What do you think?
Rate this book
Red Suitcase
Poet, teacher, essayist, anthologist, songwriter and singer, Naomi Shihab Nye is one of the country's most acclaimed writers. Her voice is generous; her vision true; her subjects ordinary people, and ordinary situations which, when rendered through her language, become remarkable. In this, her fourth full collection of poetry, we see with new eyes-a grandmother's scarf, an alarm clock, a man carrying his son on his shoulders.
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 handed back to you
on a shiny plate.
Still, I like you spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell a secret
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two 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 man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
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 handed back to you
on a shiny plate.
Still, I like you spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell a secret
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two 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 man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
90 pages, Hardcover
First published October 31, 1994
23 people are currently reading
392 people want to read
About the author
Naomi Shihab Nye
134 books978 followersNaomi Shihab Nye was born to a Palestinian father and an American mother. During her high school years, she lived in Ramallah in Jordan, the Old City in Jerusalem, and San Antonio, Texas, where she later received her B.A. in English and world religions from Trinity University. She is a novelist, poet and songwriter.
She currently lives in San Antonio, Texas. She was elected a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets in 2010.
She currently lives in San Antonio, Texas. She was elected a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets in 2010.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 39 reviews
May 5, 2024
I’d heard Nye read, and through the frumpy egos that waddle about the Dodge Poetry Festival, her humor and authenticity shone like tacos on a silver plate (if you’ve read the book, you’ll get the reference). For some reason, I hadn’t taken the step of actually reading any of her books. Maybe I worried that her work, which rang so genuine, just wouldn’t translate on the page. Maybe because my wife would buy her books and then take them to school for her students to use, and I just didn’t feel the need to buy additional copies.
But maybe I should have. This book is utterly wonderful. Poems that challenge us to identify not by position or nationality but to just find a human rhythm, commonalities about eggs and children crossing the street and the deaths of love ones that just stuff dust into our throats. A friend of mine called these poems magical. I have absolutely no disagreement with that.
But maybe I should have. This book is utterly wonderful. Poems that challenge us to identify not by position or nationality but to just find a human rhythm, commonalities about eggs and children crossing the street and the deaths of love ones that just stuff dust into our throats. A friend of mine called these poems magical. I have absolutely no disagreement with that.
March 7, 2025
These poems felt younger to me than the other collections I’ve read by Nye, which I suppose is possible since I have no clue what order they were written/published in. I enjoyed these pieces overall, but not as much as other work of hers that I’ve read.
More than a few times, I could sense that a line or piece was important, but just couldn’t really grasp the meaning. Definitely won’t deter me from reading more from her though!
More than a few times, I could sense that a line or piece was important, but just couldn’t really grasp the meaning. Definitely won’t deter me from reading more from her though!
March 28, 2017
The man with laughing eyes stopped smiling
to say, "Until you speak Arabic--
--you will not understand pain."
(from poem entitled Arabic)
Naomi Shihab Nye has rapidly become one of my favorite poets, and Red Suitcase did not disappoint. Can't wait to pick up another book of her poems so I can linger over each one.
to say, "Until you speak Arabic--
--you will not understand pain."
(from poem entitled Arabic)
Naomi Shihab Nye has rapidly become one of my favorite poets, and Red Suitcase did not disappoint. Can't wait to pick up another book of her poems so I can linger over each one.
May 20, 2011
As usual, Naomi Shihab Nye has offered up a book of amazing poems. She is so incredibly talented.
January 4, 2017
Beautiful is an understatement. Must Read.
September 4, 2024
It was good. Some poems, or more aptly, moments within the poems, were the kind that catch your breath and lift it out of your lungs. And yet, others were too vague or too ordinary.
June 28, 2022
Beautiful beautiful storytelling
Read
May 20, 2020I really liked this collection of poetry! "Swimmer, Blessed Sea" "Valentine for Ernest Mann" and "Salt" really stood out to me!
January 18, 2021
"There’s a place in my brain where hate won’t grow."
"It is a lucky part of the world; to grow old without buildings and roadways, to dissolve quietly without feeling stunned."
"Gingko trees live 1,000 years. Eating the leaves will clear your brain. When I heard about them, I thought of my mother, how much I would like to sit under one with her in the ancient shade."
These poems break your heart quietly by spare words, no frilliness or extraneous words, short but not simple, and ranging from politics to humanity to fireflies, maybe the most haunting universal voice I have read. Palestinians know hate, or should; their story is one of the most perplexing, that the western world stole their land to give to the Israelis. The poet knows what hate is, but loves the world so quietly, she transforms it. Her voice is the American voice, made of the disparate voices on the wind of a country of immigrants, a shining beacon of hope that we were and strive to be in our hearts even when we fall short so miserably.
TRAVEL ALARM
Standing together
on the edge of dinnertime
and night,
the table half-set
but nothing missing,
no one wishing for
any impossible season,
—when I was smaller,
when you’ll be older—
even the trees outside
that should be thinking
autumn now
still lit by an endless minute
of green.
ARABIC
The man with laughing eyes stopped smiling to say, “Until you speak Arabic—
—you will not understand pain.”
…
I thought pain had no tongue. Or every tongue
at once, supreme translator, sieve.
I admit my shame.
…
I touched his arm, held it hard,
which sometimes you don’t do in the Middle East,
and said,
I’ll work on it, feeling sad
for his good strict heart, but later in the slick street
hailed a taxi by shouting Pain! and it stopped
in every language and opened its doors.
JERUSALEM
There’s a place in my brain
where hate won’t grow.
I touch its riddle: wind, and seeds.
Something pokes
us as we sleep.
It’s late but everything comes next.
WORDS WHEN WE NEED THEM
Into the breath,
wordless but ripe
with all possible words,
messages not yet gathered
or sent.
VOICES
I will never taste cantaloupe
without tasting the summers
you peeled for me and
placed face-up on my
china breakfast plate
…
You wore tightly laced shoes
and smelled like the roses in your yard.
I buried my face in your
soft petaled cheek.
How could I know you carried
a deep well of tears?
I thought grandmas were as calm
as their stoves.
How could I know your voice
had been pushed down
hard inside you like a plug?
Sometimes I think of the land
you loved,
gone to seed now,
gone to someone else’s name,
and I want to walk among silent women
scattering light. Like a debt I owe
my grandma.
To lift whatever cloud it is
Made them believe speaking is for others.
WHITE HAIR OVER THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS
Below us the ribs of the earth
fan out in perfect spirals.
No one lives in these regions
of rock and sun.
It is a lucky part of the world;
to grow old without buildings
and roadways,
to dissolve quietly
without feeling stunned.
SOMEONE IS STANDING ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD
Who would say,
Look up,
Have faith,
Someone is standing on the roof of the world?
…
though each night the floor echoes more deeply,
the roof of stars seems farther away.
MY GRANDMOTHER IN THE STARS
It is possible we will not meet again
on earth. To think this fills my throat
with dust. Then there is only the sky
tying the universe together.
…
Where we live in the world
is never one place. Our hearts,
those dogged mirrors, keep flashing us
moons before we are ready for them.
You and I on a roof at sunset,
our two languages
adrift, heart saying, Take this home with you,
never again,
and only memory making us rich.
BREAKING THE FAST
Japanese teacher says:
At first light, rise.
Don’t hover between
sleep and waking,
this makes you heavy,
puts a stone inside your heart.
The minute you drift back to shore,
anchor. Breathe.
Remember your deepest name.
VALENTINE FOR ERNEST MANN
…
So I’ll tell a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
…
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
FIREFLIES
Lately I had looked for you everywhere
but only night’s smooth stare gazed back.
Some said DDT had cupped your glow
in its sharp mouth and swallowed.
The loneliness of growing up
held small soft pockets you could have filled.
This summer I took my son
to the Texas hills where you startled us at dark,
ancestral droves swirling about our heads.
He thought you held kerosene lamps
the size of splinters. He wanted to borrow one,
just for a second, he said.
My head swooned in the blink of your lives.
Near a cedar-shaded stream where by day
fish rise for crumbled lumps of bread,
you were saving us from futures bereft
of minor lovely things.
You’re singing, my boy said that night.
Why are you singing? He opened his hands.
I sang to the quiet rise of joy,
to little light.
SALT
Each frilly tea rose on your favorite bush
dropped its head the day you died. I stood
in your yard, frozen, swallowing the slow crawl of sun.
I thought of us around your bed, burning,
your shaky hand soothing his hair
and the gravelly whisper, “Beautiful,”
that scared him, it came from
some place so deep.
“These were the crackers Della liked.”
I said, “The very same ones,” and felt the salt
welling in my throat, buckets of salt,
the mystery of oceans and our tiny sad world
of drinking glasses, polished, put away.
NEXT TIME
Gingko trees live 1,000 years.
Eating the leaves will clear your brain.
When I heard about them, I thought of my mother,
how much I would like to sit under one with her
in the ancient shade, nibbling
the flesh, the stem, the central vein.
BRUSHING LIVES
Later my father appeared with a husky voice.
In a shop so dark he had to blink twice
an ancient man sunk low on a stool said,
“You talk like the men who lived in the world
when I was young.” Wouldn’t say more,
till my father mentioned Palestine
and the gentleman rose, both arms out, streaming
cheeks. “I have stopped saying it. So many years.”
My father held him there, held Palestine, in the dark,
at the corner of two honking streets.
He got lost coming back to our hotel.
Who else? They’re out there.
The ones who could save or break us,
the ones we’re lonely for,
the ones with an answer the size of a
pocket handkerchief or a shovel,
the ones who know the story before
our own story starts, t
he ones who suffered what we most fear
and survived.
"It is a lucky part of the world; to grow old without buildings and roadways, to dissolve quietly without feeling stunned."
"Gingko trees live 1,000 years. Eating the leaves will clear your brain. When I heard about them, I thought of my mother, how much I would like to sit under one with her in the ancient shade."
These poems break your heart quietly by spare words, no frilliness or extraneous words, short but not simple, and ranging from politics to humanity to fireflies, maybe the most haunting universal voice I have read. Palestinians know hate, or should; their story is one of the most perplexing, that the western world stole their land to give to the Israelis. The poet knows what hate is, but loves the world so quietly, she transforms it. Her voice is the American voice, made of the disparate voices on the wind of a country of immigrants, a shining beacon of hope that we were and strive to be in our hearts even when we fall short so miserably.
TRAVEL ALARM
Standing together
on the edge of dinnertime
and night,
the table half-set
but nothing missing,
no one wishing for
any impossible season,
—when I was smaller,
when you’ll be older—
even the trees outside
that should be thinking
autumn now
still lit by an endless minute
of green.
ARABIC
The man with laughing eyes stopped smiling to say, “Until you speak Arabic—
—you will not understand pain.”
…
I thought pain had no tongue. Or every tongue
at once, supreme translator, sieve.
I admit my shame.
…
I touched his arm, held it hard,
which sometimes you don’t do in the Middle East,
and said,
I’ll work on it, feeling sad
for his good strict heart, but later in the slick street
hailed a taxi by shouting Pain! and it stopped
in every language and opened its doors.
JERUSALEM
There’s a place in my brain
where hate won’t grow.
I touch its riddle: wind, and seeds.
Something pokes
us as we sleep.
It’s late but everything comes next.
WORDS WHEN WE NEED THEM
Into the breath,
wordless but ripe
with all possible words,
messages not yet gathered
or sent.
VOICES
I will never taste cantaloupe
without tasting the summers
you peeled for me and
placed face-up on my
china breakfast plate
…
You wore tightly laced shoes
and smelled like the roses in your yard.
I buried my face in your
soft petaled cheek.
How could I know you carried
a deep well of tears?
I thought grandmas were as calm
as their stoves.
How could I know your voice
had been pushed down
hard inside you like a plug?
Sometimes I think of the land
you loved,
gone to seed now,
gone to someone else’s name,
and I want to walk among silent women
scattering light. Like a debt I owe
my grandma.
To lift whatever cloud it is
Made them believe speaking is for others.
WHITE HAIR OVER THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS
Below us the ribs of the earth
fan out in perfect spirals.
No one lives in these regions
of rock and sun.
It is a lucky part of the world;
to grow old without buildings
and roadways,
to dissolve quietly
without feeling stunned.
SOMEONE IS STANDING ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD
Who would say,
Look up,
Have faith,
Someone is standing on the roof of the world?
…
though each night the floor echoes more deeply,
the roof of stars seems farther away.
MY GRANDMOTHER IN THE STARS
It is possible we will not meet again
on earth. To think this fills my throat
with dust. Then there is only the sky
tying the universe together.
…
Where we live in the world
is never one place. Our hearts,
those dogged mirrors, keep flashing us
moons before we are ready for them.
You and I on a roof at sunset,
our two languages
adrift, heart saying, Take this home with you,
never again,
and only memory making us rich.
BREAKING THE FAST
Japanese teacher says:
At first light, rise.
Don’t hover between
sleep and waking,
this makes you heavy,
puts a stone inside your heart.
The minute you drift back to shore,
anchor. Breathe.
Remember your deepest name.
VALENTINE FOR ERNEST MANN
…
So I’ll tell a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
…
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
FIREFLIES
Lately I had looked for you everywhere
but only night’s smooth stare gazed back.
Some said DDT had cupped your glow
in its sharp mouth and swallowed.
The loneliness of growing up
held small soft pockets you could have filled.
This summer I took my son
to the Texas hills where you startled us at dark,
ancestral droves swirling about our heads.
He thought you held kerosene lamps
the size of splinters. He wanted to borrow one,
just for a second, he said.
My head swooned in the blink of your lives.
Near a cedar-shaded stream where by day
fish rise for crumbled lumps of bread,
you were saving us from futures bereft
of minor lovely things.
You’re singing, my boy said that night.
Why are you singing? He opened his hands.
I sang to the quiet rise of joy,
to little light.
SALT
Each frilly tea rose on your favorite bush
dropped its head the day you died. I stood
in your yard, frozen, swallowing the slow crawl of sun.
I thought of us around your bed, burning,
your shaky hand soothing his hair
and the gravelly whisper, “Beautiful,”
that scared him, it came from
some place so deep.
“These were the crackers Della liked.”
I said, “The very same ones,” and felt the salt
welling in my throat, buckets of salt,
the mystery of oceans and our tiny sad world
of drinking glasses, polished, put away.
NEXT TIME
Gingko trees live 1,000 years.
Eating the leaves will clear your brain.
When I heard about them, I thought of my mother,
how much I would like to sit under one with her
in the ancient shade, nibbling
the flesh, the stem, the central vein.
BRUSHING LIVES
Later my father appeared with a husky voice.
In a shop so dark he had to blink twice
an ancient man sunk low on a stool said,
“You talk like the men who lived in the world
when I was young.” Wouldn’t say more,
till my father mentioned Palestine
and the gentleman rose, both arms out, streaming
cheeks. “I have stopped saying it. So many years.”
My father held him there, held Palestine, in the dark,
at the corner of two honking streets.
He got lost coming back to our hotel.
Who else? They’re out there.
The ones who could save or break us,
the ones we’re lonely for,
the ones with an answer the size of a
pocket handkerchief or a shovel,
the ones who know the story before
our own story starts, t
he ones who suffered what we most fear
and survived.
October 20, 2010
I had previously read the poem "Valentine for Ernest Mann" by this author and really liked it. Decided to check out a book of her poetry and thought it was ok, but didn't enjoy the book in its entirety as much as "Valentine..."
October 25, 2021
Re-read this as part of my daily poem tradition. In re-reading them, these poems feel very young. It makes me eager to dive into some of her later work to compare.
September 2, 2018
Good but sometimes too filled with itself
November 3, 2019
I read this one over what feels like many years, though it was just a year and a half, because of the poem that led me to it: Arabic. “[i] hailed a taxi by shouting Pain! and it stopped in every language and opened its doors.”
That poem has followed me for years — and I’ve finally read the whole book that houses it. I can’t say that every poem in here grabbed me the way that one did, or even came close - I found a fair amount of her poetry relied on cliche, felt slightly cheesy to me. But I gave the book 4 stars because there were still moments. “I though of us around your bed, / burning, your shaky hand soothing his hair / and the gravelly whisper, “Beautiful,” / that scared him, it came from some place so deep.” Sometimes, Nye holds death in her hands in a way I understand, and that place deep inside of me feels grabbed, again. “It is possible we will not meet again / on earth. To think this fills my throat / with dust.”
That poem has followed me for years — and I’ve finally read the whole book that houses it. I can’t say that every poem in here grabbed me the way that one did, or even came close - I found a fair amount of her poetry relied on cliche, felt slightly cheesy to me. But I gave the book 4 stars because there were still moments. “I though of us around your bed, / burning, your shaky hand soothing his hair / and the gravelly whisper, “Beautiful,” / that scared him, it came from some place so deep.” Sometimes, Nye holds death in her hands in a way I understand, and that place deep inside of me feels grabbed, again. “It is possible we will not meet again / on earth. To think this fills my throat / with dust.”
November 4, 2021
I agree with one commenter who said that some poems are vague or ordinary. Enough that I almost gave this book four stars. But enough poems here make you think just enough to raise the reader. And many, especially in the first half of the book, lift us to that place where poetry should be, where reader and poem interact on an ethereal plain.
This is the first book of Nye's that I've read. For me, she is a fresh strong voice with powerful, unexpected, imagery. Often I found such unexpected imagery to be contrived, academic, absurd. But not so with Nye. I was carried to strange places on odd vehicles of transport, and I felt right at home.
This is the first book of Nye's that I've read. For me, she is a fresh strong voice with powerful, unexpected, imagery. Often I found such unexpected imagery to be contrived, academic, absurd. But not so with Nye. I was carried to strange places on odd vehicles of transport, and I felt right at home.
June 23, 2025
I met the author as a teenager in high school. I was the only student who knew who she was prior to her brief arrival on our campus. I’ll never forget her resplendent warmth, authenticity and truly heightened awareness. Love her poetry, maybe especially because it’s so powerful despite its earnestness, lack of putting in heirs. Her poetry attends the gala dressed like a peasant but still is the most beautiful person in attendance. I’ve read this book like 20 times and I never don’t love it.
December 9, 2025
I read her novel for children, The Turtle 🐢 of Oman 🇴🇲, earlier this year, and recommended it to my aunt, thinking my cousin’s daughter might like it. My aunt mentioned she knew of Naomi Shihab Nye from her poetry, so I looked at my local
library, and sure enough, they have a nice collection of her books of poetry. I started with this one, which was wonderful, and plan to read more ❤️
library, and sure enough, they have a nice collection of her books of poetry. I started with this one, which was wonderful, and plan to read more ❤️
October 26, 2019
What is Supposed to Happen
Brushing Lives
Lullaby for Regret
Brushing Lives
Lullaby for Regret
February 21, 2021
nothing we’d planned to happen did
we have all been saved so many times
we have all been saved so many times
August 10, 2021
Quite lovely and heartfelt, a number of poems here I found myself lingering over for a while. Others I enjoyed but wished they expanded a bit more. For the most part, these are small bites.
February 18, 2023
Direct! Stated plain and so lovely, some genius distinct metaphors and observations that remain spiritually clean and simple in their relaying. Its tender and true.
April 8, 2023
Poems like these are why I’m not big on poetry.
June 10, 2023
melancholic poems are my jam.
May 18, 2024
Enjoyed her poetry very much. Had a few favorites. Thanks for writing this….
Page 28 “Voices”
Page 45 “Living Where We Do
Page 82/83 “Salt”
Page 103 “Shoulders”
Page 28 “Voices”
Page 45 “Living Where We Do
Page 82/83 “Salt”
Page 103 “Shoulders”
June 13, 2024
Beautiful. Thought provoking. Sensitive.
September 5, 2025
Perhaps a tad too deep for a causal reading (which is what I did), but I could see gems in here nonetheless. The themes it explored that stood out to me were voice, age, resileance, and community/family identity.
Some poems that stood out to me (and some I super enjoyed):
How the Palestinians Keep Warm
Living Where We Do
Breaking the Fast
Continual Usage
Tongue-Tied
Valentine for Ernest Mann
What Happened in Madisonville
Lullaby for Regret
Those Whom We Do Not Know
Shoulders
Some poems that stood out to me (and some I super enjoyed):
How the Palestinians Keep Warm
Living Where We Do
Breaking the Fast
Continual Usage
Tongue-Tied
Valentine for Ernest Mann
What Happened in Madisonville
Lullaby for Regret
Those Whom We Do Not Know
Shoulders
July 2, 2010
Naomi Shihab Nye has an absolute rip-your-heart-out way of addressing every day topics. Her global view of the world make this collection of poems a terrific asset to a (middle grade on up) classroom library.
Favorites that spoke to me:
Voices
I will never taste cantaloupe
without tasting the summers
you peeled for me and placed
face-up on my china breakfast plate.
You wore tightly laced shoes
and smelled like the roses in your yard.
I buried my face in your
soft petaled cheek.
How could I know you carried
a deep well of tears?
I thought grandmas were as calm as their stoves.
How could I know our voice had been pushed down hard inside you like a plug?
You stood back in a crowd/
But your garden flourished and answered
your hands. Sometimes I think of the land
you loved, gone to seed now,
gone to someone else's name.
and I want to walk among silent women
scattering light. :ike a debt I owe
my grandma. To lift whatever cloud it is
made them believe speaking is for others.
As once we removed treasures from your
sock drawer and held them one-by-one,
ocean shell, Chinese button, against the sky.
Valentine For Ernest Mann
You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on 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 shadows
drifiting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two 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 man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
LIKED those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
What Is Supposed to Happen
When you were small,
we watched you sleeping,
waves of breath
filling your chest.
Sometimes we hid behind
the wall of baby. soft cradle
of baby needs.
I loved carrying you between
my own body and the world.
Now you are sharpening pencils,
entering the forest of
lunch boxes, little desks.
People I never saw before
call out your name
and you wave.
This loss I feel,
this shrinking,
as your field of roses
grows and grows...
Now I understand history.
Now I understand my mother's
ancient eyes.
Shoulders
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
This man carries the world's most sensitive cargo
but he's not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.
His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy's dream
deep inside him.
We're not going to be able
to live in this world
if we're not willing to do what he's doing
with one another.
The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.
Favorites that spoke to me:
Voices
I will never taste cantaloupe
without tasting the summers
you peeled for me and placed
face-up on my china breakfast plate.
You wore tightly laced shoes
and smelled like the roses in your yard.
I buried my face in your
soft petaled cheek.
How could I know you carried
a deep well of tears?
I thought grandmas were as calm as their stoves.
How could I know our voice had been pushed down hard inside you like a plug?
You stood back in a crowd/
But your garden flourished and answered
your hands. Sometimes I think of the land
you loved, gone to seed now,
gone to someone else's name.
and I want to walk among silent women
scattering light. :ike a debt I owe
my grandma. To lift whatever cloud it is
made them believe speaking is for others.
As once we removed treasures from your
sock drawer and held them one-by-one,
ocean shell, Chinese button, against the sky.
Valentine For Ernest Mann
You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on 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 shadows
drifiting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two 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 man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
LIKED those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
What Is Supposed to Happen
When you were small,
we watched you sleeping,
waves of breath
filling your chest.
Sometimes we hid behind
the wall of baby. soft cradle
of baby needs.
I loved carrying you between
my own body and the world.
Now you are sharpening pencils,
entering the forest of
lunch boxes, little desks.
People I never saw before
call out your name
and you wave.
This loss I feel,
this shrinking,
as your field of roses
grows and grows...
Now I understand history.
Now I understand my mother's
ancient eyes.
Shoulders
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
This man carries the world's most sensitive cargo
but he's not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.
His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy's dream
deep inside him.
We're not going to be able
to live in this world
if we're not willing to do what he's doing
with one another.
The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.
May 7, 2011
I read this collection in more-or-less three sittings; with somewhat sharply delineated experiences - I think how you feel about the poems depends how you feel when you read them, and I had kind of an up and down, highly stressful week. But, actually, the poems were more "revelatory" early on, when my week was more stressful. But my favorite was probably "Brushing Lives," which is in the last third. The book made me think of Harper Lee, like what Harper Lee might write if she wrote poetry. There's a kind of sad youngness, an interest (sometimes an immigrant's [or first generation] interest) about the poems. They often reflect - and on death.
February 6, 2017
God, she’s good. This book of poems pleases me in so many ways. Every poem offers a freshness that opens new channels in my brain. She writes about people and places, about everyday objects and missed connections. Look at the beginning of “Voices:” “I will never taste cantaloupe/without tasting the summers/you peeled for me and placed/face-up on my china breakfast plate.” So much in a simple fruit. In another poem, a two-word phrase like “crooked toes” evokes so much, as does this stanza from “Yeast,” which takes us back to the smell of baking bread emanating from the school kitchen. “Once the map flipped up so hard/Greenland caught me on the jaw/and I had to go to the health room.” I find fresh-baked bread and butter in every poem. I happened on this volume in a used book store. It is 23 years old, which means I can gather a complete banquet of Nye poetry published since then. Delicious. More recent Nye books include Transfer, You and Yours, 19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of Middle East, and Fuel.
May 22, 2011
I really liked this book, even if sometimes the intent of the poems slipped by me. (I think that was probably me more than the poems.) I loved the way Naomi use simple language in an almost mystical ways, moving from the small, immediate and perhaps inconsequential to the broad, universal, and emotional.
Her imagery is simply breath-taking, take for example: "The envelope, usually white and slim,/bleaches as a shell we might press to our ears/ or striped along its flying borders...(think of airmail letters!)
The poems are filled with beautiful music, wonderful imagery, and oftentimes strike the reader with haunting memories or thoughts.
Her imagery is simply breath-taking, take for example: "The envelope, usually white and slim,/bleaches as a shell we might press to our ears/ or striped along its flying borders...(think of airmail letters!)
The poems are filled with beautiful music, wonderful imagery, and oftentimes strike the reader with haunting memories or thoughts.
June 19, 2014
I am a big fan of the work of Naomi Shihab Nye, and it's always a pleasure to newly get ahold of one of her books. My favorites in this one are "Fireflies," "Morning Paper, Society Page," and "Shoulders" (surely my favorite in the book). Close after those are these, which are also excellent: "How Palestinians Keep Warm," "What She Was Doing at Home," "Violin," "Tongue-Tied," "Valentine for Ernest Mann" (great idea, great execution, and whether or not the name is made up, great choice of addressee), "Lucia, Your Voice," "What Happened in Madisonville," "First Hawaiian Bank," "Next Time," and "Brushing Lives." Read this book immediately.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 39 reviews