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S: Write ALL The Poetry

FC: Ms Glenn's 5-6th period 3/28/12

1: Table of Contents Page 3- Mother's Kitchen Where I'm from Page 4- Self Respect Poem Language Arts Poem

2: My mother is cooking Russian cuisine. Oven cooked chicken thighs with potatoes and margarine. It’s slowly roasting and letting out that slight pop every once in a while. My sister walks into the kitchen with a large smile. “Is there anything I can help you with, mom?” “Of course, Sasha.” says my mother with calm. “Just take some cream and put it on the bread.” “Get a spoon of caviar and spread around the red.” “Hold a pinch of green dill in your fingers.” “Sprinkle it all around so the taste lingers.” As my sister is carefully preparing our food, The oven began to brood. The delicious smell of gently baked mayonnaise caresses our noses. “It’s time to make the pilmeme.” My mother says like roses. My mother kneads the dough as my sister takes a spoon of dead meat. They later finish the treat. As they set the table, They help make the meal stable.

3: I am from matrioshki, from AvtoVAZ and Yubileynaya. I am from the harsh winters. I am from the birch, the Baikal. I am from the Noviy Godt and vremya shobp pit chai, from Alfia and Dmitri and Dina. I am from the everyday tea time and taking off shoes in the house. From “Ay ay ay, ne baltai” and “Spakoini notch, mumushka”. I am from the respect of other faiths, while being faithless. I'm from Tomsk, borsch and pilmene. From the university halls my grandfather and his brother taught at, the trip to Baikal I went with my grandparents along, and the three day ride to there, and the times my cousins and I chased pigeons in the park. I am from the photos by the windowsill.

4: Self Respect Sometimes I wear jeans, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I wear long sleeves, sometimes I won’t. Depend on the day, I might even play (a video game). It really just depends on if I feel that way. I’m not (the average) guy. And I ain’t what you call “fly”. But I learned that it really doesn’t matter Because I am beyond the chatter. I’m not letting myself decompose. My worth is not determined by my clothes. No matter what the barter, I will always be Artur.

5: Language Arts In Language Arts class, there was Artur. He had eye cramps from his monitor. His poetry lacked pathos. His sentences had typos. Devising limericks made him smarter.

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  • By: Artur T.
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  • Title: Blank Canvas
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