The great American poet William Carlos Williams taught us that if a poem can capture a moment in life, and bathe it in the light of the poet’s close attention, and make it feel fresh and new, that’s enough, that’s adequate, that’s good.  Here is a poem like that by Rachel Contreni Flynn, who lives in Illinois. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

The Yellow Bowl

If light pours like water

into the kitchen where I sway

with my tired children,

if the rug beneath us

is woven with tough flowers,

and the yellow bowl on the table

rests with the sweet heft

of fruit, the sun-warmed plums,

if my body curves over the babies,

and if I am singing,

then loneliness has lost its shape,

and this quiet is only quiet.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2009 by Rachel Contreni Flynn, whose newest book, Tongue, is forthcoming from Red Hen Press. Reprinted fromHaywire, Bright Hill Press, 2009, by permission of Rachel Contreni Flynn and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2013 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006.

This is why we have to buy readers in bulk from Costco.

In 1993, in response to a poem in Stories I Ain’t Told Nobody Yet, George Ella Lyon experimented with a “where-I’m-from” list, which he turned into a poem, and eventually into an exercise for other writers. His exercise has been used as a writing prompt in schools and other places. When I came across it a few months ago, I decided I wanted to write my own version*:

Where I’m From

I am from rocking chairs,

from Dr. Pepper

and Dodger baseball.

I’m from Looney Tunes and

volcanic kitchen experiments,

pie for breakfast, and Capture the Flag.

From sipping hot chocolate from a thermos

at the Rose Parade (I always burned my mouth);

pomegranates whose jeweled seeds stained my fingers, and

chocolate chip cookies with no nuts.

I am from the green house on the corner

where I practiced volleyball serves against the garage and

stayed up too late listening to music in my yellow room.

I am from oak trees

and peonies

and the irrigation ditch behind Grandma’s house

where I collected rocks and staged swimming races

for frogs

in the snow-melted water.

I am from matching, homemade

mother/daughter dresses,

from card games

(“You can’t play with the grown-ups if you cry when you lose”),

writing poems in church,

pretending to be a horse galloping

through fields.

I am from Pedro and Pokey, Taffy and

Mitzi, Honey Bunny and Tiger Boots

and Buster, the bunny

we found in the library parking lot.

I’m from the time I harnessed our cat with an apron

to help me put my toys away;

from the night no one asked me to dance

(I cried the entire next day).

I’m from trips to Taco Bell in Anita’s VW Bug,

and singing Devo’s “Whip It” on the courts at tennis practice.

I’m from Mrs. T and Dr. Mac and

The Outcasts of Poker Flat.

I am from Sacramento, California,

from Lakewood, and Cottonwood, from

Brandon and Lithia, Florida,

land of beaches and Spanish moss and Rays baseball and Disney.

I am from the box in the closet

hiding captured pieces of myself, the photo albums

in the family room,

the flying pig and

the mint green mini Vespa on my desk.

I’m from all I was,

what I am,

and what I’ll be.

*Read Lyon’s original “Where I’m From” poem here. 

Writing “Where I’m From” is lots of fun, and can be done over and over again, as poem or prose, and each time the author will uncover some forgotten piece of him or herself. If you want to try it yourself, you can find a template to get you started here and another example of it here.

So I have one question for you: where are you from?

I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for summer. Maybe not the hot, sticky part, but certainly the no-alarm-clock or school-schedule aspects. Even though I work at home and for myself, summertime always seems a little more laid back and relaxed. I know summer doesn’t technically start until June 21, but it’s summer here already, especially in my mind. Here are a few things I’m doing to savor the simple pleasures and everyday adventures of summer:

The poet and novelist Marge Piercy has a gift for writing about nature. In this poem, springtime has a nearly overwhelming and contagious energy, capturing the action-filled drama of spring. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

More Than Enough

The first lily of June opens its red mouth.

All over the sand road where we walk

multiflora rose climbs trees cascading

white or pink blossoms, simple, intense

the scene drifting like colored mist.

The arrowhead is spreading its creamy

clumps of flower and the blackberries

are blooming in the thickets. Season of

joy for the bee. The green will never

again be so green, so purely and lushly

new, grass lifting its wheaty seedheads

into the wind. Rich fresh wine

of June, we stagger into you smeared

with pollen, overcome as the turtle

laying her eggs in roadside sand.

Whew. We did it. It took all three of us, but we got him through the public school system. He graduated (with honors, even). Congratulations, Nick! On to the next adventure.