Making a fist naomi

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We forget that we are all dead men conversing wtih dead men. 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.

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I don't understand this poem, and I read it about 5 times. Making a fist 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 don't understand what you don't understand!!

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This poem was my introduction to Naomi Shihab Nye. 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.

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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.

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Next time your flight is delayed, you can bring this up and pass a little time. At gate C22 in the Portland airport a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed a woman arriving from Orange County. They kissed and kissed and kissed.

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Her first poem here is a great example of questioning the smallest things and making them beautiful through that new way of seeingwhile the ones that follow are also intensely meaningful. If I want to change faces I will. When I grow up my old names will live in the house where we live now.

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I think the key to that mirror trick has to do with imagery: powerful poetry has a specificity about its imagery that goes right to the heart of things. And understood, and hopefully, comforted. So, this month I offer a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye for the older set.

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Everybody is asking me why I am not myself. A refusal, maybe. Or the last remaining anchor to what is physical.

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Can you tell us a little more about her? Louis Missouri in Her father was a Palestinian Refugee and her mother of European dissent. She grew up in in Texas.

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