Editor's note: I usually don't like these "I Am From" poems. But this one is exceptional. It was mailed to us via "snail-mail" which means that I had to type it out instead of copy/pasting from an email (wah!). So yeah, it must be good.

The imagery in this poem is stunning. The way the words hold each other takes my breath away. Read it out loud to a friend. No, of course you aren't from the same things Tia is. But we can all learn a little about the sound of poetry from her piece. Where are you from? Tell us.

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The Age of Reverie
-Poem by Tia DeShong, Grade 11

I come from gold-tipped blades of grass,
resplendent wading pools and ceilings spun from stars.
I'm from skinned knees and lips stained strawberry,
blithe daisies braided into crowns and dusty, bare feet.
I am a sea thrown into a summer breeze.

I come from dusty volumes mounted high on rickety shelves,
the smell of worn leather and ink.
I'm from bitterness invading my mouth from a steaming mug,
while rain pelts aged windowpanes.
To find me, read between the lines.

I come from pews carved from cedar and prayers encouraged from beads,
melancholy hymns and exalting cries.
I'm from incense speckled air and virtuously painted walls,
nagging thoughts and clawing doubts.
I'm a candle flickering briefly.

I come from lace-up sneaks and self-destroyed jeans,
hair available in Technicolor and loud music.
I'm from blood-stained hands and tattered flags
living in a nation that longs for a new creation.
Am I a sinner or a saint?

I come from roads painted weary with traveling footsteps,
Swimming in the seas and erasing the horizons.
I'm from chasing the sun and dancing with the moon,
speaking in tongues and letting the sovereignty sing me a lullaby ...
I'm from everywhere, yet nowhere at all.

On the last day of every month this year, we will be posting the best student writing that we received in that month. Does that make sense? In other words, on February 28th, we'll be posting the best student writing we received in February. And so on... each winner will receive a prize. Yah! Prizes! Woo hoo! I will post more about this later. But for now...

You are January's Student Writer of the Month!!!

Why hello there,

Get in your entries now! The deadline for READ Magazine's Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry contest is Wednesday, January 31! That's like... tomorrow. Well, actually it's the day after tomorrow, but it might as well be tomorrow because it's just that close!

You can find out more details here.

Here's a poem that will not win this contest:

One Lonely Sneaker
I once met a man named Horatio,
He told me I should rhyme his name with "ratio."
But I didn't want to,
So I didn't.
And that really showed him who was boss.
But then he pointed out to me
That I actually did
In line 2
And it was quite an embarrassing revelation, I must say.

Oh, and did I mention he wore one lonely sneaker?

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Reasons why One Lonely Sneaker will not win the Ann Arlys Bowler poetry contest:

1) It is a poem of very poor quality.
2) I wrote it.

Enter now. Peace out.

- Story by Austin Siegemund-Broka, Grade 9

Gregor lived on an island.

At least, most of the time he did. Usually, he had the whole paradise to himself, a luscious, green patch of land with abundant animals and fruits. But every once in a while, the beautiful surroundings would melt away and Gregor would be left looking at a drab, white door. He would be in a small room of white tile, with only a simple wooden chair, upon which Gregor sat. There was a small bare lightbulb on the ceiling and gray-brown stains around some of the tiles.

But that was very rare. Mostly it was just Gregor on his island. It wasn't a large place, small enough for Gregor to know exactly where he was all the time. There was crystal blue surf, as warm as a Jacuzzi tub, and powdery white sand. The plants were always full and green, but not only green. There were huge flowers and vines, some purple, some orange, some pink. They gave the island a splash of brightness.

Gregor thought about this blessing bestowed on him. This is my favorite place, he thought. My favorite place ever.

As wonderful as his paradise was, though, strange things had begun to happen on Gregor's island. He felt it was no longer his, like there was a presence watching over it. Mostly, there were voices. Sometimes, just out of the baby-blue sky, voices would come. There was often a male voice, and sometimes a female one, too. These invisible speakers weren't loud, but they weren't incomprehensible either.

What they said, however, worried Gregor more. He often caught the entire conversation, and remembered specific lines of dialogue. "He has a form of schizophrenia," the male voice had said once. Gregor didn't know the word, but it sounded bad. There was a long pause before the female chimed in.

"Schizophrenia? I'm afraid I don't understand, doctor."

"I believe it to be a very acute form of the disorder. He imagines he's somewhere else completely."

This had come as a shock to Gregor. A disorder? What did they mean, these people? And where else could I be? I'm on my island. MY island. I can see things. I can hear things. I can touch things.

"It's funny," the man said. "There's absolutely no history of mental illness in his family. I think he's one apple that fell way off the tree," Gregor realized with a cold dread that he was the "he".

Last week ... or maybe it was two weeks ago ...

   If it was that long ago, what took you so long to tell us about it?

Yeah. Sorry. My bad. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah... about 60 weeks ago, I was getting coffee with the editor of Writing magazine. I have a tendency to talk her ear off in almost every situation and this day (about 537 weeks ago) was no different. I was telling her how much I was enjoying a book I was reading. The book in question was A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. We had both seen the author read from this exact novel at an event in New York City a while back (you can read about that night here) and she had bought me the book for my birthday.

ANYWAY...

As we're talking and preparing our coffee, a woman next to us overhears the conversation and jumps in.

"I love that book," she says. "I've always had a thing for John Irving." (I assume she meant John Irving's writing, but then again, what do I know? Maybe she's in love with the guy?)

So OK. Now we're talking to some stranger about literature. Awesome! I love it when this happens!

"You should really read the book though," she says. "The book is so much better than the movie."

Huh?

At this point, I surmised that her eavesdropping faculties had malfunctioned. She had heard us wrong. I was talking about the book, A Prayer for Owen Meany, not the movie it was adapted into, Simon Birch. How she made this mistake, I have no idea because I must have said "Owen Meany" at least 3 or 4 times before she spoke up.

Side note - As if this rant isn't confusing enough to follow, try making sense of this: Why would Hollywood disregard a perfectly good character name like "Owen Meany" and change it to "Simon Birch"? What could those west coast fat cats possibly have to gain from committing such a travesty? Show me the marketing research that says "Simon Birch" is a more suitable name for a tiny dude with a high-pitch squeal of a voice than "Owen Meany" and I will show you faulty research. Come on. It's not even a contest.

Side note's Side note - OK, I have an answer to the madness. I just checked IMDB.com, and according to them, "Author John Irving doubted his novel, A Prayer for Owen Meaney, could ever be turned into a film, and sold the screen rights on the condition it not be released under the same name as his book." Well alrighty then! This, I can live with!

Now back to the game...

So here's my problem with this woman that got coffee with us and, consequently, with pretty much everybody in America: if we happen to overhear someone talking about a book, we automatically assume, they are talking about a movie. I don't blame the woman for her oversight. I've probably been guilty of this, too. And I'm not a complete snob. There are plenty of films out there that, I'm sure, are much better than the books they come from. I just can't think of any right now.

Argh. I think I had a point originally, and I think it was a good one. But it is obvious now that I have completely lost it and am even coming off as some kind of angry literary purist jerk. I suppose that's what I get for waiting 900 bizillion weeks to write about it.

Wow. Sorry.

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Starting over...

I like A Prayer for Owen Meany. It is a book that I have enjoyed reading. Owen is a fascinating character. And the story is warm.

The End