|  | Naomi Shihab Nye, traveling poet, flew in from San Antonio to become the seventh Westminster Poet. Ms. Nye’s poems presented the perfect combination of accessibility and mystery, and students and teachers alike enjoyed her books. While she was one campus, Ms. Nye was the most generous of guests, spending extra time with students, relishing in the opportunity to talk about the importance of keeping a journal and the saving grace of poetry. Here are a few poems from Mrs. Nye’s latest book, Honeybee.
The Problem of Muchness
One thing does not lead to another,
it leads to everything.
Days as pennies, grasses, tidal swells of speckled distraction,
and how could you waste time, really?
What did it mean to waste time?
If you stared at a soft beam of light crossing a floor,
was that looking wasted?
The concept of “catching up”
felt troublesome, too.
Catch up with what?
The yellow Post-it notes strewn across the desk?
I tried never to rush, never to think of more than one thing
at any given moment.
Ha.
While brushing hair I remembered unsent letters.
While feeding the cat I saw weeds wagging their tongues.
— Naomi Shihab Nye
How Do I Know When a Poem Is Finished?
When you quietly close
the door to a room
the room is not finished.
It is resting. Temporarily.
Glad to be without you
for a while.
Now it has time to gather
its balls of gray dust,
to pitch them from corner to corner.
Now it seeps back into itself,
unruffled and proud.
Outlines grow firmer.
When you return,
you might move the stack of books,
freshen the water for the roses.
I think you could keep doing this
forever. But the blue chair looks best
with the red pillow. So you might as well
leave it that way.
— Naomi Shihab Nye
Before I Read The Kite Runner
I held it on my lap on the plane in Cairo while other passengers were boarding. It seemed like a good book to read finally, on such a long flight. I’d had it since it came out, but now the time felt right. Two men from Yemen across the aisle, who had been snoozing when the Egypt passengers first boarded, pointed and said, “Good book! Good book!” Some women from Germany patted my head and said, “We loved that book.” An American man with his wife leaned over and said, “It opened our eyes.” What a surprise! Everyone on the plane seemed to have read it before me. And they were my friends simply because I was holding it!
Maybe we should just wander around other countries carrying books.
— Naomi Shihab Nye
To One Now Grown
If we could start over, I would let you get dirtier.
Place your face in the food, it’s okay.
In trade for great metaphors,
the ones you used to spout every minute,
I’d extend your bedtime,
be more patient with tantrums,
never answer urgency with urgency,
try to stay serene.
In one scene you are screaming
and I stop the car.
What do we do next?
I can’t remember.
It’s buried in the drawer of small socks.
Give me the box of time.
Let’s make it bigger.
It’s all yours.
— Naomi Shihab Nye
If you have any favorite Naomi Shihab Nye poems which you would like to see us post here, let us know via e-mail and we’ll do our best to get them online. |
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