Rounding the last old city corner to school,
for years and years
a boy touched his finger to
the same chipped stone in a wall.
Befriending one another
was no trouble.
The boy knew what came next:
tight desk, stretching hours.
Sixty years later in another country
he tells one person about his stone.
Then goes outside
to stare into trees.
Is it still there?
He will find it.
What if it is not there?
He will find it.
I am reading a poem from the book (19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East, Greenwillow Books, 2002) and it has two quick sections.
I love how when you’ve been with somebody for so many years, they’ll just come up with some little detail that you’ve never heard a thing about before.
People pass you in the street
and do not see you.
Apparition, hidden river,
inhabitant of cracks...
After battering talk
a room clears
and you’re on the ceiling
extending your silent hand
water of light
poured freely...
a hand, not a flag.
You don’t believe in flags anymore.
You’re not even sure
you believe in men.
Birds, children, silver trays--
no problem here.
Each day they trade their air
and song. They feed you.
Naomi Shihab Nye. Poet, writer. Born: St. Louis Missouri to Palestinian father and American mother. Lives: San Antonio, Texas, U.S.A. Ms. Nye has six collections of poetry, Fuel, Words Under the Words: Selected Poems, Red Suitcase, and Hugging the Jukebox. She also writes books for children and young adults. Her many honors include Guggenheim and Witter Bynner Fellowships, two Jane Addams Children’s Book Awards, and the I.B. Lavan Award from the Academy of American Poets.
