Tag Archives: children’s poetry

Nimbu Pani, Homemade Lemonade

Nimbu Pani, A Cupful of Summer

By Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, India.

How to make a cupful of summer
Recipe for Nimbu Pani—homemade lemonade

Step 1
Sunshine squeeze
Get two lovely lemons, the
cheery colour of sunshine
and of everyday joy, and
squeeze the lovely tang
into your cupful of summer.

Step 2
Sweet memories
Summer won’t be summer
without galore memories made.
Add plenty of sugar crystals, so
each sweet moment may last forever,
preserved in your cupful of summer

Step 3
Sun’s hot!
The days are rather long now
with scorching, afternoons
to rival the sun’s hot temper
add a smidgen of spice, salt, and mint
make your cupful of summer exciting

Step 4
Serve summer
Pour water in, and stir well, let everything
blend in well together, remember without it
your summer will be plain water
days dripping like water drops, monotonously
but now you have (nimbu pani), a cupful of summer

—Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, India. She adds: “I am originally from the Indian state of Kerala, but I was born and raised in Bengaluru, Karnataka, and I am going to 9th grade next year. I can speak Malayalam, Tamil, Hindi, and Kannada, along with English. I started writing in 3rd grade, beginning with a poem about a playground… My poems are forthcoming in StoneSoup magazine, and I was a blogger and website committee member there. Additionally, I have received a few honorable mentions for my pieces. I was the editor in charge of the school magazine last year, and I have won prizes at the GetLit Poetry Fest and Spin a Yarn contest.

“Nimbu Pani—A Cupful of Summer” is about homemade lemonade, a beverage everyone enjoys during hot Indian summers. Hot summer afternoons are spent lazing on the balcony, sipping lemonade, and reading books. Nimbu pani is made with spices, salt, sugar, and mint.

“I love writing and reading about everyday things that I can relate to. I generally do not follow a strict form in my poems, because I get more room for creativity… Through my poems and prose, I like to give voices to those silent and mundane events that play a huge role in our everyday lives… I understand the impact writing has when it comes to spreading the right messages.”

Editor’s Note:
 In India, English words are generally written using British spellings; colour rather than color (as used in America), for example.
In Hindi language, nimbu is lemon and pani is water.

Holi: Chaotic Colours

Holi: Chaotic Colours*

By Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, India.

the scorching sun, burns out
all the bitter feelings as we
gather at the small maidan,**
at the end of our
busy street, a maidan which
is dusty, dirty, dry just
like how we feel after,
the chaotic year we had

the oldest clothes in each
household are donned today by
all, showcasing the chaotic year
that has just gone by

then we drench each other
with fresh water, washing away
all the pain, worries, grief
and sorrow, that has stuck
to us like the burrs
In the grass in our
little maidan, washing away the
last, chaotic year we had

then we grin, feeling much
better and get our Holi,
powdered colors and throw it
at each other and after
we are done with our
simple game, our clothes are
a riot of colour, and we
Are ready for the chaotic
year we will be having.

—Elaine Elizabeth Jinto, age 14, India. She adds: “I am originally from the Indian state of Kerala, but I was born and raised in Bengaluru, Karnataka, and I am going to 9th grade next year. I can speak Malayalam, Tamil, Hindi, and Kannada, along with English. I started writing in 3rd grade, beginning with a poem about a playground… I serve as the Editor-in-chief of our school magazine… I understand the impact writing has when it comes to spreading the right messages.

“…my poem is about the Holi festival in India. It is one of my favorite festivals, and it is a time when friends and foes enjoy splashing color and water on each other. It is a time of joy and new beginnings. I love playing Holi with my friends and family and eating pani puri at the end of the day. The poem is 29 lines long and has a challenging restraint. Each line has exactly 5 words.

“I love writing and reading about everyday things that I can relate to. I generally do not follow a strict form in my poems, because I get more room for creativity… Through my poems and prose, I like to give voices to those silent and mundane events that play a huge role in our everyday lives… I am so happy I am getting a chance to share them with the rest of the world.”

Editor’s Notes:
The festival of Holi celebrates the triumph of good over evil and it marks the arrival of spring and the end of winter in India. This year, it was celebrated on March 12th and 13th.
* In India, English words are generally written using British spellings; colour in place of color (in America), for example.
** Maidan: an open space in a city or neighborhood, usually it’s a bare or grassy ground, and it is used for sports, games or large gatherings.

My Mom’s Frying Pan

My Mom’s Frying Pan

By Aadya Agarwal, grade 8, New Jersey.

They asked my mom, “What inspires you, Ms. Anne?”
Pat came her reply, “It sure is my frying pan.”
Her crisp reply left them confounded.
After all, she clearly left the Sun and the Moon grounded.

My mom was sure of her inspiration.
And this is what she offered as her explanation.

“Frying pan might look like a plain Jane tool.
But look! how, its emptiness itself makes it useful.
It tells me that nothing really belongs to you.
You are just a medium to pass things through.
You must clean yourself of the smallest residue.
So that you are ready to receive something new.”

“Frying pan has taught me to choose to be humble.
Go through and show up after every rough and tumble.
Seasoning through slow and high heating.
Strengthening through scratches and beating.
And not to suffer from any self-pity.
Be assured that you are where you are meant to be.”

Mom further said, “For me, frying pan is an unsung beauty,
That creates complex dishes through its simplicity,
And keeps my family fed by doing its duty.”

By Aadya Agarwal, grade 8, Princeton Day School, Princeton, New Jersey.

A Mother’s Destiny

A Mother’s Destiny

By Anzhi “Angie” Feng, age 9, from Vancouver/Toronto, Canada.

 

On the day you were born
At that misty cold hour
I saw your pink little toes
And your skin as pale as flour

I cradled you in my arms
As I slowly weep
Your soft dark hair touched my arms
As you fell asleep

From that day on
I watched you grow
From six o’clock to nine
And as you drifted off in bed
I realized the destiny of mine

Years pass in the blink of an eye
You are now seven
Your thick black hair comes to your waist
Just wait till you’re eleven

I cry in bed every night
Each day as you get older
Soon for a present
Instead of a doll
You’ll want a computer

That day comes way too soon
Time to say goodbye
You’re going off into the world
To find your new life

As you drive off into the night
I know that I’ve done well
And all the time we’ve had together
Is just another story to tell

By Anzhi “Angie” Feng, age 9, from Vancouver/Toronto, Canada.

a castle of words

a castle of words

By Kevin Zhang, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China.

I shall gather your
words into a castle
of shards

and walk (barefoot
into it
like a king

into his final
breath) and
I shall blow life

into them and
watch as they
flutter between

me and you
like dancing
elephants

By Kevin Zhang, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China. Kevin is a junior at BASIS International School PLH. He is an Honorary Junior Fellow of the John Locke Institute and serves on the PLATO Student Advisory Council. Kevin enjoys boating, collecting rocks, and learning about other cultures.

The Song of Saccidānanda

The Song of Saccidānanda

By Kevin Zhang, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China.

I sing the song of forever.

I sing the gentle winds
as they brush against the cliffs
of endless time.

I sing the tireless birds
as they crowd the windswept plains
of limitless space.

I sing the hushed darkness
as it dreams the Rudra Tandava*
of boundless life.

I sing myself,
I sing the song of Saccidānanda.**

Notes: * Rudra Tandav: A divine dance of Lord Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction and transformation, with vigorous, brisk movements.

** Saccidānanda: In Hindu philosophy, the direct experience and bliss of absolute, unchanging reality.

By Kevin Zhang, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China. Kevin is a junior at BASIS International School PLH. He is an Honorary Junior Fellow of the John Locke Institute and serves on the PLATO Student Advisory Council. Kevin enjoys boating, collecting rocks, and learning about other cultures.

“half, whole”

“half, whole”

By Alyson Henderson, age 16, Connecticut.
 
 
i have always been

two halves stitched together
half this, half that,
never wholly me
always half in, half out
not belonging to either
instead, i am two parts,
conflicting, like puzzle pieces
that don’t match,
forced together anyways
not one whole,
just bad stitching
the parts that don’t fit
hide under the paint,
cracked and chipped
not hiding much at all

they like to ask
if i am this half or that half,
but i say and, not or
and maybe they won’t understand
but i am always this half
and that half,
these halves are just me,
whole

By Alyson Henderson, age 16, high school junior, Connecticut. She adds: “I have been reading and writing for as long as I can remember, and it’s through reading and writing that I learned about other people’s cultures and identities as well as my own. My dad is white and American, and my mom is Korean and immigrated when she was young. For a long time, I’ve been exploring my own identity through writing, particularly my identity as a biracial person. I often feel like I have to choose between being Asian and being white, and I can’t identify as both. However, by ignoring either part of my identity, I am ignoring so much of my life. The way I see it, choosing one half of my identity is being dishonest with myself about who I am. My poem, “half, whole” explores the struggle of never feeling fully accepted as either “half” of myself, and how I have accepted that I don’t have to be put in one box and discard parts of myself for others’ comfort.”

Home

Home

By Lina Murat Mariani, age 11, New York. 

As I stand here, looking at this blank sheet of paper
Trying to describe how it felt when I looked back on the plane that day
All I remember is forgetting—
Forgetting home.
That plane was Odysseus’ ship
Sailing to a strange land,
Leaving but fading memories
A puppet in time’s grip.
Looking back and seeing all my life
Ashes for someone else’s dream to be born from
My home was but naked walls,
Perfect for someone’s paintings and trophies
All my life was a few boxes
And everyone says I should look forward to my new home
But why, if everything would be pictures of people that could be here? Windows into my melted life?
I had already moved on before,
And all that were just undone stitches now.
Why did my home had to be a comfy sweater,
One that people could just throw away?
Why was home meaningless as this sheet of paper?
This new home was my grave—
And worse, the grave of my life.
I look around, feeling like a trapped bug in the full-wall windowed room.
At least Odysseus had iron and blood to fight for his home.
All I had was my swift pen
My empty words
And this blank, meaningless sheet of paper.

—Lina Murat Mariani, age 11, from New York. Currently, she is in Brazil with her family.

Lina explains her poem, “Usually, poems are not read for the reasons they were written. Sometimes, they’re read because of the poet who writes them, but normally, it’s about more than that. Poems are read because the right poem doesn’t just paint a profound or beautiful picture. They paint you. They paint your whole existence, the doubts that consume you like a wildfire, or the hopes that lift your chin up. It’s that tangled mess of red strings and emotions that makes up your life. The right poem echoes your every thought, your every action, the treasure trove of who you are. 

“My reason to write this poem, which I call Home, may be selfish, or childish. It is because three months ago, I watched, helpless and silent, as we got onto that plane to move here, to Brazil. It’s because I have seen everything disappear in the blink of an eye, behind mountains and oceans. It’s because I long for that feeling of being in the U.S., instead of Brazil, with my friends, my teachers, my family, before it was all broken… I write about that strange and wonderful feeling of being home, like a warm blanket that hides fear, sadness, and anything else, because I know I am where I belong, and that can’t change. Until it did. And, more than all, I wrote this poem because I resent that all I can do to go back is write some words on an otherwise blank paper, and those words are just as easily ripped as the paper that binds them. I write because I am bound to this land, as words are to paper, and all I can do is watch as destiny writes my story, my cry swallowed and lost on that horrible day when I saw my entire life being packed up and dragged away.”

Love in Farsi

Love in Farsi

By Madeleine Kashkooli, age 17, California.

Love in Farsi is nazar
The amulet on the bracelet my aunt gave to me
To protect against the evil eye

Love in Farsi is taarof
The offerings of the host
And the appreciation of the guest
Taarof is steaming ghormeh sabzi, crispy tahdig, and sweet nan-e nokhodchi
It is my relatives making sure I never leave without
Seconds or thirds

Love in Farsi is azizam
The word my relatives call me
It means “my dear,” but I don’t need the translation—I understand
Just from the way they say it

Love in Farsi is jan
It has a similar translation to azizam, but it’s used
Right at the end of a name with no pause in between
When I attach jan to someone’s name, I’m saying:
You and my love for you
Are bound together, one and the same
Inseparable

—Madeleine Kashkooli, 17, high school senior, California.

Madeleine adds: “I wrote this poem in honor of my Persian family. I wanted to capture the beauty of my Persian heritage through different aspects of the culture, such as its language, food, and customs. In particular, I sought to explore how some Farsi words have direct equivalents in English while others require more explanation.”

Being Split

Being Split
By Preston Young, age 10, New York.

Being Split by Preston Young, age 10, New York

Illustration by Preston Young, 10, New York.

Being split,
Korean and Taiwanese,
I can’t process two different cultures,
It’s hard for me.

On Korean New Year,
I bow to elders and eat Duk Bok Ki (rice cakes).
On Chinese New Year,
I get red envelopes and eat dim sum with herbal tea.
I call my Korean grandparents Halmoni and Haraboji;
Ah ma, I call to my grandma who is Taiwanese.

The Taiwanese flag has red, white and blue.
The South Korean flag has those colors too.
The American flag has them too, oooh!

Being split,
Korean and Taiwanese,
Sometimes people don’t understand me.
When my friends talk about their one culture,
I want one of my other cultures to be unseen.

I try to tell my friends over and over;
I scream and I shout and whisper over their shoulder.
They never understand when I say,
 I am both Korean and Taiwanese!
They look confused and annoyed like fleas.

Sometimes I wonder if being Korean and Taiwanese is right for me.
I sit there and think until I can finally see,
I am special with being multicultural,
Being Korean, Taiwanese, and American,
Can all fit in my soul.

Being split,
Korean, Taiwanese, and American is hard.
But the three cultures,
Are forever in my heart!

By Preston Young, age 10, New York. Preston adds: “My mom is Korean and my dad is Taiwanese. I was born in the USA. I speak English but I am learning how to write, read and speak Korean because my friends at school can speak fluently, and I want to be able to communicate with them. My dream is to become an author and entertain kids. I was inspired to write this poem because when I am in school people always assume that I am full Korean or full Taiwanese. Sometimes people think I’m Chinese but I always correct them. I wanted to express how I feel and what that makes me feel like. I made a collage out of construction paper and some magazine clippings with markers to show my feelings about being split in three different cultures.”