing In Adighabza, or your poems scattered all around the house. Dear father, from you I have learned that being a girl doesn't mean that I can't achieve my dreams, no matter how crazy or un-urban they might seem. That you raised me with the utmost of ethics and morals and the hell with this cocooned society, if it doesn't respect the right to ask and learn and be, just because I'm a girl. Dear father, from you I have learned to respect all mankind, and just because you descend from a certain blood or ethnicity, it doesn't make you better than anybody else. It's you, and only you, your actions, your thoughts, your achievements, are what differentiates you from everybody else. At the same time, thank you for teaching me to respect and value where I came from, for actually taking me to my hometown Goboqay, for teaching me about my family tree, how my ancestors worked hard and fought for me to be where I am right now, and to continue on with the legacy and make them all proud. Dear father, from you and mom, I have learned to speak in my mother tongue. A gift so precious, that I have already made a promise to do the same for my unborn children. Dear father, from you I have learned to be content, to fear Allah, to be thankful for all that I have, and no matter what, never loose faith, as it's the only path to solace. Dear father, from you I have learned that if a person wants to love you, then let them, and if they hurt you, be strong and stand your ground. People will respect you only if you respect yourself. Dear father, I'm pretty sure that you are proud of me, my sisters and our dear dear Mom. You have a beautiful grand daughter now and a son in-law better than any brother I would have ever asked for. Till we meet again, Shu wasltha'3u. الله يرحمك يا غالي. (الفاتحة) على روحك الطاهرة.

Afterward we recited the entire poem together. "The bed is lit by moonlight I think it is the light of an early winter morning Looking up, I enjoy the full moon in the night sky Bending over, I miss my hometown" We all know that poem is about a scholor who is traveling and missing his home, but on that night and forever after I believed it was about us. Snow Flower was my home and I was hers.

Neighborhood Humanitarian (The Sonnet) They ask me, why do I never run out of ideas! It is because I never dwell in one culture. Sometimes I'm North American, sometimes Latino, Sometimes I'm South Indian, sometimes I am Turk. When I run low on charge, I listen to Español, When my sight gets foggy, I watch Cary Grant. Whenever I feel homesick, I listen to some Telugu, Whenever my heart bleeds, I run straight to Turkey. It is sort of a perpetual motion engine, I empower the cultures, the cultures empower me. If I am the world's not-so-secret hometown human, The world is my secret to my infinite electricity. How, do you think, I became the neighborhood humanitarian to every single person on earth! It's because I never glorified one culture over another.

All Downhill After 30 Sheesh, tell me about it! It’s a rapid decline Like the back road in your hometown that you cruised your bike down on a dare Wind in your face Tears in your eyes Downhill like where lush valleys reside offering shade and reflection and rest Downhill as in ambling towards ease, pleasure, joy Downhill like an exhale a soft landing a Slinky’s descent Yes, that’s exactly what growing older feels like, if you’re down for the ride