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Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.

Naomi Shihab Nye

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Naomi Shihab Nye
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: March 12
Poet
Teacher
University Teacher
Writer
St. Louis
Missouri
Hands
Edges
Dream
Wake
Around
Later
Like
Begin
Paper
Dreams
Catching
Full
Ashes
Fire
Burn

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I keep thinking, we teach children to use language to solve their disputes. We teach them not to hit and fight and bite. Then look what adults do!
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Peter Conners stunning prose poems are packed with keen sensitivity, dreaminess, and wit. I love his time travels, the vibrant layering of image and detail. Try taking walks as you are reading this book- the dazzle of landscapes, inner and outer, feel replenished and rich. This is language and vision I want to come home to again and again.
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... the real heroes of race and culture would always be the people who stepped out of their own line to make a larger circle.
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It is really hard to be lonely very long in a world of words. Even if you don't have friends somewhere, you still have language, and it will find you and wrap its little syllables around you and suddenly there will be a story to live in.
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I support all people on earth who have bodies like and unlike my body.
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The person you have known a long tme is embedded in you like a jewel. The person you have just met casts out a few glistening beams & you are fascinated to see more of them. How many more are there? With someone you've barely met the curiosity is intoxicating.
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I am looking for the human who admits his flaws Who shocks the adversary By being kinder not stronger What would that be like? We don't even know
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I'm not interested in who suffered the most. I'm interested in people getting over it.
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Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
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We start out as little bits of disconnected dust.
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Being good felt like a heavy coat, so I took it off.
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It was terrible when a single conversation with someone determined your whole future relationship.
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I'm writing mostly to thank you for living you eighty years and to tell you I love you and think of you often.
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Today you will say things you can predict and other things you could never imagine this minute. Don't reject them, let them come through when they're ready, don't think you can plan it al out. This day will never, no matter how long you live, happen again. It is exquisitely singular. It will never again be exactly repeated.
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We dropped our troubles into the lap of the storyteller, and they turned into someone else's.
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Because sometimes I live in a hurricane of words and not one of them can save me.
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A poem is a cup of words open to the sky and wind in a bucket.
Naomi Shihab Nye
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Let me peer out at the world through your lens. (Maybe I'll shudder, or gasp, or tilt my head in a question.) Let me see how your blue is my turquoise and my orange is your gold. Suddenly binary stars, we have startling gravity. Let's compare scintillation - let's share starlight.
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Read, Read, and then Read some more. Always Read. Find the voices that speak most to YOU. This is your pleasure and blessing, as well as responsibility!
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I do think that all of us think in poems.
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