Naomi Shihab Nye

(12 March 1952 / St. Louis, Missouri)

Naomi Shihab Nye Poems

1. Business 5/13/2015
2. How Palestinians Keep Warm 5/16/2015
3. Arabic 5/16/2015
4. One Way or Another 4/30/2015
5. Negotiations with a Volcano 12/10/2015
6. Lying While Birding 5/22/2015
7. Loving Working 1/23/2016
8. Many Asked Me Not to Forget Them 6/22/2015
9. Snow 5/16/2015
10. Arabs in Finland 6/10/2015
11. The Turtle Shrine Near Chittagong 1/4/2012
12. The Story, Around The Corner 1/4/2012
13. Valentine for Ernest Mann 5/9/2015
14. The Words Under The Words 1/4/2012
15. The Traveling Onion 12/26/2014
16. Song Book 12/1/2014
17. Truth Serum 1/4/2012
18. Trying To Name What Doesn’t Change 1/4/2012
19. Yellow Glove 1/4/2012
20. The Small Vases From Hebron 1/4/2012
21. Wedding Cake 12/17/2014
22. Last August Hours Before The Year 2000 1/4/2012
23. Alaska 1/4/2012
24. Spruce Street, Berkeley 1/4/2012
25. My Uncle’s Favorite Coffee Shop 1/4/2012
26. Supple Cord 1/4/2012
27. San Antonio 1/4/2012
28. Fundamentalism 1/4/2012
29. Hello 1/4/2012
30. The Rider 1/4/2012
31. Jerusalem 1/4/2012
32. Hugging The Jukebox 1/4/2012
33. Shoulders 1/4/2012
34. Boy And Egg 1/4/2012
35. Different Ways To Pray 1/4/2012
36. So Much Happiness 1/4/2012
37. The Art Of Disappearing 1/4/2012
38. Burning The Old Year 1/4/2012
39. Famous 1/4/2012
40. Sewing, Knitting, Crocheting... 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Naomi Shihab Nye

Blood

"A true Arab knows how to catch a fly in his hands,"
my father would say. And he'd prove it,
cupping the buzzer instantly
while the host with the swatter stared.

In the spring our palms peeled like snakes.
True Arabs believed watermelon could heal fifty ways.
I changed these to fit the occasion.

Years before, a girl knocked,
wanted to see the Arab.
I said we didn't have one.
After that, my father told me who he was,
"Shihab"--"shooting star"--
a good name, borrowed from the sky.
Once I said, "When we die, we ...

Read the full of Blood

Streets

A man leaves the world
and the streets he lived on
grow a little shorter.

One more window dark
in this city, the figs on his branches
will soften for birds.

If we stand quietly enough evenings

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