Home is where I want to be (pt. 1)

This week we are reflecting as honestly as possible on our homes through the lens of Bob Hicock’s “A Primer.” I love BH, and this piece does a great job of taking the language of official state things and making them more honest to the author’s experience of his home, in this case, Michigan. To the poems!

Mrs. Asvos
7th Grade, 3rd Period

Andreen I.

I see a picture
sky is blue and
traffic is light,
gorgeous food
beach is bright.
The people seem
lovely yes they
do. To send
smiles to each
and everyone
of you.
I make arrangements
you see, to spend
time with my
family. As the
plane swoops
down that
Friday night
I start to
see light.
Many cars
here and
there buzzing
from out of
no where.
The skies are
gloomy without
twinkling lights
I start to lose
hope in my mind.
Garbage every
where here
and there
busting out
of nowhere
the picture
was a lie
you see though
some of it
was true.
Chicago is my
hometown and
no one can
correct me about
that. It’s true.

“Nowy Targ”

Look out your window, you see the mountains, the rivers, the forests. Just walk outside you are completely safe, everyone knows you, you’ve been at everyone’s house on your block. You hear your name shouted from balconies, cars and people you don’t recall, “Czesc Madziu!” they’d say. You walk through the cracked roads, and paths in the forest. You’ll always find something to do, like climbing one of the thousands of trees to choose from, or skipping stones on the surface of the great, wild river.

“Where I’m From”
Paige C.

I’ve never lived anywhere else.
I’ve moved but only a small distance.
So, whenever I think of home
I think of one place
My home.
I don’t think of my neighbors or
We don’t talk, we don’t know each other
The neighborhood isn’t exactly a neighborhood.
Instead of one island together
we are all separate islands floating on the
Each home a different island.
I enjoy my island, my home, but it
has seemed to lose its connection with the
And I hate it, the water refuses to wash
making us do dishes for years.
I hate it, I absolutely hate this.
But every island has its ups and downs (not finished)

Vince M.

but on top.
So many ethnicities,
too many gangs.
The real Chicago
lays beneath,
in the smoke
from a thousand cigars.
Shouting, arguing
politicians arguing
over who was
bribed more. It
looks good and
tastes good,
but smells terrible.

Mack K.

The loud sounds of fans cheering.
Then the buzzer sounds.
“Hawks win”
Hoards of fans leave the UC
Dusty hobos beg for change.
Vendors selling jerseys
A puff of smoke hits your face.
You hold your breath but keep walking.
This is Chicago, this is life.



“Writing poetry makes me feel like I can see myself, like I can see my reflection, but not in a mirror, in the world. I write and I know I can be reflected.”
-Oscar S.

“Writing poetry makes me feel free.”
-Buenda D.

“Writing poetry is like your best friend.”
-Jessica M.