Harley's Book Review — Words Under the Words

Words Under the Words

by Naomi Shihad Nye

With this book, Naomi Shihab Nye has become one of my favorite contemporary poets. The book is filled with phenomenal lines and images. In my first reading of the 104 poems, I marked 30 poems that I wanted to read again. 


Here are the beautiful opening three lines of Biography of an Armenian Schoolgirl.

"I have lived in the room of stone where voices become
bones buried under us long ago. Where you could dig
for centuries uncovering the same sweet dust."

In the poem, At Otto's Place, Naomi writes:

"Could I live like this? I ask myself
and I know, somehow, I must.
More and more my life is peeling paint,
straight horizons.
More and more my name dissolves in the air,
salt, something invisible I taste,
and forget."

I love the phrase, "my life is peeling paint." What a powerful image!

In the poem, The House in the Heart, Nye writes:

"This body we thought so important,
it's a porch, that's all.
I know this, but I don't know
what to do about it."

Our bodies are a resting place — a place from which we look out at the world. We know many things but knowledge alone is not enough. We need to learn what to do to change things. Nye packs so much into these four lines.

In the poem, Jerusalem, Nye writes:

"To live without roads seemed one way
not to get lost. To make maps
of stone and grass, to rub stars together
and find a spark."

It is only because we have roads that we get lost. If we did not have roads to follow, we would not lose our way. So often we get so focused on where we want to go that we forget where we are. Maybe our goals and dreams are not as important as we think.

I highly recommend this book to anyone who loves to read poetry as well as anyone who loves words.

Percy Shelley

Portrait by Alfred Clint (1819)

“Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world.”

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

English Poet

1792 - 1822

Commentary

Is the world a beautiful place?  Or do you see only the pain, sorrow and ignorance?  Do you only taste human sweat and spend your hours wallowing in mud?  Are you so busy with your daily tasks that you don't see what is right in front of your nose?  Do you have time to open your eyes to the beauty and pleasure of the world in which we live?  

I have been so busy the last few weekends tending to the yard that I rarely have time to stop and see the beauty of the maple trees, the scampering squirrels or the playful rabbits. I don't see the shifting of the leaves in the cool breeze or hear the singing of the birds.

Have you taken a walk in the woods?  Have you sat on a log and listened to the sounds of other creatures who inhabit the space that we think belongs to us?  This yard I tend has many other inhabitants who don't recognize my ownership of this land.  The ants move around my yard as they please.  The worms till the soil and only come out when it rains or I put my spade in their home.  The squirrels and rabbits believe my yard is their feeding ground.  They did not ask my permission.  The raccoon that invaded my attic and my neighbor's boat earlier this spring did not ask us if it was okay with us.  The ducks that waddle across the yard do so as they please.

Have you seen the beauty of the world in which you are but one of billions of creatures?  Or are you absorbed in writing that next poem, painting that next painting and paying the bills that you fail to see what is before your eyes?  Our time in this world is short.  We choose every day how we will spend our time.  Take a few moments to see the beauty of this world.

Biography

Shelley was born the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelly, a Whig Member of Parliament, and his wife, Elizabeth Pilford.  He had four younger sisters and a younger brother.  At 18 he attended Oxford, but legend maintains that he attended only one lecture and spent his time reading and writing.  He published his first novel in 1810 and a second one in 1811.  He was expelled from Oxford in 1811 because of a pamphlet entitled, The Necessity of Atheism, that he published.

Percy Bysshe Shelley was one of the major English Romantic poets and is regarded by many as one of the finest lyric poets in the English language.  He drowned in a sudden storm one month shy of his 30th birthday.  He did not achieve fame in his lifetime.  Recognition of his poetry grew steadily after his death and he had a major influence on the next 3 generations of poets.

Book Review: Sleeping Preacher by Julia Kasdorf

Book Review:  

Sleeping Preacher by Julia Kasdorf

When I was a child, I was fascinated by the story my mother told about the sleeping preacher, John Kaufman. After graduating college, I set out to write a historical novel about his life. Unfortunately, I ran into some obstacles and never finished the novel. In the early 1900's he had visited the church my grandmother attended. During the late 1800's until the first decade of the 20th century, a number of sleeping preachers arose around the world. The preachers, both men and women, would enter into a trance and preach a coherent sermon. People would stick needles in their legs to see if they were faking.

I was immediately interested in Sleeping Preacher by Julia Kasdorf as soon as I read a review of the book and now I have finally read it. The poet, Julia Kasdorf, also attended the same college I did, a decade later, but I have never met her. While many of these poems address growing up Mennonite, some do not. Kasdorf writes of herself as well as family. The opening lines of A Family History about her mother read:

"At dusk the girl who would become my mom
must trudge through the snow, her legs
cold under skirts, a bandanna tight on her braids."

Each poem is a story packed with description of a world that many of us have never encountered. The opening lines of the poem, August, read:

"Dad's mother was coming home
from picking huckleberries on the mountain
when sunlight spooked the horse, and it tore
through a pasture fence, dragging the buggy
until it broke lose, hurling the children,
killing their mother, spilling
those silver pails of sweet, black fruit."

While the poem goes on to tell of other women who died in the month of August, these opening seven lines encapsulate a powerful story in their own right. The attention to detail builds the story image by image.

In the poem, Friendschaft, Kasdorf captures Mennonite genealogy.

"As I grow up, the great aunts click their tongues.
They are looking for signs of their lives
in my limbs. It's the Hartzler blood that makes you
dark and thin. It's just like Aunt Toot to love
olives and pickles and fuss like a hen.
Your Yoder nose...."

I can't even begin the number of times I heard the same type of remarks growing up. Kasdorf was six when her family bought their first television and she captures that moment in a poem. I was seventeen when my family bought our first TV. I found in these poems much that I have heard and remember.

The first poem of Kasdorf that I read before buying the book was What I Learned from My Mother. The poem discusses what to do when someone dies. She closes the poem with these lines:

"To every house you must enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch."

The title poem, The Sleeping Preacher, tells the story of church reform through the eyes of her great-grandmother. The closing lines read:

"She did not think of us,
only to save us, leaving nothing
for us to touch or see
except this stubborn will to believe."

I highly recommend this book to poets and other readers, especially those interested in learning more about the Mennonite culture and way of life.