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"Naomi Shihab Nye was born in St. Louis, Missouri. Her father was a Palestinian refugee and her mother an American of German and Swiss descent, and Nye spent her adolescence in both Jerusalem and San Antonio, Texas... Nye’s experience of both cultural difference and different cultures has influenced much of her work. Known for poetry that lends a fresh perspective to ordinary events, people, and objects, Nye has said that, for her, 'the primary source of poetry has always been local life, random characters met on the streets, our own ancestry sifting down to us through small essential daily tasks.'"
Source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/naomi-shihab-nyeLive Readings
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Poems
Poems
Valentine for Ernest Mann
You can’t order a poem like you order a taco.Walk up to the counter and say, "I’ll take two"and expect it to be handed back to youon a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit.Anyone who says, "Here’s my address,write me a poem," deserves something in reply.So I’ll tell a secret instead:poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,they are sleeping. They are the shadowsdrifting across our ceilings the momentbefore we wake up. What we have to dois live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wifetwo skunks for a valentine.He couldn’t understand why she was crying."I thought they had such beautiful eyes."And he was serious. He was a serious manwho lived in a serious way. Nothing was uglyjust because the world said so. He reallyliked those skunks. So, he re-invented themas valentines and they became beautiful.At least, to him. And the poems that had been hidingin the eyes of skunks for centuriescrawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give uswe find poems. Check your garage, the odd sockin your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.And let me know.
--from The Red Suitcase (1994)
You can’t order a poem like you order a taco.Walk up to the counter and say, "I’ll take two"and expect it to be handed back to youon a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit.Anyone who says, "Here’s my address,write me a poem," deserves something in reply.So I’ll tell a secret instead:poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,they are sleeping. They are the shadowsdrifting across our ceilings the momentbefore we wake up. What we have to dois live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wifetwo skunks for a valentine.He couldn’t understand why she was crying."I thought they had such beautiful eyes."And he was serious. He was a serious manwho lived in a serious way. Nothing was uglyjust because the world said so. He reallyliked those skunks. So, he re-invented themas valentines and they became beautiful.At least, to him. And the poems that had been hidingin the eyes of skunks for centuriescrawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give uswe find poems. Check your garage, the odd sockin your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.And let me know.
--from The Red Suitcase (1994)
Bees Were Better
In college, people were always breaking up.We broke up in parking lots,beside fountains.Two people broke upacross a table from meat the library.I could not sit at that table againthough I did not know them.I studied bees, who were ableto convey messages through dancingand could find their wayshome to their hiveseven if someone put up a blockade of sheetsand boards and wire.Bees had radar in their wings and brainsthat humans could barely understand.I wrote a paper proclaimingtheir brilliance and superiorityand revised it at a small caféfeaturing wooden hive-shaped honey-dippersin silver honeypotsat every table.
--from “Bees Were Better,” from If Bees Are Few: A Hive of Bee Poems, Ed., James P. Lenfestey (2016)
In college, people were always breaking up.We broke up in parking lots,beside fountains.Two people broke upacross a table from meat the library.I could not sit at that table againthough I did not know them.I studied bees, who were ableto convey messages through dancingand could find their wayshome to their hiveseven if someone put up a blockade of sheetsand boards and wire.Bees had radar in their wings and brainsthat humans could barely understand.I wrote a paper proclaimingtheir brilliance and superiorityand revised it at a small caféfeaturing wooden hive-shaped honey-dippersin silver honeypotsat every table.
--from “Bees Were Better,” from If Bees Are Few: A Hive of Bee Poems, Ed., James P. Lenfestey (2016)
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