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    Red Suitcase
    Red Suitcase
    Red Suitcase
    Ebook116 pages40 minutes

    Red Suitcase

    By Naomi Shihab Nye

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    About this ebook

    Poet, teacher, essayist, anthologist, songwriter and singer, Naomi Shihab Nye is one of the country's most acclaimed writers. Her voice is generous; her vision true; her subjects ordinary people, and ordinary situations which, when rendered through her language, become remarkable. In this, her fourth full collection of poetry, we see with new eyes-a grandmother's scarf, an alarm clock, a man carrying his son on his shoulders.

    Valentine for Ernest Mann

    You can’t order a poem like you order a taco.
    Walk up to the counter and say, "I’ll take two"
    and expect it to handed back to you
    on a shiny plate.

    Still, I like you spirit.
    Anyone who says, "Here’s my address,
    write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
    So I’ll tell a secret instead:
    poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
    they are sleeping. They are the shadows
    drifting across our ceilings the moment
    before we wake up. What we have to do
    is live in a way that lets us find them.

    Once I knew a man who gave his wife
    two skunks for a valentine.
    He couldn’t understand why she was crying.
    "I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
    And he was serious. He was a serious man
    who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
    just because the world said so. He really
    liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
    as valentines and they became beautiful.
    At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
    in the eyes of skunks for centuries
    crawled out and curled up at his feet.

    Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
    we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
    in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
    And let me know.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBOA Editions Ltd.
    Release dateDec 20, 2013
    ISBN9781938160431
    Author

    Naomi Shihab Nye

    Naomi Shihab Nye was born in St. Louis, Missouri. Her father was a Palestinian refugee and her mother an American of German and Swiss descent, and she spent her adolescence in both Jerusalem and San Antonio, Texas. She earned her BA from Trinity University in San Antonio. Naomi Shihab Nye describes herself as a “wandering poet.” She has spent more than forty years traveling the country and the world, leading writing workshops and inspiring students of all ages. Naomi Shihab Nye is the author and/or editor of more than thirty books. Her books of poetry for adults and young people include 19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East (a finalist for the National Book Award); A Maze Me: Poems for Girls; Voices in the Air: Poems for Listeners; Honeybee (winner of the Arab American Book Award); Cast Away: Poems of Our Time (one of the Washington Post’s best books of 2020); Come with Me: Poems for a Journey; and Everything Comes Next: Collected and New Poems. Her other volumes of poetry include Red Suitcase; Words Under the Words; Fuel; Transfer; You & Yours; Mint Snowball; and The Tiny Journalist. Her collections of essays include Never in a Hurry and I’ll Ask You Three Times, Are You Okay?: Tales of Driving and Being Driven. Naomi Shihab Nye has edited nine acclaimed poetry anthologies, including This Same Sky: Poems from Around the World; The Space Between Our Footsteps: Poems from the Middle East; Time You Let Me In: 25 Poets Under 25; and What Have You Lost? Her picture books include Sitti’s Secrets, illustrated by Nancy Carpenter, and her acclaimed fiction includes Habibi; The Turtle of Oman (winner of the Middle East Book Award) and its sequel, The Turtle of Michigan (honorable mention for the Arab American Book Award). Naomi Shihab Nye has been a Lannan Fellow, a Guggenheim Fellow, and a Witter Bynner Fellow (Library of Congress). She has received a Lavan Award from the Academy of American Poets, the Isabella Gardner Poetry Award, the Lee Bennett Hopkins Poetry Award, the Paterson Poetry Prize, four Pushcart Prizes, the Robert Creeley Award, and ""The Betty,"" from Poets House, for service to poetry, and numerous honors for her children’s literature, including two Jane Addams Children’s Book Awards. In 2011 Nye won the Golden Rose Award given by the New England Poetry Club, the oldest poetry-reading series in the country. Her work has been presented on National Public Radio on A Prairie Home Companion and The Writer’s Almanac. She has been featured on two PBS poetry specials, including The Language of Life with Bill Moyers, and she also appeared on NOW with Bill Moyers. She has been affiliated with the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas at Austin for twenty years and served as poetry editor at the Texas Observer for twenty years. In 2019–20 she was the poetry editor for the New York Times Magazine. She is Chancellor Emeritus for the Academy of American Poets and laureate of the 2013 NSK Neustadt Prize for Children’s Literature, and in 2017 the American Library Association presented Naomi Shihab Nye with the 2018 May Hill Arbuthnot Honor Lecture Award. In 2018 the Texas Institute of Letters named her the winner of the Lon Tinkle Award for Lifetime Achievement. She was named the 2019–21 Young People's Poet Laureate by the Poetry Foundation. In 2020 she was awarded the Ivan Sandrof Award for Lifetime Achievement by the National Book Critics Circle. In 2021 she was voted into the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Naomi Shihab Nye is professor of creative writing-poetry at Texas State University.

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      Book preview

      Red Suitcase - Naomi Shihab Nye

      TRAVEL ALARM

      Because everything still bears

      the sweet iron taste of experiment,

      a penny pressed to the tongue,

      the boy places his mother’s

      little clock in the broiler.

      Way back, down deep,

      so she won’t see when

      she bakes the muffins.

      Once she says, What’s that smell

      in here? Like truck tires

      at a car lot—and he grins,

      by now having forgotten,

      but liking strange odors

      that rise in the midst of any day,

      strange bells, even the maniac

      who kept roaring around their block

      till his mother called the police.

      Each morning he begs his parents

      not to read the newspaper, knowing

      how their faces go half-blank

      and mad, their hands turn

      and turn never finding

      the right page.

      But the secret woman keeps pitching

      the rolled paper into their yard,

      the woman called Willie or Freddie,

      whom he caught a glimpse of once,

      pulling away in her long arrow

      of a car.

      Later he asks, is it still morning?

      If it’s noon, why is it so dark?

      Some evening when his mother pulls

      the broiler wide to find

      her melted ring of hours,

      now crisp as a wedding collar,

      and the two frozen hands,

      he’ll feel far away,

      as if he didn’t do anything

      leading up to it.

      But when she likes the hard new shine

      glossing the puckered 3 and

      sunken 8, when she says

      Now we can never be late

      and laughs, and laughs,

      the sound of a storm coming

      that lifts the air in its path,

      when she hands it back to him

      and he winds the little key

      to hear it ring! Still—

      the wild buzz that woke her up

      in a hundred different towns—

      he’ll feel how morning and evening

      run together, how bad and good can melt

      into something entirely else.

      They’ll tell his father

      when he steps from the darkroom

      blinking, they’ll say

      We have a surprise for you,

      and hold it up. It will take him

      a long moment even to know

      what it was.

      Standing together

      on the edge of dinnertime

      and night, the table half-set

      but nothing missing,

      no one wishing for any

      impossible season,

      —when I was smaller,

      when you’ll be older—

      even the trees outside

      that should be thinking autumn now

      still lit by an endless minute

      of green.

      I

      In Every Language

      FROM HERE TO THERE

      Everything needs readiness,

      baskets emptied,

      gladiolus spear placed in

      a glass.

      Before you begin,

      before you let yourself move

      from here to there,

      you attend to little things,

      a cat’s mouth open and crying,

      a thin parade of ants

      along the sill.

      Something in the way we are made

      wants order. Wants three pillows

      lined across the head of the bed,

      wants porches swept and shades raised.

      Before we begin. Before we head into

      those secret rooms no one else

      has cleaned for years,

      where memories rest in heaps,

      without cabinets,

      and have only to be touched lightly

      to shine.

      THE ATTIC AND ITS NAILS

      It’s hard up there. You dig in a box for whatever the moment requires: sweater, wreath, the other half of the walky-talky, and find twelve things you forgot about which delay the original search, since now that you found them you have to think about them. Do I want to keep this, bring it downstairs? Of course your life feels very different from the life you had when you packed it

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