Thursday, February 08, 2007
The Grade 11's recently wrote poems about place. As you can see below, the choices were varied, and the metaphors were mighty.
Baia Mare
By Atma Hari Kaur
Baia Mare is a girl.
Her voice is calling me home, wherever I go
She’s waiting patiently and when I come she opens her arms and says “You’re home”.
The grains are her golden hair.
The fire is on her lips and the sky on her eyes.
Her teeth are made of gold and her skin is made of snow.
She smells like homemade bread
The nature is her bed.
And once you’ve seen her you fall in love.
Forever she will be your home.
_______________________________________________
America
By Guru Amar Kaur
Land of the free, home of the brave, they say.
An overpowering, wasteful, careless little child, I say,
that grabs what it wants and doesn’t listen to reason.
It takes what it sees, then forgets and moves on.
The ever-growing, unstoppable anthill that never ends,
and never pauses.
But it also is the savior of the downtrodden.
The haven for those ground beneath the heel
of all those that name themselves high & mighty,
so that the spurned ones might pick themselves back up again
and begin something new and great.
America is the great river pulling everything along with it,
roaring defiance and tearing down
anything that stands in its path.
__________________________________________________
(This one by Harijot Singh is a response poem to a positive poem about Espanola by Ms. Bentley)
The Espanola game puts its players to shame
What is it that makes people think Espanola is great
It’s a place only a gila monster would go to mate
Is it the strange appeal of hard dry land
Or the Radio Shack where five robberies were planned
Is it taste buds disgraced by green chile eaten in haste
is it the dry old man at the texico station
the truth of the matter …it’s the nuclear test site radiation.
___________________________________________________________
Punjab
by Gurusurya Kaur
A color picture in a black and white newspaper:
vivid ,unmistakable.
A blaring speaker
So loud you can almost see the sound.
An uneven spoke
on an ever turning wheel.
Its belly holds a nation of fertile grounds:
Feeding many a hungry mouth
To many this is third world,
To me it is my first.
_____________________________________________________________
India
by Ram Das Singh
A place where fantasies and nightmares reside,
A place that culture surpasses any boundary,
India is a place I couldn’t ever call home
India is a child excluded from a game,
Wishing to be “just like everyone else”
India is a shelter-less single mother,
Fighting to provide for her litter
India is a bare-ribbed mutt, scrounging for scraps,
Finding only the cold hearted kick of a worn chuppal
India is a harsh word from a loved one,
Their words ripping more painfully than a serrated knife
India is the place I now call home.
___________________________________________________________
My new found home
by Wahe Guru Kaur
The golden Temple is a place of ease,
letting your mind realize, your worries are smaller than they seem.
The cold marble under your feet like a cold stone path to infinity.
Cooling under the sun, but an icy devil
crawling through your feet beneath the moon.
The Golden Temple is countless bowed heads, prayers of the heart, dust of devoted feet, and millions of inspirations.
Sitting inside the Golden Temple is like being in your mother's lap once again.
______________________________________________________________
Portland
by Hari Amrit Singh
Where oak and pine bombard the senses
Stargazing atop a mountain with your friends
This Is Portland
An Evergreen La-Z Boy chair,
Where the worries of the world are left behind
This Is Portland
A granola munching Caucasian Rastafarian,
Zach’s Shack at 3 am,
A drink on Tabor after a long day
An oasis the world
That, is Portland
______________________________________________________________
Los Angeles
by Sat Amrit Kaur
The plasticized celebutant
Who throws her life away,
In the asphalt and concrete paradise,
Where the blue collar man,
With the family of four to feed,
Is laid off from work.
He was paving your sunshine highway
With someone else’s dreams,
Now he drives the Sunset Strip
Along the moonlit mile
Then on to Mulholland.
The city, it never sleeps.
A melting pot,
A conundrum.
Where corrupt angels dwell.
They call it, “our home”
“Our city,” they say.
It’s that perfect wave.
You know,
The one that killed the surfer.
I dove in optimistic
And came out disappointed.
Look how beautiful!
The starless sky!
The land of the Holly
The Wood
And the Vine.
It speaks through its body
And pulsates in Time.
Baia Mare
By Atma Hari Kaur
Baia Mare is a girl.
Her voice is calling me home, wherever I go
She’s waiting patiently and when I come she opens her arms and says “You’re home”.
The grains are her golden hair.
The fire is on her lips and the sky on her eyes.
Her teeth are made of gold and her skin is made of snow.
She smells like homemade bread
The nature is her bed.
And once you’ve seen her you fall in love.
Forever she will be your home.
_______________________________________________
America
By Guru Amar Kaur
Land of the free, home of the brave, they say.
An overpowering, wasteful, careless little child, I say,
that grabs what it wants and doesn’t listen to reason.
It takes what it sees, then forgets and moves on.
The ever-growing, unstoppable anthill that never ends,
and never pauses.
But it also is the savior of the downtrodden.
The haven for those ground beneath the heel
of all those that name themselves high & mighty,
so that the spurned ones might pick themselves back up again
and begin something new and great.
America is the great river pulling everything along with it,
roaring defiance and tearing down
anything that stands in its path.
__________________________________________________
(This one by Harijot Singh is a response poem to a positive poem about Espanola by Ms. Bentley)
The Espanola game puts its players to shame
What is it that makes people think Espanola is great
It’s a place only a gila monster would go to mate
Is it the strange appeal of hard dry land
Or the Radio Shack where five robberies were planned
Is it taste buds disgraced by green chile eaten in haste
is it the dry old man at the texico station
the truth of the matter …it’s the nuclear test site radiation.
___________________________________________________________
Punjab
by Gurusurya Kaur
A color picture in a black and white newspaper:
vivid ,unmistakable.
A blaring speaker
So loud you can almost see the sound.
An uneven spoke
on an ever turning wheel.
Its belly holds a nation of fertile grounds:
Feeding many a hungry mouth
To many this is third world,
To me it is my first.
_____________________________________________________________
India
by Ram Das Singh
A place where fantasies and nightmares reside,
A place that culture surpasses any boundary,
India is a place I couldn’t ever call home
India is a child excluded from a game,
Wishing to be “just like everyone else”
India is a shelter-less single mother,
Fighting to provide for her litter
India is a bare-ribbed mutt, scrounging for scraps,
Finding only the cold hearted kick of a worn chuppal
India is a harsh word from a loved one,
Their words ripping more painfully than a serrated knife
India is the place I now call home.
___________________________________________________________
My new found home
by Wahe Guru Kaur
The golden Temple is a place of ease,
letting your mind realize, your worries are smaller than they seem.
The cold marble under your feet like a cold stone path to infinity.
Cooling under the sun, but an icy devil
crawling through your feet beneath the moon.
The Golden Temple is countless bowed heads, prayers of the heart, dust of devoted feet, and millions of inspirations.
Sitting inside the Golden Temple is like being in your mother's lap once again.
______________________________________________________________
Portland
by Hari Amrit Singh
Where oak and pine bombard the senses
Stargazing atop a mountain with your friends
This Is Portland
An Evergreen La-Z Boy chair,
Where the worries of the world are left behind
This Is Portland
A granola munching Caucasian Rastafarian,
Zach’s Shack at 3 am,
A drink on Tabor after a long day
An oasis the world
That, is Portland
______________________________________________________________
Los Angeles
by Sat Amrit Kaur
The plasticized celebutant
Who throws her life away,
In the asphalt and concrete paradise,
Where the blue collar man,
With the family of four to feed,
Is laid off from work.
He was paving your sunshine highway
With someone else’s dreams,
Now he drives the Sunset Strip
Along the moonlit mile
Then on to Mulholland.
The city, it never sleeps.
A melting pot,
A conundrum.
Where corrupt angels dwell.
They call it, “our home”
“Our city,” they say.
It’s that perfect wave.
You know,
The one that killed the surfer.
I dove in optimistic
And came out disappointed.
Look how beautiful!
The starless sky!
The land of the Holly
The Wood
And the Vine.
It speaks through its body
And pulsates in Time.
# posted by MPA Student Work @ 9:16 AM 
