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Everything Comes Next: Collected and New Poems
“Emotionally resonant and stirring.” — Kirkus Reviews (starred review) “Lucky the reader who would have this collection lying around for visiting and revisiting.” — Horn Book Magazine This celebratory book collects in one volume award-winning and beloved poet Naomi Shihab Nye’s most popular and accessible poems. Featuring new, never-before-published poems; an introduction by bestselling poet and author Edward Hirsch, as well as a foreword and writing tips by the poet; and stunning artwork by bestselling artist Rafael López, Everything Comes Next is essential for poetry readers, classroom teachers, and library collections. Everything Comes Next is a treasure chest of Naomi Shihab Nye’s most beloved poems, and features favorites such as “Famous” and “A Valentine for Ernest Mann,” as well as widely shared pieces such as “Kindness” and “Gate A-4.” The book is an introduction to the poet’s work for new readers, as well as a comprehensive edition for classroom and family sharing. Writing prompts and tips by the award-winning poet make this an outstanding choice for aspiring poets of all ages.
256 pages, Paperback
First published September 29, 2020
117 people are currently reading
2897 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.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 126 reviews
March 26, 2024
“It was not war.
It was people.
We had gone nowhere
in a million years.”
Absolutely beautiful!!! Naomi Shihab Nye writes with such compassion, sensitivity, and awareness. She writes about people, family, conflict, war, hope, & humanity. Her words make you want to do everything you can to build a kinder, safer, more accepting world.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
Highly recommend to all poetry fans. (And even people who don’t usually read poetry; Naomi Shihab Nye’s writing style is very accessible and easy to understand.)
My favorites were: “Window”, “Gate A-4”, “Before I Was a Gazan”, “It is not a game, it was never a game”, “Kindness”, “For Mohammed Zeid of Gaza, Age 15”, “Before You Can”, & “His Life”
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and
thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in that gate—once the crying of confusion
stopped—seemed apprehensive about any other person. They
took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.
December 12, 2020
Richie’s Picks: EVERYTHING COMES NEXT: COLLECTED & NEW POEMS by Naomi Shihab Nye, Greenwillow, September 2020, 256p., ISBN: 978-0-06-301345-2
“Sometimes I pretend
I’m not me,
I only work for me.
This feels like
a secret motor
chirring inside my mind.
I think, She will be so glad
when she sees the homework
neatly written.
She will be relieved
someone sharpened pencils,
folded clothes.”
I can lack focus and still stroll through a contemporary novel or the next episode of a dramatic series. But I need the figurative light to read good poetry. Given recent national events, I’d been holding off, waiting for the right time to read EVERYTHING COMES NEXT: COLLECTED & NEW POEMS by Naomi Shihab Nye.
With the presidential election certified, the pantry stocked, and having sent out my final stack of postcards to Georgia voters, I arrived at a place where I could relax and pay attention.
And, voilà! I spent an enjoyable Saturday escounced in my favorite chair, savoring Naomi Shihab Nye’s great new collection of poetry. EVERYTHING COMES NEXT includes a number of her greatest hits, along with some terrific, brand new pieces.
“Sifter
When our English teacher gave
our first writing invitation of the year,
Become a kitchen implement
in two descriptive paragraphs, I did not think
butcher knife or frying pan,
I thought immediately
of soft flour showering through the little holes
of the sifter and the sifter’s pleasing circular
swishing sound, and wrote it down.
Rhonda became a teaspoon,
Roberto a funnel,
Jim a muffin tin,
and Forrest a soup pot.
We read our paragraphs out loud.
Abby was a blender. Everyone laughed
and acted giddy but the more we thought about it,
we were all everything in the whole kitchen,
drawers and drainers, singing teapot and grapefruit spoon
with serrated edges, we were all the
empty cup, the tray.
This, said our teacher, is the beauty of metaphor.
It opens doors.
What I could not know then
was how being a sifter
would help me all year long.
When bad days came,
I would close my eyes and feel them passing
through the tiny holes.
When good days came
I would try to contain them gently
the way flour remains
in the sifter until you turn the handle.
Time, time. I was a sweet sifter in time
And no one ever knew.”
I’ve been sharing Naomi Shihab Nye’s poetry books for decades. Her poetry is personal, in the sense that you come to feel that you know Naomi by reading her poetry.
It was always memorable, back when I attended book and librarian conventions, to hear Naomi read and get a chance to converse with her. She has built a career employing her wordcraft to promote poetry, along with understanding, peace, and justice. I’ve long come to see her as a kindred spirit, a sort of wise elder cousin.
This latest collection, EVERYTHING COMES NEXT, is divided into three sections: “The Holy Land of Childhood,” The Holy Land That Isn’t,” and “People Are the Only Holy Land.” It contains old favs of mine like “My Father and the Fig Tree,” and “Red Brocade.”
In the past, I’ve shared the terrific prefaces with which Naomi consistently begins her books of poetry. Here’s the latest:
“Poetry
The library shelves opened their arms. In the library everyone was rich. I stacked my bounty, counting books, arranging their spines. Bindings of new books smelled delicious.
On television, the poet Carl Sandberg strummed his guitar, his voice a honey-sweet dream or rolling, rollicking words. Cats and fog and words on the wind. His white hair looked lit up from inside like a lightbulb. I read every morning, every night. If you knew how to read, you could never be lonely.
If you knew how to read, it made sense that you might, one night in a tall Chicago hotel, ask for a large piece of pale construction paper--not the easiest thing to come by in a hotel--and write down something you felt that day when you saw the streets that were also bridges lifting up for boats to pass under. When you tipped your head back to gaze at the giant towers in which a thousand people worked who had never even thought of your name. It was worth saying.
You could take it to school and give it to your first-grade teacher, who didn’t like you. Pretend it was a present. She would hang it on the bulletin board in the hall and weeks later, far from that trip, a girl in school who was bigger than you would pause to say, ‘Did you write that poem?’
‘Ho, yes, I almost forgot.’
She smiled. ‘I read it--and I know what you mean,’ skipping off to join her friends at the monkey bars.
She knew what I meant. That was something. That was a wing to fly on all the way home, or for the rest of a life.”
I encourage you to brew yourself a cup of peppermint tea or pour a glass of lemonade. Settle in and experience the latest poetry by our current Young People's Poet Laureate. Just be certain to bookmark some to share.
Richie Partington, MLIS
Richie's Picks http://richiespicks.pbworks.com
https://www.facebook.com/richiespicks/
richiepartington@gmail.com
“Sometimes I pretend
I’m not me,
I only work for me.
This feels like
a secret motor
chirring inside my mind.
I think, She will be so glad
when she sees the homework
neatly written.
She will be relieved
someone sharpened pencils,
folded clothes.”
I can lack focus and still stroll through a contemporary novel or the next episode of a dramatic series. But I need the figurative light to read good poetry. Given recent national events, I’d been holding off, waiting for the right time to read EVERYTHING COMES NEXT: COLLECTED & NEW POEMS by Naomi Shihab Nye.
With the presidential election certified, the pantry stocked, and having sent out my final stack of postcards to Georgia voters, I arrived at a place where I could relax and pay attention.
And, voilà! I spent an enjoyable Saturday escounced in my favorite chair, savoring Naomi Shihab Nye’s great new collection of poetry. EVERYTHING COMES NEXT includes a number of her greatest hits, along with some terrific, brand new pieces.
“Sifter
When our English teacher gave
our first writing invitation of the year,
Become a kitchen implement
in two descriptive paragraphs, I did not think
butcher knife or frying pan,
I thought immediately
of soft flour showering through the little holes
of the sifter and the sifter’s pleasing circular
swishing sound, and wrote it down.
Rhonda became a teaspoon,
Roberto a funnel,
Jim a muffin tin,
and Forrest a soup pot.
We read our paragraphs out loud.
Abby was a blender. Everyone laughed
and acted giddy but the more we thought about it,
we were all everything in the whole kitchen,
drawers and drainers, singing teapot and grapefruit spoon
with serrated edges, we were all the
empty cup, the tray.
This, said our teacher, is the beauty of metaphor.
It opens doors.
What I could not know then
was how being a sifter
would help me all year long.
When bad days came,
I would close my eyes and feel them passing
through the tiny holes.
When good days came
I would try to contain them gently
the way flour remains
in the sifter until you turn the handle.
Time, time. I was a sweet sifter in time
And no one ever knew.”
I’ve been sharing Naomi Shihab Nye’s poetry books for decades. Her poetry is personal, in the sense that you come to feel that you know Naomi by reading her poetry.
It was always memorable, back when I attended book and librarian conventions, to hear Naomi read and get a chance to converse with her. She has built a career employing her wordcraft to promote poetry, along with understanding, peace, and justice. I’ve long come to see her as a kindred spirit, a sort of wise elder cousin.
This latest collection, EVERYTHING COMES NEXT, is divided into three sections: “The Holy Land of Childhood,” The Holy Land That Isn’t,” and “People Are the Only Holy Land.” It contains old favs of mine like “My Father and the Fig Tree,” and “Red Brocade.”
In the past, I’ve shared the terrific prefaces with which Naomi consistently begins her books of poetry. Here’s the latest:
“Poetry
The library shelves opened their arms. In the library everyone was rich. I stacked my bounty, counting books, arranging their spines. Bindings of new books smelled delicious.
On television, the poet Carl Sandberg strummed his guitar, his voice a honey-sweet dream or rolling, rollicking words. Cats and fog and words on the wind. His white hair looked lit up from inside like a lightbulb. I read every morning, every night. If you knew how to read, you could never be lonely.
If you knew how to read, it made sense that you might, one night in a tall Chicago hotel, ask for a large piece of pale construction paper--not the easiest thing to come by in a hotel--and write down something you felt that day when you saw the streets that were also bridges lifting up for boats to pass under. When you tipped your head back to gaze at the giant towers in which a thousand people worked who had never even thought of your name. It was worth saying.
You could take it to school and give it to your first-grade teacher, who didn’t like you. Pretend it was a present. She would hang it on the bulletin board in the hall and weeks later, far from that trip, a girl in school who was bigger than you would pause to say, ‘Did you write that poem?’
‘Ho, yes, I almost forgot.’
She smiled. ‘I read it--and I know what you mean,’ skipping off to join her friends at the monkey bars.
She knew what I meant. That was something. That was a wing to fly on all the way home, or for the rest of a life.”
I encourage you to brew yourself a cup of peppermint tea or pour a glass of lemonade. Settle in and experience the latest poetry by our current Young People's Poet Laureate. Just be certain to bookmark some to share.
Richie Partington, MLIS
Richie's Picks http://richiespicks.pbworks.com
https://www.facebook.com/richiespicks/
richiepartington@gmail.com
August 6, 2020
I was given a free copy of this book through the Goodreads giveaway program. This does not in any way affect my opinion. I try to express only my most honest opinion in a spoiler-free way. Unfortunately, there is still always a risk of slight spoilers despite my best efforts. If you feel something in my review is a spoiler please let me know. Thank you.
Not going to lie. I feel really bad about giving and ARC book a 1-star, but honest is honest and this book was super bad to me. It was very boring but also I couldn't understand what most of the poems were about. This is a book that is supposed to be for children and I just didn't get it, so how are they suppose to. But then again this may just not be my thing at all and I should really learn to just avoid poetry from here on out.
Not going to lie. I feel really bad about giving and ARC book a 1-star, but honest is honest and this book was super bad to me. It was very boring but also I couldn't understand what most of the poems were about. This is a book that is supposed to be for children and I just didn't get it, so how are they suppose to. But then again this may just not be my thing at all and I should really learn to just avoid poetry from here on out.
November 14, 2020
The current Young People’s Poet Laureate has compiled a collection of over 100 of her poems. It is a mixture of both previous published poems and new ones that have not been published before. Though some date back to the beginning of her stellar career and others are newer, there is a strong consistency across the collection with their eye towards hope combined with a strong sense of truth and honesty. Nye also has a way of focusing on the small and mundane in our lives and bringing out the wonder, including flour sifters, toddler comments, and cat food.
I bookmarked far too many of the poems, looking forward to returning to them again. While I had my distinct favorites (and lots of them) there were no poems in this collection that disappointed. The entire collection work both as a whole and as its separate parts. It provides a great introduction to Nye’s poetry.
Perhaps Nye’s greatest quality is her refusal to speak down to children or to simplify her poetry for them. She asks them to stretch to understand them, but not in confusing ways or using esoteric language. The concepts are fascinating, the poems leading the reader but not in a straight line, her poems more of a journey.
A gorgeous collection of poetry from one of the best. Appropriate for ages 12-15.
I bookmarked far too many of the poems, looking forward to returning to them again. While I had my distinct favorites (and lots of them) there were no poems in this collection that disappointed. The entire collection work both as a whole and as its separate parts. It provides a great introduction to Nye’s poetry.
Perhaps Nye’s greatest quality is her refusal to speak down to children or to simplify her poetry for them. She asks them to stretch to understand them, but not in confusing ways or using esoteric language. The concepts are fascinating, the poems leading the reader but not in a straight line, her poems more of a journey.
A gorgeous collection of poetry from one of the best. Appropriate for ages 12-15.
April 17, 2024
The minute I finished reading "Gate A-4" I re-read it. And then I read it again. I love it when something you didn't even know you needed comes into your reading life at just the right time and speaks to your soul. I also really loved "Before You Can." I really enjoy Nye's poetry.
June 17, 2021
One of my favorite poets whose poems always impact the heart and gut and never fail to remind us that it is the poets who should rule the world.
July 14, 2024
love, love, love!!!! Nye’s poems were fresh and sweet and profound and simple. She made me think deeply about the world but also brought comfort, solidarity and feelings of peace to me as I read. What a gift!
May 17, 2021
Everything Comes Next: Collected & New Poems is a compilation of poems by the Poetry Foundation's Young People's Poet Laureate, Naomi Shihab Nye. The book, with poems that range from a few stanzas to free verse stories, has three sections: "The Holy Land of Childhood," "The Holy Land that Isn't," and "People Are the Only Holy Land." Nye, an Arab-American poet, writes about her childhood, family, heritage and life experiences in a timeless and impactful way that will resonate with readers. Nye also offers insight into poetry for prospective writers and there is a section entitled “Notes on Poems” to give readers more insight into some of the selections.
Reviewed by Liz Glazer, Youth and School Services, Vernon Area Public Library
Reviewed by Liz Glazer, Youth and School Services, Vernon Area Public Library
April 3, 2021
I’ve been reading poetry and short stories recently because they slide into the cracks of a busy day.
Naomi Shihab Nye’s poetry is a favorite. This collection is organized by themes that take you on a journey, both with individual poems and then through the whole book. So many favorites among them.
I don’t usually read books again, but I would return to these poems again.
I’d give this 6 stars if I could.
Naomi Shihab Nye’s poetry is a favorite. This collection is organized by themes that take you on a journey, both with individual poems and then through the whole book. So many favorites among them.
I don’t usually read books again, but I would return to these poems again.
I’d give this 6 stars if I could.
July 5, 2022
Exquisite, deep, delectable. Naomi's gift is seeing, truly seeing what's around her, and accurately naming it. She's a bridge builder, connecting her experiences, hopes, and fears to our own, making us feel less alone and more understood.
It's hard to choose a favorite poem here, and I'm glad I don't have to. However, there's a reason her "Gate 4-A" and "Kindness" are among her most well-known poems. I also loved the last one, "Slim Thoughts," because I felt as if she was writing directly to me.
Now I'm on a search to take a class with Naomi teaching because I could learn so much from her.
It's hard to choose a favorite poem here, and I'm glad I don't have to. However, there's a reason her "Gate 4-A" and "Kindness" are among her most well-known poems. I also loved the last one, "Slim Thoughts," because I felt as if she was writing directly to me.
Now I'm on a search to take a class with Naomi teaching because I could learn so much from her.
May 10, 2024
Favorite poems (that I hadn't read in other collections):
Something Forgotten
Blood
During a War
The Day
Everything in Our World Did Not Seem to Fit
My Grandmother in the Stars
It is not a game, it was never a game
Before I Was Gazan
Double Peace
Alphabet
If the Shoe Doesn't Fit
I Don't Know
Mom Gives Away Your Ties
What Is Supposed to Happen
You Are Your Own State Department
Exotic Animals, Book for Children
The Rider
Common Funeral Myths
Montana Before Breakfast
Something Forgotten
Blood
During a War
The Day
Everything in Our World Did Not Seem to Fit
My Grandmother in the Stars
It is not a game, it was never a game
Before I Was Gazan
Double Peace
Alphabet
If the Shoe Doesn't Fit
I Don't Know
Mom Gives Away Your Ties
What Is Supposed to Happen
You Are Your Own State Department
Exotic Animals, Book for Children
The Rider
Common Funeral Myths
Montana Before Breakfast
September 12, 2020
Thank you to NetGalley, the author, and publisher for the ARC of this title.
Everything Comes Next by Naomi Shihab Nye is an excellent collection of poems for middle-grades readers. The variety of poems - from topics, to length, to style - is nice. Classroom teachers can easily mine this collection for mentor texts. The notes about selected was a welcomed bonus.
Everything Comes Next by Naomi Shihab Nye is an excellent collection of poems for middle-grades readers. The variety of poems - from topics, to length, to style - is nice. Classroom teachers can easily mine this collection for mentor texts. The notes about selected was a welcomed bonus.
April 7, 2021
This is an interesting collection of poems with sections titled “the holy land of childhood”, “the holy land that isn’t”, and “people are the only holy land”. I enjoyed the last section the most. While some of these poems are wonderful, some are not as good and others feel forced into the section they are in or don’t feel cohesive to the book as a whole. Some poems are newly written and some are found which makes it difficult to follow the voice at times throughout the book. Overall a nice collection.
November 16, 2020
This book is brand new and it gives so many well written poems that you need in your classroom to celebrate diversity and remind students of the importance of loving each other. I would use this book as a warm up book and read a daily poem from it to ensure that my class heard these poems. This is also a good reading level for students to understand the pieces.
February 1, 2021
"In another schoolrainbowed mural in hall
WE ARE ALL WONDERS
such simple words
I could have stood there weeping
invisible among kids till the whole place emptied”
I started an ethereal book about thin places, and am moved to tears by many things I read lately, and it makes me wish I could write poetry right now, because I have a lot of questions, like what percentage of time do Palestinians forget the tragedy they have been through so that the Jewish people do not have go through the Holocaust again, the most shameful act of humans in history? What percentage of time do my adopted Black nephews and nieces of my heart forget the white supremacy culture we all breathe in every day? What percentage of time do people in giant, unicultural countries without the magic of diversity, feel happy? And how do I reconcile my friend who is a Jewish settler in Israel in the West Bank with these poems, how do I hold that pain and make it sing?
The chapter headings have a theme of holy lands, and one of the illustrations says, “People are the only Holy Land.”
----
----
-----
I love that so much, it stopped me in my tracks.! I love the canyonlands of Utah, and it feels like holy land to me but never THE HOLY LAND, never belonging to me and my group of people only, especially since stolen from the original inhabitants. Can we let go of that, please, finally, like the idea that the world was flat, and life started a couple thousand years ago, and then move towards a better day? Please. I am absolutely devoted to learning about religions and wisdom traditions, and I cherish your right to what you believe, but not this, anymore. It was metaphor, and history and complicated movements of peoples, but it was never land that god walked on making it yours.
JERUSALEM
I’m not interested in
who suffered the most.
I’m interested in
people getting over it.
---
A man builds a house and says,
“I am native now.”
A woman speaks to a tree
in place of her son.
And olives come.
A child’s poem says,
“I don’t like wars,
they end up with monuments.”
---
If you tilt your head just slightly,
it’s ridiculous.
There’s a place in this 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.
DOUBLE PEACE
Not for him and his people alone
But for all who loved that rocky land
Everybody everybody Sing it!
No chosen and unchosen but everybody chosen
Sing it!
All families living under tiled rooftops
Or flat roofs with strung clotheslines…
Double peace multiplied
Outside inside every ancient space
BEFORE YOU CAN
My Jewish friends are kind and gentle. Not one of them
would harm another person even if they didn’t know
that person. My Arab friends are kind and gentle.
Not one of them would harm another person
even if they didn’t know that person.
They might press you to drink 45 small cups of coffee or tea,
but that would be all. My Jewish friends have never taken
my house, my land, herded me into a cell, tortured me,
cut down my tree, never once. My Arab friends have never
built a bomb. We respect each other as equals.
We look somewhat alike. We laugh similarly.
We have never said the other should not exist.
So where is the problem exactly? Let’s be specific.
Who and where and what is the problem exactly?
You have to know before you can fix it.
FOR Mohammed Zeid of Gaza, AGE 15
There is no stray bullet, sirs.
no bullet like a worried cat
crouching under a bush,
no half-hairless puppy bullet
dodging midnight streets.
The bullet could not be a pecan
plunking the tin roof, not hardly,
no fluff of pollen on October’s breath,
no humble pebble at our feet.
So don’t gentle it, please.
We live among stray thoughts,
tasks abandoned midstream.
Our fickle hearts are fat with
stray devotions, we feel at home
among bits and pieces,
the wandering ways of words.
But this bullet had no innocence, did not wish anyone well, you can’t tell us otherwise
by naming it mildly,
this bullet was never the friend of life,
should not be granted immunity by soft saying
—friendly fire, straying death-eye,
why have we given the wrong weight
to what we do? Mohammed, Mohammed,
deserves the truth.
This bullet had no secret happy hopes, it was not singing to itself with eyes closed under the bridge.
PICTURES FROM THE OCCUPIED TERRITORIES
Faces under occupation
carry a different light
than ones used to being
welcomed. Quiet shine,
the undersides of leaves.
Intricate traceries of work done in secret.
Consider the steady gaze
of constellations
forming complete images,
radiating in place,
whether or not
we give them names.
Compiled for young people, there is a seeming simplicity and accessibility to these poems, and the beauty is that more apparent. There were some repetitions from her book Red Suitcase, but not all, and some new ones never before released, so this book stands as a perfect introduction to this poet. I love love love that there are 2 poems honoring 2 of my favorite poets, Ted Kooser and William Stafford, and I think that is such a beautiful synchronicity to the type of poetry I love, nature themed, and the type of poetry that makes me resonate with and learn and grown, political or humanity poetry. And even as she honors Ted Kooser’s ability to connect us with beauty, she also says, his version of America is not true for everyone.
Bill’s Beans FOR WILLIAM STAFFORD
Under the leaves, they’re long and curling.
I pull a perfect question mark and two lean twins,
feeling the magnetic snap of stem, the ripened weight.
At the end of a day, the earth smells thirsty.
He left his brown hat, his shovel and his pen.
I don’t know how deep bean roots go.
We could experiment.
He left the sky over Oregon, the fluent trees.
He gave us our lives that were hiding under our feet saying,
You know what to do.
So we’ll take these beans
back into the house and steam them.
We’ll eat them one by one with our fingers,
the clean click and freshness.
We’ll thank him forever for our breath,
and the brevity of bean.
TED KOOSER IS MY PRESIDENT
When I travel abroad, I will invoke
Ted’s poems at checkpoints:
yes, barns, yes, memory, gentility,
the quiet little wind among stones.
If they ask, You are American?
I will say, Ted’s kind of American.
No, I carry no scissors or matches.
Yes, horizons, dinner tables.
Yes, weather, the honesty of it.
Buttons, chickens. Feel free
to dump my purse. I’ll wander
to the window, stare out for days.
Actually, I have never been
to Nebraska, except with Ted,
who hosted me dozens of times,
though we have never met.
His deep assurance comforts me.
He’s not big on torture at all.
He could probably sneak into your country
when you weren’t looking
and say something really good about it.
Have you noticed those purple blossoms
in a clump beside your wall?
Some others that appealed to me:
ARABIC COFFEE
It was never too strong for us, make it blacker, Papa, thick in the bottom,
tell again how years will gather in small white cups, how luck lives in a spot of grounds.
Leaning over the stove, he let it boil to the top and down again. Two times.
No sugar in his pot. And the place where men and women break off
from one another was not present in that room. The hundred disappointments,
fire swallowing olive-wood beads at the warehouse, and the dreams tucked like
pocket handkerchiefs into each day, took their places on the table, near the
half-empty dish of corn. And none were more important than the others,
and all were guests. When he carried the tray into the room
high and balanced in his hands, it was an offering to all of
them, stay, be seated, follow the talk wherever it goes.
The coffee was the center of the flower. Like clothes
on a line saying You will live long enough to wear
me, a motion of faith. There is this, and there
is more.
The Arabs used to say
When a stranger appears
at your door, feed him for
three days before asking who
he is, where he’s come from, where
he’s headed. That way, he’ll have strength
enough to answer. Or, by then you’ll be such good friends you don’t care.
DURING A WAR
Best wishes to you & yours,
he closes the letter.
For a moment I can’t
fold it up again—
where does “yours”
end? Dark eyes pleading
what could we have done differently?
Your family, your community, circle of earth,
we did not want, we tried to stop, we were not
heard by dark eyes who are dying now.
How easily they would have welcomed
us in for coffee, serving it in a simple room
with a radiant rug. Your friends & mine.
MY GRANDMOTHER IN THE STARS (excerpt)
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.
TWO COUNTRIES
…Skin felt
It was never seen, never known as
A land on the map, nose like a city,
Hip like a city, gleaming dome of a mosque,
And he hundred corrdiros of cinnamon and rope.
Skin had hope, that is what skin does.
Heals over the scarred place, makes a road.
Love means you breathe in two countries.
And skin remembers, silk, spiny grass,
deep in the pocket that is skin’s secret own.
Even now, when skin is not alone,
it remembers being alone
and thanks something larger
that there are travelers,
that people go places bigger
than themselves.
SO MUCH HAPPINESS
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs, or change.
But happiness floats.
It doesn’t need you to hold it down.
It doesn’t need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records
Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.
ONE BOY TOLD ME (fragments)
Music lives inside my legs. It’s coming out when I talk.
Grown-ups keep their feet on the ground when they swing. I hate that.
Yesterday faded but tomorrow’s in BOLDFACE.
My tongue is the car wash for the spoon.
Can noodles swim? My toes are dictionaries.
Do you need any words?
From now on I’ll only drink white milk on January 26.
What does minus mean? I never want to minus you.
Just think – no one has ever seen inside this peanut before!
It is hard being a person. I do and don’t love you— isn’t that happiness?
AT PORTALES, NEW MEXICO (excerpt)
You never knew how far your voice would travel
once you let a word out,
felt that curled stem shrinking in your throat
and the thousand directions
it could or could not go.
NEZ PERCE
Their silence
is larger
than our silence.
A Few Questions for Bashar Assad
We’re curious about your shoes, whether they retain laces of a traditional kind or you now prefer slip-ons. Do they sit, buffed leather, beside your wardrobe at night? Did you glance out the window today or place a hand on the head of your child within the last 24 hours? Can you recall exactly what that child said to you or asked? If you made any kind of promise? Was it less a conversation than a comfort, something a parent mumbles as the family circles and dines, tucks in and abides?
----
What about Aleppo? Did you love Aleppo? Are you sleeping enough, can you remember the time before you were bigger than a man, have those days dissolved, did you ever taste the water at Ma’alula from the miracle spring in a cave, the water said to bring faithful people whatever they wish for, is it still flowing, do you know?
SHOULDERS
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
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.
YOU ARE YOUR OWN STATE DEPARTMENT (EXCERPT)
My father’s hope for Palestine
stitching my bones, “no one wakes up and
dreams of fighting around the house”—
someday soon the steady eyes of children in Gaza,
yearning for a little extra electricity
to cool their lemons and cantaloupes, will be known.
---
Meanwhile secret diplomats are what we must be,
As a girl in Qatar once assured me,
Each day slipping its blank visa into our hands.
GATE A-4
Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been detained four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.” Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing…
She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely…We called her son…Then we called her other sons just for fun. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her?
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about any other person. I wanted to hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.
WE ARE ALL WONDERS
such simple words
I could have stood there weeping
invisible among kids till the whole place emptied”
I started an ethereal book about thin places, and am moved to tears by many things I read lately, and it makes me wish I could write poetry right now, because I have a lot of questions, like what percentage of time do Palestinians forget the tragedy they have been through so that the Jewish people do not have go through the Holocaust again, the most shameful act of humans in history? What percentage of time do my adopted Black nephews and nieces of my heart forget the white supremacy culture we all breathe in every day? What percentage of time do people in giant, unicultural countries without the magic of diversity, feel happy? And how do I reconcile my friend who is a Jewish settler in Israel in the West Bank with these poems, how do I hold that pain and make it sing?
The chapter headings have a theme of holy lands, and one of the illustrations says, “People are the only Holy Land.”
----
----
-----
I love that so much, it stopped me in my tracks.! I love the canyonlands of Utah, and it feels like holy land to me but never THE HOLY LAND, never belonging to me and my group of people only, especially since stolen from the original inhabitants. Can we let go of that, please, finally, like the idea that the world was flat, and life started a couple thousand years ago, and then move towards a better day? Please. I am absolutely devoted to learning about religions and wisdom traditions, and I cherish your right to what you believe, but not this, anymore. It was metaphor, and history and complicated movements of peoples, but it was never land that god walked on making it yours.
JERUSALEM
I’m not interested in
who suffered the most.
I’m interested in
people getting over it.
---
A man builds a house and says,
“I am native now.”
A woman speaks to a tree
in place of her son.
And olives come.
A child’s poem says,
“I don’t like wars,
they end up with monuments.”
---
If you tilt your head just slightly,
it’s ridiculous.
There’s a place in this 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.
DOUBLE PEACE
Not for him and his people alone
But for all who loved that rocky land
Everybody everybody Sing it!
No chosen and unchosen but everybody chosen
Sing it!
All families living under tiled rooftops
Or flat roofs with strung clotheslines…
Double peace multiplied
Outside inside every ancient space
BEFORE YOU CAN
My Jewish friends are kind and gentle. Not one of them
would harm another person even if they didn’t know
that person. My Arab friends are kind and gentle.
Not one of them would harm another person
even if they didn’t know that person.
They might press you to drink 45 small cups of coffee or tea,
but that would be all. My Jewish friends have never taken
my house, my land, herded me into a cell, tortured me,
cut down my tree, never once. My Arab friends have never
built a bomb. We respect each other as equals.
We look somewhat alike. We laugh similarly.
We have never said the other should not exist.
So where is the problem exactly? Let’s be specific.
Who and where and what is the problem exactly?
You have to know before you can fix it.
FOR Mohammed Zeid of Gaza, AGE 15
There is no stray bullet, sirs.
no bullet like a worried cat
crouching under a bush,
no half-hairless puppy bullet
dodging midnight streets.
The bullet could not be a pecan
plunking the tin roof, not hardly,
no fluff of pollen on October’s breath,
no humble pebble at our feet.
So don’t gentle it, please.
We live among stray thoughts,
tasks abandoned midstream.
Our fickle hearts are fat with
stray devotions, we feel at home
among bits and pieces,
the wandering ways of words.
But this bullet had no innocence, did not wish anyone well, you can’t tell us otherwise
by naming it mildly,
this bullet was never the friend of life,
should not be granted immunity by soft saying
—friendly fire, straying death-eye,
why have we given the wrong weight
to what we do? Mohammed, Mohammed,
deserves the truth.
This bullet had no secret happy hopes, it was not singing to itself with eyes closed under the bridge.
PICTURES FROM THE OCCUPIED TERRITORIES
Faces under occupation
carry a different light
than ones used to being
welcomed. Quiet shine,
the undersides of leaves.
Intricate traceries of work done in secret.
Consider the steady gaze
of constellations
forming complete images,
radiating in place,
whether or not
we give them names.
Compiled for young people, there is a seeming simplicity and accessibility to these poems, and the beauty is that more apparent. There were some repetitions from her book Red Suitcase, but not all, and some new ones never before released, so this book stands as a perfect introduction to this poet. I love love love that there are 2 poems honoring 2 of my favorite poets, Ted Kooser and William Stafford, and I think that is such a beautiful synchronicity to the type of poetry I love, nature themed, and the type of poetry that makes me resonate with and learn and grown, political or humanity poetry. And even as she honors Ted Kooser’s ability to connect us with beauty, she also says, his version of America is not true for everyone.
Bill’s Beans FOR WILLIAM STAFFORD
Under the leaves, they’re long and curling.
I pull a perfect question mark and two lean twins,
feeling the magnetic snap of stem, the ripened weight.
At the end of a day, the earth smells thirsty.
He left his brown hat, his shovel and his pen.
I don’t know how deep bean roots go.
We could experiment.
He left the sky over Oregon, the fluent trees.
He gave us our lives that were hiding under our feet saying,
You know what to do.
So we’ll take these beans
back into the house and steam them.
We’ll eat them one by one with our fingers,
the clean click and freshness.
We’ll thank him forever for our breath,
and the brevity of bean.
TED KOOSER IS MY PRESIDENT
When I travel abroad, I will invoke
Ted’s poems at checkpoints:
yes, barns, yes, memory, gentility,
the quiet little wind among stones.
If they ask, You are American?
I will say, Ted’s kind of American.
No, I carry no scissors or matches.
Yes, horizons, dinner tables.
Yes, weather, the honesty of it.
Buttons, chickens. Feel free
to dump my purse. I’ll wander
to the window, stare out for days.
Actually, I have never been
to Nebraska, except with Ted,
who hosted me dozens of times,
though we have never met.
His deep assurance comforts me.
He’s not big on torture at all.
He could probably sneak into your country
when you weren’t looking
and say something really good about it.
Have you noticed those purple blossoms
in a clump beside your wall?
Some others that appealed to me:
ARABIC COFFEE
It was never too strong for us, make it blacker, Papa, thick in the bottom,
tell again how years will gather in small white cups, how luck lives in a spot of grounds.
Leaning over the stove, he let it boil to the top and down again. Two times.
No sugar in his pot. And the place where men and women break off
from one another was not present in that room. The hundred disappointments,
fire swallowing olive-wood beads at the warehouse, and the dreams tucked like
pocket handkerchiefs into each day, took their places on the table, near the
half-empty dish of corn. And none were more important than the others,
and all were guests. When he carried the tray into the room
high and balanced in his hands, it was an offering to all of
them, stay, be seated, follow the talk wherever it goes.
The coffee was the center of the flower. Like clothes
on a line saying You will live long enough to wear
me, a motion of faith. There is this, and there
is more.
The Arabs used to say
When a stranger appears
at your door, feed him for
three days before asking who
he is, where he’s come from, where
he’s headed. That way, he’ll have strength
enough to answer. Or, by then you’ll be such good friends you don’t care.
DURING A WAR
Best wishes to you & yours,
he closes the letter.
For a moment I can’t
fold it up again—
where does “yours”
end? Dark eyes pleading
what could we have done differently?
Your family, your community, circle of earth,
we did not want, we tried to stop, we were not
heard by dark eyes who are dying now.
How easily they would have welcomed
us in for coffee, serving it in a simple room
with a radiant rug. Your friends & mine.
MY GRANDMOTHER IN THE STARS (excerpt)
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.
TWO COUNTRIES
…Skin felt
It was never seen, never known as
A land on the map, nose like a city,
Hip like a city, gleaming dome of a mosque,
And he hundred corrdiros of cinnamon and rope.
Skin had hope, that is what skin does.
Heals over the scarred place, makes a road.
Love means you breathe in two countries.
And skin remembers, silk, spiny grass,
deep in the pocket that is skin’s secret own.
Even now, when skin is not alone,
it remembers being alone
and thanks something larger
that there are travelers,
that people go places bigger
than themselves.
SO MUCH HAPPINESS
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs, or change.
But happiness floats.
It doesn’t need you to hold it down.
It doesn’t need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records
Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.
ONE BOY TOLD ME (fragments)
Music lives inside my legs. It’s coming out when I talk.
Grown-ups keep their feet on the ground when they swing. I hate that.
Yesterday faded but tomorrow’s in BOLDFACE.
My tongue is the car wash for the spoon.
Can noodles swim? My toes are dictionaries.
Do you need any words?
From now on I’ll only drink white milk on January 26.
What does minus mean? I never want to minus you.
Just think – no one has ever seen inside this peanut before!
It is hard being a person. I do and don’t love you— isn’t that happiness?
AT PORTALES, NEW MEXICO (excerpt)
You never knew how far your voice would travel
once you let a word out,
felt that curled stem shrinking in your throat
and the thousand directions
it could or could not go.
NEZ PERCE
Their silence
is larger
than our silence.
A Few Questions for Bashar Assad
We’re curious about your shoes, whether they retain laces of a traditional kind or you now prefer slip-ons. Do they sit, buffed leather, beside your wardrobe at night? Did you glance out the window today or place a hand on the head of your child within the last 24 hours? Can you recall exactly what that child said to you or asked? If you made any kind of promise? Was it less a conversation than a comfort, something a parent mumbles as the family circles and dines, tucks in and abides?
----
What about Aleppo? Did you love Aleppo? Are you sleeping enough, can you remember the time before you were bigger than a man, have those days dissolved, did you ever taste the water at Ma’alula from the miracle spring in a cave, the water said to bring faithful people whatever they wish for, is it still flowing, do you know?
SHOULDERS
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
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.
YOU ARE YOUR OWN STATE DEPARTMENT (EXCERPT)
My father’s hope for Palestine
stitching my bones, “no one wakes up and
dreams of fighting around the house”—
someday soon the steady eyes of children in Gaza,
yearning for a little extra electricity
to cool their lemons and cantaloupes, will be known.
---
Meanwhile secret diplomats are what we must be,
As a girl in Qatar once assured me,
Each day slipping its blank visa into our hands.
GATE A-4
Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been detained four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.” Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing…
She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely…We called her son…Then we called her other sons just for fun. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her?
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about any other person. I wanted to hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.
August 16, 2022
The Burning House, Museum, My Father & the Figtree, Mom Gives Away your Ties, Gate 4-A and Kindness stuck with me.
October 26, 2020
Thanks to NetGalley for the ARC of this title. Naomi Shihab Nye is one of our most important living poets, and this collection did not disappoint. The notes at the beginning of the book were very helpful for context for the very distinct, but interwoven sections. As a poet myself, I deeply loved and appreciated the final poem in the collection "Slim Thoughts". I was also glad to see the poems "So Much Happiness" and "Kindness", two of my favorites by the author.
December 2, 2020
The Notorious NSN has been one of my favorite poets for a decade or more, after seeing her give a lecture and reading at The Art Institute of Chicago. She writes eloquently about immigrant issues, political identity, relationships, and so much more. She's one of those poets whose collections I can open up to a random page, say, the following, and derive some inspiration:
"The Frogs Did Not Forget"
how to do what they do
through the huge dry days
where were they hiding?
one might lose a tune abandon a tradition
fall into a crack but the frogs after the rain
were singing on six notes
outside the bedroom window's
tangle of vines
pleasure poking its throaty resonance
back into my brain
(Sorry, GR does not seem to allow me to mimic her indents, but you get the idea.)
This one is flavored with a bit of Mary Oliver, but got me thinking about our current national landscape, the shared sense of hiding out, and where we go from here.
An aside: If you haven't been following the author's curation of a new short poem each week by a different author, introduced with a bit of her insight, in The New York Times Magazine, you are missing out. Go over there right now and give your spirit, and those brain cells, a little massage!
"The Frogs Did Not Forget"
how to do what they do
through the huge dry days
where were they hiding?
one might lose a tune abandon a tradition
fall into a crack but the frogs after the rain
were singing on six notes
outside the bedroom window's
tangle of vines
pleasure poking its throaty resonance
back into my brain
(Sorry, GR does not seem to allow me to mimic her indents, but you get the idea.)
This one is flavored with a bit of Mary Oliver, but got me thinking about our current national landscape, the shared sense of hiding out, and where we go from here.
An aside: If you haven't been following the author's curation of a new short poem each week by a different author, introduced with a bit of her insight, in The New York Times Magazine, you are missing out. Go over there right now and give your spirit, and those brain cells, a little massage!
August 7, 2020
Naomi Shihab Nye approaches the world with a sense of wonder, integrity, and open-handed acceptance. No wonder, then, that this collection of poetry for children speaks so delightfully and respectfully to the concerns and ideas children have. In "How to Paint a Donkey," for example, the narrator recounts an experience of being told the painting of a donkey isn't right. The narrator crumples the paper and throws it away, to the approval of the unnamed critic. But the poem ends, "Maybe this is what I unfold/ in the dark/ for the rest of my life/ That donkey/ was just the right size"
In other poems, Nye draws on her Palestinian-American identity to speak to challenges of immigrants and, specifically, rifts between Arabs and Jews. She takes on hard subjects but offers hope that people can and do take care of each other in the face of war, loss, and sadness.
These beautiful poems use simple language to convey care and compassion for children and their grown-ups. "Everything Comes Next" belongs in every elementary and middle school.
#NetGalley, #EverythingComes#Next
In other poems, Nye draws on her Palestinian-American identity to speak to challenges of immigrants and, specifically, rifts between Arabs and Jews. She takes on hard subjects but offers hope that people can and do take care of each other in the face of war, loss, and sadness.
These beautiful poems use simple language to convey care and compassion for children and their grown-ups. "Everything Comes Next" belongs in every elementary and middle school.
#NetGalley, #EverythingComes#Next
September 26, 2020
Naomi Shihab Nye’s newest collection Everything Comes Next is a solid if somewhat mixed collection of poems. Nye is America’s Young People’s Poet Laureate, and in some ways these poems, or some of them at least, are fitting for young people: language and syntax are relatively straightforward and simple, narrative poems often tell a pretty clear tale, the poems range from the very short (a few lines) to relatively short (2-3 pages at most). And many arrive from a young person’s viewpoint. On the other hand, some references are clearly beyond the years (such as to the Dick and Jane primers) and while the inherent longing for home or the basic goodness of people will certainly come across to young readers in Nye’s poems regrading Palestinians/Israelis, the underlying geopolitical nature of it will be lost on them.
Those above references give you an idea of the range of Nye’s poetry here, from a primary school classroom (multiple times) to the globe entire. Her topics can be as deeply serious as that Mideast conflict, as deeply sorrowful over the passing of her father, but also at times lightly humorous or with a focus on the more mundane or day-to-day. And sometimes the mundane leads to a more profound consideration, as when a child’s painting of a donkey, criticized as being mis-proportioned and so crumpled up and tossed away becomes a poet’s resistance to such arbitrary strictures on art.
As always with a collection, the reader’s mileage will vary poem to poem, often with different readers responding more or less positively to different poems. While I appreciated Nye’s clarity here, I did at times wish for more: richer language, more exploitation of sound and rhyme (not to say there isn’t any of this; there is). And some poems felt to me more prose-like than I prefer in my poetry (note prose-poems but more like line-broken narratives). Which is why I referred to this as a “solid” collection rather than employing stronger praise.
That said, there are certainly striking lines, metaphors, and images that will linger with the reader well after closing the book. “Clothes on a line saying You will love long enough to wear me, a motion of faith.” The refusal to sugarcoat a bullet as “stray,”: “There is no stray bullet, sirs, not bullet like a worried cat crouching under a bush . . . you can’t tell us otherwise by naming it mildly.” Her father finally gaining the fig tree of his homeland. The exhortation for us all to do as a glimpsed stranger does, “stepping gently . . . because his son is asleep on his shoulders . . . 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.”
Those above references give you an idea of the range of Nye’s poetry here, from a primary school classroom (multiple times) to the globe entire. Her topics can be as deeply serious as that Mideast conflict, as deeply sorrowful over the passing of her father, but also at times lightly humorous or with a focus on the more mundane or day-to-day. And sometimes the mundane leads to a more profound consideration, as when a child’s painting of a donkey, criticized as being mis-proportioned and so crumpled up and tossed away becomes a poet’s resistance to such arbitrary strictures on art.
As always with a collection, the reader’s mileage will vary poem to poem, often with different readers responding more or less positively to different poems. While I appreciated Nye’s clarity here, I did at times wish for more: richer language, more exploitation of sound and rhyme (not to say there isn’t any of this; there is). And some poems felt to me more prose-like than I prefer in my poetry (note prose-poems but more like line-broken narratives). Which is why I referred to this as a “solid” collection rather than employing stronger praise.
That said, there are certainly striking lines, metaphors, and images that will linger with the reader well after closing the book. “Clothes on a line saying You will love long enough to wear me, a motion of faith.” The refusal to sugarcoat a bullet as “stray,”: “There is no stray bullet, sirs, not bullet like a worried cat crouching under a bush . . . you can’t tell us otherwise by naming it mildly.” Her father finally gaining the fig tree of his homeland. The exhortation for us all to do as a glimpsed stranger does, “stepping gently . . . because his son is asleep on his shoulders . . . 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.”
March 12, 2024
"Everything Comes Next" by Naomi Shihab Nye presents a mixed bag of poetic reflections that veer from the mundane to the profound. In this collection, Nye exhibits a knack for capturing the essence of everyday life through her verse, although some poems resonate more deeply than others.
One such piece that stands out is "Courage," a poem that embodies Nye's impulse to utilize concrete language as a vehicle for conveying abstract feelings. By focusing on a single word, Nye invites readers to visually and physically engage with the concept of courage. This approach is particularly commendable as it provides a unique perspective and contributes to making emotions more accessible, especially for individuals with conditions like alexithymia.
Throughout the first section of the collection, Nye demonstrates a consistent activity of taking abstract feelings and rendering them concrete through vivid imagery and personification. This technique effectively engages the senses, making the emotions tangible and relatable. Readers are transported into Nye's world, where feelings take on a life of their own and resonate on a visceral level.
By the end of the third and last section, I was left to think about my parents and my mortality. From reading poems about the speaker's dead father before and after he died, I am encouraged to reflect and pursue a more intimate relationship with what I love before they're gone and before I regret not doing so.
"Everything Comes Next" has the potential to appeal to late elementary and middle-grade readers due to its accessible language and relatable themes. Nye's poetry explores universal experiences such as friendship, family, emotional connections, and more, making it relevant to young ler and older readers navigating their own journeys of growth and understanding.
However, while the collection offers moments of insight and beauty, it occasionally falls short in terms of consistency and depth. Some poems feel overly simplistic or lack the depth needed to leave a lasting impact. Additionally, the scattered nature of the themes may leave readers wanting a more cohesive narrative thread to tie the collection together.
In conclusion, "Everything Comes Next" by Naomi Shihab Nye is a solid entry into the world of poetry for late elementary and middle-grade readers. It offers moments of inspiration and reflection, with poems like "Courage" shining as examples of Nye's ability to transform abstract emotions into tangible experiences. While not without its flaws, this collection serves as a gentle introduction to the power of poetry and the complexities of the human experience.
One such piece that stands out is "Courage," a poem that embodies Nye's impulse to utilize concrete language as a vehicle for conveying abstract feelings. By focusing on a single word, Nye invites readers to visually and physically engage with the concept of courage. This approach is particularly commendable as it provides a unique perspective and contributes to making emotions more accessible, especially for individuals with conditions like alexithymia.
Throughout the first section of the collection, Nye demonstrates a consistent activity of taking abstract feelings and rendering them concrete through vivid imagery and personification. This technique effectively engages the senses, making the emotions tangible and relatable. Readers are transported into Nye's world, where feelings take on a life of their own and resonate on a visceral level.
By the end of the third and last section, I was left to think about my parents and my mortality. From reading poems about the speaker's dead father before and after he died, I am encouraged to reflect and pursue a more intimate relationship with what I love before they're gone and before I regret not doing so.
"Everything Comes Next" has the potential to appeal to late elementary and middle-grade readers due to its accessible language and relatable themes. Nye's poetry explores universal experiences such as friendship, family, emotional connections, and more, making it relevant to young ler and older readers navigating their own journeys of growth and understanding.
However, while the collection offers moments of insight and beauty, it occasionally falls short in terms of consistency and depth. Some poems feel overly simplistic or lack the depth needed to leave a lasting impact. Additionally, the scattered nature of the themes may leave readers wanting a more cohesive narrative thread to tie the collection together.
In conclusion, "Everything Comes Next" by Naomi Shihab Nye is a solid entry into the world of poetry for late elementary and middle-grade readers. It offers moments of inspiration and reflection, with poems like "Courage" shining as examples of Nye's ability to transform abstract emotions into tangible experiences. While not without its flaws, this collection serves as a gentle introduction to the power of poetry and the complexities of the human experience.
January 23, 2025
A beautiful collection, very honest, heartfelt, and humble poems. I enjoyed 19 Varieties of Gazelle by the same author a little more, it simply resonated stronger. But I was very glad that one of my favourite poems "Kindness" by Naomi Shihab Nye was included in this collection. It was also the reason why I decided to read more of her poems.
Kindness
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
Kindness
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
January 22, 2021
3.5 stars. I felt like reading this book was sifting through material and finding a few absolute treasures and many good experiences, but many of the poems didn't completely connect for me. Maybe I just need more practice reading poetry.
The book is also kinda in the children's section (I definitely pulled it off the children's shelves at the public library) but I think that the poetry selection is better for an audience that's a little bit older. The cover lauds Naomi Shihab Nye as the "Young People's Poet Laureate" and I'm not entirely sure what age that refers to, but the poetry collection here definitely had a good blend of big topics and youthful glimmer, plus a lot of poems that I related to as an adult or envisioned an older person as the speaker, speaking to an older audience. The mix of childhood stories, wide-eyed ideas, vision for the future, and experiences--happy and sad-- of what the world already offers was a good mix of human experiences and made the book something that will likely be overall enjoyable for any reader. You may not connect with every poem, but you will definitely find some treasures in there just for you.
The book is also kinda in the children's section (I definitely pulled it off the children's shelves at the public library) but I think that the poetry selection is better for an audience that's a little bit older. The cover lauds Naomi Shihab Nye as the "Young People's Poet Laureate" and I'm not entirely sure what age that refers to, but the poetry collection here definitely had a good blend of big topics and youthful glimmer, plus a lot of poems that I related to as an adult or envisioned an older person as the speaker, speaking to an older audience. The mix of childhood stories, wide-eyed ideas, vision for the future, and experiences--happy and sad-- of what the world already offers was a good mix of human experiences and made the book something that will likely be overall enjoyable for any reader. You may not connect with every poem, but you will definitely find some treasures in there just for you.
October 3, 2020
A Poet’s Career in One Book
Before looking at this collection of her works spanning her career (including a few new ones), I had not heard of this poet before. Her take on the world is a fascinating one, as she has lived the life of a first-generation Arab American. The book is broadly divided into three sections that have poems that relate to childhood, her father and the immigrant experience, and the interesting people she has met along the way. Some are prose poems while others are shorter forms. Some give insight into the minutest aspect of life while others look at the universal that can be understood through one person’s perspective or bring up broader themes. Even though the author is the Young People’s Poet Laureate, some poems might be a little too raw for some children. However, I did find this book of poems from the entirety of one poet’s career an insightful read.
I received a free copy of this book, but that did not affect my review.
My book blog: https://www.readingfanaticreviews.com
Before looking at this collection of her works spanning her career (including a few new ones), I had not heard of this poet before. Her take on the world is a fascinating one, as she has lived the life of a first-generation Arab American. The book is broadly divided into three sections that have poems that relate to childhood, her father and the immigrant experience, and the interesting people she has met along the way. Some are prose poems while others are shorter forms. Some give insight into the minutest aspect of life while others look at the universal that can be understood through one person’s perspective or bring up broader themes. Even though the author is the Young People’s Poet Laureate, some poems might be a little too raw for some children. However, I did find this book of poems from the entirety of one poet’s career an insightful read.
I received a free copy of this book, but that did not affect my review.
My book blog: https://www.readingfanaticreviews.com
September 23, 2021
Beginning with an introduction by poet and author Edward Hirsch and a foreword by Palestinian-American Naomi Shihab Nye, the United States’ Young People’s Poet Laureate (2019-2021), this poignant and powerful collection of Nye’s new and old poems and short prose affirms her belief that people matter and that caring for each other’s sorrows, sufferings, and celebrations promotes hope. The poems are organized into three sections: “The Holy Land of Childhood” with insights and observations of children, “The Holy Land That Isn’t” describing the human consequences of war including poems about the displacement of Nye’s family, and “People Are the Only Holy Land,” which focuses on the lives of people and their stories. Beautiful black-and-white illustrations by Rafael López focus attention on the relationships between people and things. Back matter includes Nye’s “Slim Thoughts” about the nature of writing; “Notes on Poems,” which provides the context for some of the poems; and biographical notes on Nye and Hirsch.
January 24, 2022
Lovely.
This is my first time reading one of Nye's books of poetry--I've read isolated poems here and there, but not one of her books; so I believe this is a bit of a "greatest hits" compilation that might be repetitive to those who know her work better, but for those (like me) who don't it's a really nice collection. A wide variety of styles and topics with shared themes. It inspires me to try my hand at crafting some pieces of my own.
Nye generally writes for kids and the book is fully accessible to younger readers, but there is nothing about her poetry that excludes teens or adults, and older readers will enjoy these poems as much as younger ones will.
This is an excellent representation of why she has the reputation she does--as one of our best.
This is my first time reading one of Nye's books of poetry--I've read isolated poems here and there, but not one of her books; so I believe this is a bit of a "greatest hits" compilation that might be repetitive to those who know her work better, but for those (like me) who don't it's a really nice collection. A wide variety of styles and topics with shared themes. It inspires me to try my hand at crafting some pieces of my own.
Nye generally writes for kids and the book is fully accessible to younger readers, but there is nothing about her poetry that excludes teens or adults, and older readers will enjoy these poems as much as younger ones will.
This is an excellent representation of why she has the reputation she does--as one of our best.
Sometimes I Pretend
I'm not me,
I only work for me.
This feels like
a secret motor
chirring inside my mind.
I think, She will be so glad
when she sees the homework
neatly written.
She will be relieved
someone sharpened pencils,
folded clothes.
October 24, 2020
I love Naomi Shihab Nye's work when I love it. Do you know what I mean? She is one of those brilliant writers whose work, when it touches me, slices me to the core. On the other hand, some of the poems leave me feeling distant. I just can't find a way in. Maybe it's because I'm not knowledgeable enough in history and politics. I love her poems that take on these topics (and many others) and make them personal and universal at the same time. But some of them feel locked away, like I don't have the secret key I need to read and really FEEL them. I'm always grateful to read one of her books, because I know there will be gems for me to find. I highlighted many lines and whole poems to come back and revisit.
Review copy provided by the publisher via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
Review copy provided by the publisher via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
July 31, 2022
Naomi Shihab Nye is the young people's poet laureate and, I believe, one of the most talented poets alive today. This collection includes older works and some new ones, organized in three sections: The Holy Land of Childhood, The Holy Land that Isn't, and People are the Only Holy Land. Illustrated by Rafael López, this volume is great for children, but can be enjoyed by absolutely anyone.
Some of my favorite poems were His Life (which straight up made me cry), Everything in Our World Did Not Seem to Fit, Valentine for Ernest Mann, Shoulders, What is Supposed to Happen, Alive, and Mediterranean Blue. A special shout-out for Gate A-4, which made me want to be a better human. Also, her poem, Kindness, which I've read many times before, is in this book, and is one of my favorite poems of all time.
Highly recommended.
Some of my favorite poems were His Life (which straight up made me cry), Everything in Our World Did Not Seem to Fit, Valentine for Ernest Mann, Shoulders, What is Supposed to Happen, Alive, and Mediterranean Blue. A special shout-out for Gate A-4, which made me want to be a better human. Also, her poem, Kindness, which I've read many times before, is in this book, and is one of my favorite poems of all time.
Highly recommended.
November 9, 2021
The last stanza in "A Valentine for Ernest Mann:"
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give is
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite
And let me know.
I think sums up how I felt about Shahib-Nye's book. Her poems weren't about anything deep or profound, although a lot of them are about the wars in the Middle East. She is able to talk about everyday things and make them sound deep and profound--and beautiful. My favorites were "Famous," "One Boy Told Me," and "Before You Can." I also really loved her personal notes at the end sharing what the poems were based on in her life. This is a lovely book.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give is
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite
And let me know.
I think sums up how I felt about Shahib-Nye's book. Her poems weren't about anything deep or profound, although a lot of them are about the wars in the Middle East. She is able to talk about everyday things and make them sound deep and profound--and beautiful. My favorites were "Famous," "One Boy Told Me," and "Before You Can." I also really loved her personal notes at the end sharing what the poems were based on in her life. This is a lovely book.
November 4, 2025
This is an amazing collection of poems. So many of them completely stopped me in my tracks and stuck with me days after reading. Admittedly, there were some I didn't understand, but that's fine. Her words still kept me going back for more. Here's one of my favorites -
Burlington, Vermont
In the lovely free public library
only library I ever met
that loans out garden tools
as well as books
rakes & long-handled clippers
from large buckets by the counter
I sat in a peaceful room
with people I will never know
reading about far-away war
war I am paying for
war I don't want & never wanted
& put my head down
on the smooth wooden table
wishing to weep loudly or quietly
it did not matter
in the purifying presence
of women & men
shovels & hoes
devoted to growing
Burlington, Vermont
In the lovely free public library
only library I ever met
that loans out garden tools
as well as books
rakes & long-handled clippers
from large buckets by the counter
I sat in a peaceful room
with people I will never know
reading about far-away war
war I am paying for
war I don't want & never wanted
& put my head down
on the smooth wooden table
wishing to weep loudly or quietly
it did not matter
in the purifying presence
of women & men
shovels & hoes
devoted to growing
Displaying 1 - 30 of 126 reviews