Naomi Shihab Nye, The Tiny Journalist

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THE TINY JOURNALIST: POEMS, Naomi Shihab Nye. BOA Editions, Ltd., 250 North Goodman Street, Suite 306, Rochester, NY 14607, 2019, 124 pages, $17 paper, www.boaeditions.org.

Naomi Shihab Nye is Palestinian-American and her father was a journalist all his life. The tiny journalist is a Facebook writer named Janna, a Palestinian girl who has been posting videos since the age of seven. The dedications, author’s note, and epigraphs in this book are an education on Israeli/Palestinian relations, Apartheid, and Palestinian suffering.

It Was or It Wasn’t

Arabic fairy tales begin this way,
so do Arabic days.
A pantry is empty
but Mama still produces a tray of tea and cookies
for the guest.
West is the still the way we stare—
knowing there’s blue space and free water
over there. There’s a Palestinian and a Jew
building a synagogue together in Arkansas.
They’re friends, with respect.
Actually our water
isn’t free either
nor are the fish my friends in Gaza
aren’t allowed to catch.
It was or it wasn’t a democracy,
a haven
for human beings,
but only some of them.
You can’t do that with people,
pretend they aren’t there.
It was or it wasn’t a crowd.
Diploma, marriage, legacy,
babies being born,
children being killed,
it was or it wasn’t going to work out.

These are not sophisticated, craft-conscious poems. They are like a voice, whispering in your ear. “If you live like a real human being— / that is the issue. Not winning and hunting others. / Not dominating. / Not sending their sewage their direction. / Did you know? Did you know they do this?” (from “Losing as Its Own Flower).

Advice

My friend, dying, said do the hard thing first.
Always do the hard thing and you will have a better day.
The second thing will seem less hard.

She didn’t tell me what to do when everything seems hard.

Rather than look for reviews to quote, or try to describe this collection, I would love to give you enough to reveal the many facets here. Probably not possible.

Grandfathers Say

Grandfathers say the garden is deep,
old roots twisted beyond our worry
or reach. Maybe our grief began there,
in the long history of human suffering,
where rain goes when it soaks out of sight.
Savory smoke from ancient fires
still lingers. At night you can smell it
in the stones of the walls.
When you awaken, voices
from inside your pillow
still holding you close.

The book ends with a short poem, “Tiny Journalist Blues”; the last lines, “Nothing big enough / but freedom.” Amen.

Read more and find additional links at https://www.boaeditions.org/products/the-tiny-journalist.

 

 

 

 

 

Natalie Diaz, Postcolonial Love Poem

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POSTCOLONIAL LOVE POEM, Natalie Diaz. Graywolf Press, 250 Third Avenue North, Suite 600, Minneapolis, MN 55401, 2020, 105 pages, $16.00 paper, www.graywolfpress.org.

In these astonishing poems and prose pieces, Natalie Diaz spins herself out of river water and dust. Reading this book, all the way through, this morning, taught me that I am going to have to find more ways to say “Amazed.” It’s a gift, but a living one like a rooster or a baby—or a knife to your throat. It wakes you up and makes you look at things you didn’t want to see, things you’ve studiously avoided.

Diaz has won numerous awards, including the Pulitzer Prize for Postcolonial Love Poem. Here’s a sample of the buzz from a 2020 review in The Guardian:

Natalie Diaz’s second poetry collection – up for this year’s Forward prize – opens with its title poem, in which past and present blur in an eternal conflict. “The war never ended and somehow begins again,” she declares. Diaz, a US-based poet and MacArthur “genius grant” winner, identifies as queer, Mojave, Latinx, and an enrolled member of the Gila River Indian tribe. In the US, she is, as the minotaur in her poem “I, Minotaur” suggests, “citizen of what savages” her. To be savaged is to be brutalised by her nation, but also lurking beneath the verb is the savage, a slur for indigenous people. —Emily Peréz

Diaz is “a language activist” and dusts the English of her poems with Spanish and Mojave words. This book is a protest poem—see “The First Water Is the Body”—and it’s a celebration and a lament of place and family and identity, also sex and basketball. It blows my mind.

Here’s the title poem:

Postcolonial Love Poem

I’ve been taught bloodstones can cure a snakebite,
can stop the bleeding—most people forgot this
when the war ended. The war ended
depending on which war you mean: those we started,
before those, millennia ago and onward,
those which started me, which I lost and won—
these ever-blooming wounds.
I was built by wage. So I wage love and worse—
always another campaign to march across
a desert night for the cannon flash of your pale skin
settling in a silver lagoon of smoke at your breast.
I dismount my dark horse, bend to you there, deliver you
the hard pull of all my thirsts—
I learned Drink in a country of drought.
We pleasure to hurt, leave marks
the size of stones—each a cabochon polished
by our mouths. I, your lapidary, your lapidary wheel
turning—green mottled red—
the jaspers of our desires.
There are wildflowers in my desert
which take up to twenty years to bloom.
The seeds sleep like geodes beneath hot feldspar sand
until a flash flood bolts the arroyo, lifting them
in its copper current, opens them with memory—
they remember what their god whispered
into their ribs: Wake up and ache for your life.
Where your hands have been are diamonds
on my shoulders, down my back, thighs—
I am your culebra.
I am in the dirt for you.
Your hips are quartz-light and dangerous,
two rose-horned rams ascending a soft desert wash
before the November sky untethers a hundred-year flood—
the desert returned suddenly to its ancient sea.
Arise the wild heliotrope, scorpion weed,
blue phacelia which hold purple the way a throat can hold
the shape of any great hand—
Great hands is what she called mine.
The rain will eventually come, or not.
Until then, we touch our bodies like wounds—
the war never ended and somehow begins again.

—Natalie Diaz

Diaz’s notes and epigraphs are an education in themselves, by the way. And one of the epigraphs in this book is from Hortense Spillers, someone I read in graduate school and when I was writing my dissertation on American (literary) illegitimacy:

“My country needs me, and if I were not here, I would have to be invented.”

–Hortense Spillers, “Mama’s Baby, Papa’s Maybe: An American Grammar Book”

Natalie Diaz is needed in just that essential and gut-wrenching way. She should be required reading.

You can read more by clicking her name at the top, or going to Academy of American Poets.

Adam Zagajewski (1945-2021)

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WITHOUT END: NEW AND SELECTED POEMS, Adam Zagajewski. Trans. Clare Cavanagh et al, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 18 West 18th Street, New York 10011, 2002, 287 pages, paper, $15. www.fsgbooks.com.

I admit I am phoning-it-in this morning. But one of the poetry books I purchased last year, after borrowing it numerous times from my local library, was Adam Zagajewski’s Without End. No, I did not read the entire book this morning, but, hearing the Ukrainian president call for musicians to “fill the silence with music,” I thought of this poem, shared widely at another moment in recent history when the arts responded to a crisis.

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

—Adam Zagajewski

This poem was widely circulated after 9/11, and you can hear it read aloud at Poetry Foundation.  (Which I definitely recommend.) This is the sort of poem that makes me glad to be a poet. And if I were teaching a class titled “Writing Your Memorable Poem,” it would be the first poem I’d want to discuss.

For more current responses to our wounded world, check out Rattle’s “Poets Respond” series.

I’ll be back with another book review tomorrow.

Amanda Moore, Requeening

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REQUEENING, Amanda Moore. Ecco, HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007, 2021, 95 pages. $16.99, paper. https://www.harpercollins.com.

I feel as though I’ve just read an entire life, a fat biography of a life, and there’s no real possibility that I can absorb it. And yet. Amanda Moore’s beekeeping metaphor suggests I be patient and sit with it, wait for the honey to drip down.

The 2020 winner of The National Poetry Series, selected by Ocean Vuong, Requeening explores a range of women’s roles. Beekeeping with its queen is the metaphor binding the book together as the poems chronicle motherhood, the eventual disrupting flight of a daughter, the death of a parent. Teaching The Odyssey to high-schoolers. Cancer. Death. All housekeeping, finally. Always disequilibrium.

These are beautiful, alarming, observant and evocative poems: “a gyre of pleasure and labor within… / crumb of flower, spittle and weight, // apple tree, blueberry, / what they need but don’t want…” (from “The Worker”).

One of Moore’s achievements is the range of forms—some poems conventionally march down the left-hand margin; others are sprung across the page; and there are the haibun poems with their combination of prose paragraphs and haiku (“Backyard birds skim / juniper, blossoms, the feeder; / never alight”). It’s the sort of book you want to pick up in a bookstore and thumb through, just to experience its choreography. And then tuck it under your arm and carry it home so you can take it all in.

Here’s one poem from late in the book, after a mother’s death:

Everything Is a Sign Today

Feather in the grass, stippled and striped:
hawk, I think. And then a man
blocking the sidewalk, child on his back,
both of them pointing binoculars toward the treetop
where I know a great horned owl nests, though I’ve never seen it.
All these birds: creatures I might never have known
had I not spent my childhood filling her feeders, naming
each genus from our perch at her kitchen table.
A falcon swoops down beside me on the path
gripping some rodent in its talons, twisting the body to kill.
Like the time a heron a few feet from our picnic blanket
plucked a whole mouse from its burrow and swept away. She had been
delighted, said we, too, should grab something special
of our own that day. Turning toward home,
I bend to collect a wrinkled postcard at the curb:
an advertisement for the Monet exhibit. How I loved
those paintings when I was younger, all of them nearly the same:
haystack, haystack, haystack. The only difference
the season and time of day, which is to say
they are like this grief these months later:
all the same but for the light.

—Amanda Moore

You can read more at https://amandapmoore.com/requeening.