Naomi Shihab Nye

(12 March 1952 / St. Louis, Missouri)

Naomi Shihab Nye Poems

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

Making A Fist

We forget that we are all dead men conversing wtih dead men.
—Jorge Luis Borges

For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

'How do you know if you are going to die?'
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she ...

Read the full of Making A Fist

Arabs in Finland

Their language rolls out,
soft carpet in front of them.
Strolling slowly beneath trees,
men in white shirts,
belts, baggy trousers,
women in scarves,
glinting cigarettes in the dusk.
What they left to be here, in the cold country,
where winter lasts forever,

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