Thursday, February 15, 2007

Gurmit's Science class's molecular state of matter models

When Gurmit was teaching molecular arrangement in different states of matter to the 6th graders, she came up with an idea of model-making with clay for solids, liquids, and gases so that the concept is clear to them. Here are a few pictures of their models so that you can also enjoy them.


Do you want to know what the junior scientists in Gurmeet's class are doing these days? They are busy nurturing their grain plants which they have grown in the backyard of the girls' dorm. And now they are planning to grow radish plants.

Plaster Sculptures

Gurinder and Davinder, the art teachers, would like to share with you the finished plaster sculptures from both the regular art class and from the extracurricular evening class.

Simran Kaur's "Tree"

Saibhang Kaur's "Stars"

Sarabsaraswati's Sculpture

Ad Such's "Fire"

Gobind Singh's "Khanda"

Amritpal's "Form"

Guru Fateh's "Monster"

Hargobind painting his "Fireman"

Hargobind's "Fireman"

Gurudyal's "The Rock"

Maria Fernanda's "My Life"

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Here is a poem by Baldev Kaur, Grade 12:

Inside my heart

My mind is changing trying to follow my heart
I don’t know if my beliefs are real,
or simply just a dream.
I can see an opening in my life
It makes me feel something in between awake and asleep.
I know it is not the same to think and to actually do.
My beliefs are my hopes, my joys and my fears.
My head is stuffed with thoughts, memories and beliefs
but neither of them will stay in peace.
I feel drowning in a glass of water,
I feel this is like the night eating shadows.
But after all it’s a duality,
a fight between me and … me.
So I decide to go along the path,
I may get lost,
but I will always get somewhere else,
as it is meant to be.

In response to an assignment to write a performance style poem addressed to a person, place or object, Hari Simran Singh, Grade 12, wrote this:

Time Means Nothing To Mum-Raaa!!

You tick and you tock
But I never know what you’re talking about
It’s ticking me off.
You act like you’ve got
Some really great reason
For telling me
To get to formation.
Get out of my face
You mindless, gear-driven automation!
Analog or digital I’m absolutely sick of you.
Everyone always says O clock this and O clock that
But I do not praise you.
I know the games you play.
You think this is “red-light-green-light”
Running fast
Whenever I turn my back.
Ignorance is my weapon
Against your fascist oppression.

The Grade 11's were given the assignment to write a poem capturing a moment. Here are two, one by Fateh Singh and one by Dharmatma Kaur, with very different sentiments: one to make you laugh, the other to make you cry.

Sparking Moment
by Fateh Singh

A sparking moment
I’m supposed to write

So I will say it
in this light

I cannot think
of what to say

So I will write
‘bout this today.

I do not have
one memory

Of any moment
that brings to me

That inspiration
to write something

With rhyming lines
that you can sing

I hope that this
you’ll still accept

As my classwork
though it hasn’t kept

To the assignment
you have given

But this is what
I have written.


by Dharmatma Kaur

The sound of hoof stepping on the cold black tar
The feeling… knowing something is wrong
Panic coming up inside of me
Panic that now the time has come
Panic that now it is, to say Goodbye
The hope that nothing is happening
The hope it is not the time to say Goodbye
The fear of losing Lady
The fear of death taking away what I love
Knowing that I will miss her more than I already do
Saying Goodbye in a language which she does not understand but
I know she does…
I understand what she is telling me…
And both we try to run away
Both we drown in our memory
We go back one more time,
Until death takes her away from me.

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.


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.


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.


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.


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.

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