What Do You Stand For?

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Abstract

and lows, bathed in her fizzing stream, split differences with pine, and made a high life on the grassy flats along the winding pass.I was born of florists and labourers. Sunburnt villagers of the south. Where blisters and thorns under bare feet taught you the price of a dollar before you could count them. Touched by the suffering but never taken, like the sunflower we turn to where the light shines brightest. Whether stretched thin by post-war poverty, or extorted by heartless thugs, or tricked by greedy diplomats who dress in the same black coat, our tables remained full and loud like our beating hearts.I come from the cloth of these tables, in every binding fiber, in the air that hangs above, filled with a cacophony of dialect, this is my song. Given the names

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ake of kings and fed the fodder of peasants, I wet my lips on the cup of aging heroes and was moulded by their calloused hands. On the same kitchen tiles I took my first steps, there too in their arms I learnt how to dance. In matters of finance, money and savings, they taught me love, trust and respect are the only currency worth trading. What’s more, they showed me I would never be poor.I stand for family. My family stands for me.<a href="undefined">Vic Spandrio</a> 2021I listened to a podcast today which featured Amanda Gorman speaking about her writing process. Before writing each poem she says, “I ask myself two questions; ‘on who’s shoulders do I stand’ and ‘what do I stand for?’” This is my response.</article></body>

Prose poem

I come descendant of cow farmers. Mountain people from the north country. Quiet observers we learnt from the ancient stone, how not to speak a word and still be heard. We adopted the fertile valley as our own, took her with all the highs and lows, bathed in her fizzing stream, split differences with pine, and made a high life on the grassy flats along the winding pass.

I was born of florists and labourers. Sunburnt villagers of the south. Where blisters and thorns under bare feet taught you the price of a dollar before you could count them. Touched by the suffering but never taken, like the sunflower we turn to where the light shines brightest. Whether stretched thin by post-war poverty, or extorted by heartless thugs, or tricked by greedy diplomats who dress in the same black coat, our tables remained full and loud like our beating hearts.

I come from the cloth of these tables, in every binding fiber, in the air that hangs above, filled with a cacophony of dialect, this is my song. Given the namesake of kings and fed the fodder of peasants, I wet my lips on the cup of aging heroes and was moulded by their calloused hands. On the same kitchen tiles I took my first steps, there too in their arms I learnt how to dance. In matters of finance, money and savings, they taught me love, trust and respect are the only currency worth trading. What’s more, they showed me I would never be poor.

I stand for family. My family stands for me.

I listened to a podcast today which featured Amanda Gorman speaking about her writing process. Before writing each poem she says, “I ask myself two questions; ‘on who’s shoulders do I stand’ and ‘what do I stand for?’” This is my response.