childrens poetry
Nostalgia-inducing poetry inspired by our earliest favorites; from Dr. Seuss to Mother Goose, children’s poetry is all grown up.
The Birth of Poetry
Long before words were written and stories were inked on paper, there was sound — the gentle hum of rivers, the rustle of trees, the heartbeat of the earth beneath bare feet. In that ancient world, before kingdoms and books, before pens and scrolls, human hearts still longed to express what they felt. And so, poetry was born — not from knowledge, but from emotion; not from invention, but from the natural rhythm of life itself. It is said that poetry came into being the first time a human felt something so deeply that mere gestures or cries could not contain it. Perhaps it was a mother humming softly to her child under the stars, her voice swaying like the wind, carrying love and comfort. Perhaps it was a hunter standing beneath the moon, whispering thanks to nature for its gifts. Or maybe it was a traveler, gazing at the endless sky, wondering where life came from and where it would go. In those days, speech was still new. People used sound to name things, to warn, to call. But one day, someone’s voice rose differently — not to command or describe, but to feel. The sounds became rhythm; rhythm became melody; and melody became meaning. Those who heard it were moved in ways they could not explain. They didn’t yet call it “poetry,” but they felt its power — the power to connect heart to heart, soul to soul. From then on, people began to listen not only with their ears, but with their hearts. Around campfires, under the open sky, words began to dance. Men and women spoke of love, courage, fear, loss, and hope — the same emotions that fill poems even today. When rain fell, they sang of its sadness; when the sun rose, they praised its warmth. They found music in the world around them and echoed it in their words. In ancient civilizations — Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greece, and India — poetry became a sacred art. It was used to praise gods, record victories, and teach wisdom. The earliest poems were prayers, songs, and hymns. In temples, priests chanted verses to honor life and creation. In royal courts, poets shaped words into tales of heroes and dreams. Their verses carried the spirit of humanity across generations. But beyond temples and palaces, poetry lived in every heart. Farmers sang as they worked. Lovers whispered verses to one another under the moonlight. Mothers lulled their babies with rhythm and rhyme. Poetry became the bridge between life’s silence and its music — between what could be said and what could only be felt. As time passed, writing gave poetry a new home. The words that were once spoken by firelight were carved on stone, then written on scrolls and pages. Yet even as the world changed, poetry remained timeless — a reflection of the human soul. It grew in every language, every land, carrying new meanings but the same heartbeat. The reason poetry endures is simple: it speaks to something eternal within us. It captures moments we cannot hold, emotions we cannot measure, and truths we cannot explain. It reminds us that even in our most silent times, we are never alone — because someone, somewhere, has felt the same. Today, poetry still flows through our lives. It lives in songs, in prayers, in stories, and even in the quiet words we whisper to ourselves when no one is listening. It connects the past with the present, the ancient voice by the riverside with the modern heart that still longs to speak in rhythm. And so, the birth of poetry was not the invention of an art form — it was the awakening of the human spirit. It was the moment when feeling found a voice, when the heart learned to speak in beauty. From the first hum beneath the stars to the verses written today, poetry remains what it has always been — the purest language of emotion, the gentle song of the soul, and the eternal proof that humanity has always needed more than words to truly be heard.
By Muhammad Saad 2 months ago in Poets
Echoes of the Mind
Echoes of the Mind Unfolding Emotions Through the Language of Poetry The evening sky glowed with soft shades of purple and gold as Adeel sat on the edge of the old stone bridge. The world around him was quiet — only the whispering wind and the distant sound of flowing water kept him company. In his hands lay a small, worn-out notebook. Its pages were filled with scribbled words, unfinished lines, and silent emotions he never dared to speak aloud. For as long as he could remember, poetry had been his secret language — a bridge between his heart and his mind. Whenever life felt too heavy to carry, he would write. Words became his therapy, rhythm became his breath, and every poem was a mirror reflecting the parts of himself he could not explain. But lately, even poetry had stopped answering him. Adeel stared at the blank page before him. “Why can’t I write anymore?” he whispered. The question floated in the cool air, unanswered. He had been through months of silence — not the peaceful kind, but the type that pressed against his chest and clouded his mind. It wasn’t sadness, exactly. It was something quieter — a numbness that drained the color from his days. Friends called it stress; he called it emptiness. Yet deep down, he knew it was something more. It was the weight of unspoken thoughts, locked away behind polite smiles. Then, almost as if guided by instinct, his hand began to move. He wrote one line: “The mind is a garden — sometimes it blooms, sometimes it burns.” The words felt alive. His pen flowed again, as though a dam had broken inside him. He wrote about confusion — about feeling everything and nothing at once. He wrote about loneliness in crowded rooms, and about dreams that fade before they are understood. Each line was a quiet confession, each verse a small release. When he stopped, tears had welled in his eyes — not from pain, but from recognition. He had finally put his emotions into words, and in doing so, he had found himself again. He looked at the river below. The water shimmered in the dying light, reflecting the hues of sunset — gold, violet, and silver. “Maybe,” he thought, “healing isn’t about forgetting. Maybe it’s about understanding.” As days passed, Adeel began to write daily — not for others, but for himself. He realized that poetry was not about perfect rhymes or clever words; it was about honesty. It was about giving shape to the chaos within and turning it into art. He wrote about fear and faith, about despair and hope. Slowly, his poems began to shift. They were no longer cries for help but whispers of understanding. The tone changed — softer, wiser, kinder. Through poetry, he was learning to be gentle with his own mind. One afternoon, while reading one of his pieces at a small poetry gathering, something unexpected happened. A young man approached him after the reading and said quietly, “Your words… they sound like my thoughts.” That simple sentence stayed with Adeel. He realized then that poetry did more than heal him — it connected him to others who felt the same silent storms inside. His personal echoes became shared experiences. From that day, he promised to keep writing — not just to express, but to inspire. Years later, when Adeel published his first collection titled Echoes of the Mind, he wrote in the introduction: > “We all carry a universe within us — fragile, chaotic, beautiful. Poetry is not about solving it. It’s about listening to it.” His readers didn’t just read his words; they felt them. Some found comfort, others found courage, and many rediscovered their own voice through his verses. And every evening, Adeel still returned to that same bridge, his silhouette framed by the sunset. The wind carried the faint sound of his poetry — soft, rhythmic, healing — like echoes whispering from the heart of the mind.
By Muhammad Saad 2 months ago in Poets
In the Garden of Words
Whispers of the Heart How Poetry Turned Emotions into Eternal Words The early morning sunlight spilled through the half-drawn curtains, painting golden patterns on the wooden desk. A notebook lay open, its pages waiting—silent, patient, and full of promise. Beside it sat Arman, his fingers gently tracing the rim of a cup of tea that had long gone cold. For years, Arman had been a man of few words. He spoke only when needed, smiled politely, and hid his storms behind quiet eyes. But inside, his heart was a restless ocean, filled with unspoken feelings and unanswered questions. Life had given him joys, yes—but also losses, the kind that left soft scars on the soul. One evening, after a long day of work, he stumbled upon an old book of poems by chance at a small roadside stall. The cover was faded, the pages smelled of time, and the words—though written by a stranger—felt deeply personal. He read a few lines standing right there, and something stirred within him. “Perhaps,” he thought, “words could speak for what I never could.” From that day on, poetry became his quiet companion. Every night, when the world outside fell asleep, Arman would sit by his window and let his heart whisper onto the pages. His first poem was clumsy, full of half-formed thoughts and uncertain lines. But with each word, he felt lighter—as if the ink itself absorbed a bit of his pain. Over time, his notebook became his sanctuary. Each page captured a fragment of his life: a memory, a dream, a regret, a hope. He wrote about the laughter of children in the street, about sunsets that refused to fade, and about love that bloomed in silence. The poems were not perfect, but they were honest—and that made them beautiful. One day, his friend Samir visited and happened to glance through the notebook lying open on the desk. He read one of the poems quietly and looked up, amazed. “Arman,” he said softly, “you’ve written what many people feel but can never say. You should share these.” Arman smiled faintly. “They’re just whispers of my heart,” he said. “Nothing more.” But Samir didn’t give up. He convinced Arman to submit a few poems to a local literary magazine. Arman hesitated for days, battling self-doubt. Finally, one night, with trembling hands, he sent three of his poems under the pen name A. Rahim. Then he waited, half-regretting the decision, half-hoping someone might understand. Weeks passed, and Arman almost forgot about it. Then, one morning, he received a letter. His poems had not only been published but had touched readers deeply. The editor wrote, “Your words carry warmth and truth. They remind us that even quiet hearts have powerful voices.” That single letter changed something within Arman. He realized poetry wasn’t just about rhyme or beauty—it was about connection. Each poem he wrote was a bridge from his heart to another’s. What began as a way to heal himself had now become a way to reach others. Soon, he started attending poetry readings at a small café in town. The first time he stood before an audience, his voice trembled, but as he read, the words flowed like a stream finally finding its course. When he finished, there was a soft silence, followed by heartfelt applause. In that moment, Arman understood—his whispers had finally been heard. As months turned into years, Arman’s poetry found its way into books, classrooms, and hearts. Yet, he never wrote for fame or recognition. He wrote because poetry had become his language of truth—his way of embracing the world and himself. Now, every morning, he still sits by that same window, pen in hand, the golden light spilling over his desk. Sometimes he smiles as he reads the old notebook—the one filled with his earliest poems, shaky and uncertain. They remind him where it all began: a man, a pen, and a heart full of whispers. For Arman, poetry was never about words on paper. It was about listening—to life, to love, to the quiet music within. And as long as hearts could feel and ink could flow, his story would never truly end—only continue, one whisper at a time.
By Muhammad Saad 2 months ago in Poets
Love mean in 90's
Love means the madness of two people, pulling each other close to their hearts; Love means taking risks in life, walking barefoot in the sand of separation; Love means leaning very much towards each other; Love means heavy rain, walking in and out of the rain continuously; Love means talking incessantly in front of a cup of cold coffee; Love means sitting face to face even after the conversation is over.
By Afia Naima Haque2 months ago in Poets
