Read online free
  • Home
  • Romance & Love
  • Fantasy
  • Science Fiction
  • Mystery & Detective
  • Thrillers & Crime
  • Actions & Adventure
  • History & Fiction
  • Horror
  • Western
  • Humor

    The Tiny Journalist


    Prev Next




      THE

      Tiny Journalist

      Naomi Shihab Nye

      THE

      Tiny Journalist

      POEMS

      American Poets Continuum Series, No. 170

      BOA Editions, Ltd. Rochester, NY 2019

      Copyright © 2019 by Naomi Shihab Nye

      All rights reserved

      Manufactured in the United States of America

      First Edition

      19 20 21 22 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      For information about permission to reuse any material from this book, please contact The Permissions Company at www.permissionscompany.com or e-mail permdude@gmail.com.

      Publications by BOA Editions, Ltd.—a not-for-profit corporation under section 501 (c) (3) of the United States Internal Revenue Code—are made possible with funds from a variety of sources, including public funds from the Literature Program of the National Endowment for the Arts; the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency; and the County of Monroe, NY. Private funding sources include the Max and Marian Farash Charitable Foundation; the Mary S. Mulligan Charitable Trust; the Rochester Area Community Foundation; the Ames-Amzalak Memorial Trust in memory of Henry Ames, Semon Amzalak, and Dan Amzalak; and contributions from many individuals nationwide. See Colophon on page 124 for special individual acknowledgments.

      Cover Design: Sandy Knight

      Cover Art: “House with Two Gardens” by Christina Brinkman

      Interior Design and Composition: Richard Foerster

      BOA Logo: Mirko

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Names: Nye, Naomi Shihab, author.

      Title: The tiny journalist : poems / Naomi Shihab Nye.

      Description: First edition. | Rochester, NY : BOA Editions, Ltd., [2019] | Series: American poets continuum series, ; no. 170 | Includes index.

      Identifiers: LCCN 2018050933 (print) | LCCN 2018055328 (ebook) | ISBN 9781942683841 (ebook) | ISBN 9781942683728 (hardcover : alk. paper) |

      ISBN 9781942683735 (pbk. : alk. paper)

      Subjects: LCSH: American poetry—Women authors—21st century.

      Classification: LCC PS3564.Y44 (ebook) | LCC PS3564.Y44 A6 2019 (print) | DDC 811/.54—dc23

      LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018050933

      BOA Editions, Ltd.

      250 North Goodman Street, Suite 306

      Rochester, NY 14607

      www.boaeditions.org

      A. Poulin, Jr., Founder (1938–1996)

      In memory

      May Mansoor Munn

      author of Where Do Dreams and Dreaming Go?

      A Palestinian Quaker in America

      And in honor of Janna Jihad Ayyad

      and her cousin Ahed Tamimi—

      all young people devoted to justice

      and sharing their voices.

      “We will never give up in the peace place,

      in the Holy Land, we’ll see the peace one day.”

      —Janna Jihad Ayyad

      “… I am particularly inspired by the people of Gaza

      who put all of us to shame with their resilience and steadfastness.”

      —Sani Meo, Publisher, This Week in Palestine

      “From presidents Truman to Trump, US administrations have never

      actually been ‘an honest broker’ of peace between Palestinians and

      Israelis, regardless of all the rhetoric and official positions.”

      —Mohamed Mohamed, Palestine Center Brief No. 320

      “Revived bitterness

      is unnecessary unless

      One is ignorant.”

      —Marianne Moore, American poet

      “Apartheid means fundamentalist clergy spearheading the deepening of segregation, inequality, supremacism, and subjugation.

      Apartheid means … separate, segregated roads and highways for Israelis and Palestinians in the West Bank.

      Apartheid means hundreds of attacks by settlers targeting Palestinian property, livelihoods, and lives, without convictions, charges, or even suspects. Apartheid means uncounted Palestinians jailed without trial, shot dead without trial, shot dead in the back while fleeing and without just cause.

      Apartheid means Israeli officials using the army, police, military courts, and draconian administrative detentions, not only to head off terrorism, but to curtail nearly every avenue of non-violent protest available to Palestinians.”

      —Bradley Burston, Haaretz, 2015

      Author’s Note:

      My father’s Palestinian family, refugees from their Jerusalem home after 1948, lived in a village not far from Nabi Saleh village, where Janna Jihad Ayyad and her family live. I lived between Jerusalem and Ramallah as a teenager and witnessed many of the struggles firsthand, which have unfortunately only heightened and intensified in the succeeding years. It is important to clarify that these poems or sections thereof are not Janna’s actual words. They are “my” words, imagining Janna’s circumstances via her Facebook postings and my own personal and collective knowledge of the situation she was born into and lives with on a daily basis. So the texts presented here are a blending of stories—my father’s, Janna’s, my ongoing research, and my own personal experience living there and on many subsequent journeys. In the way of all poetry, hopefully it gets something true or right.

      Also:

      Since Palestinians are also Semites, being pro-justice

      for Palestinians is never an anti-Semitic position, no matter what anybody says.

      Contents

      I.

      Morning Song

      Moon over Gaza

      Exotic Animals, Book for Children

      Janna

      Separation Wall

      Dareen Said Resist

      In Northern Ireland They Called It “The Troubles”

      How Long?

      For Palestine

      Small People

      Women in Black

      And That Mysterious Word Holy

      Netanyahu

      Studying English

      Losing as Its Own Flower

      Pink

      Mothers Waiting for Their Sons

      “ISRAELIS LET BULLDOZERS GRIND TO HALT”

      Harvest

      Shadow

      Dead Sea

      Tattoo

      Sometimes There Is a Day

      Advice

      America Gives Israel Ten Million Dollars a Day

      Gratitude List

      It Was or It Wasn’t

      Gaza Is Not Far Away

      My Wisdom

      Each Day We Are Given So Many Gifts

      Jerusalem

      Missing It

      A Person in Northern Ireland

      38 Billion

      Better Vision

      The Space We’re In

      No Explosions

      II.

      Facebook Notes

      Mediterranean Blue

      To Netanyahu

      Pharmacy

      My Father, on Dialysis

      Blood on All Your Shirts

      My Immigrant Dad, On Voting

      You Are Your Own State Department

      Elementary

      On the Old Back Canal Road by the International Hotel, Guangzhou

      Gray Road North from Shenzhen

      Stun

      All I Can Do

      In Some Countries

      Seeing His Face

      Wales

      Peace Talks

      Freedom of Speech (What the head-of-school told me)

      Jerusalem’s Smile

      On the Birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King

      False Alarm Hawai‘i

      A Palestinian Might Say

      Alien Rescue

      The Sweeper

      Arab Festival T-shirt

      One Small Sack in Syria

      Positivism

     
    Regret

      Salvation

      The Old Journalist Talks to Janna

      Grandfathers Say

      The Old Journalist Writes …

      Friend

      Happy Birthday

      Stay Afloat

      To Sam Maloof’s Armchair

      Unforgettable

      Rumor Mill

      Patience Conversations

      Living

      Tiny Journalist Blues

      Acknowledgments

      About the Author

      Colophon

      I.

      Morning Song

      For Janna

      The tiny journalist

      will tell us what she sees.

      Document the moves, the dust,

      soldiers blocking the road.

      Yes, she knows how to take a picture

      with her phone. Holds it high

      like a balloon. Yes, she would

      prefer to dance and play,

      would prefer the world

      to be pink. It is her job to say

      what she sees, what is happening.

      From her vantage point everything

      is huge—but don’t look down on her.

      She’s bigger than you are.

      If you stomp her garden

      each leaf expands its view.

      Don’t hide what you do.

      She sees you at 2 a.m. adjusting your

      impenetrable vest.

      What could she have

      that you want? Her treasures,

      the shiny buttons her grandmother loved.

      Her cousin, her uncle.

      There might have been a shirt …

      The tiny journalist notices

      action on far away roads

      farther even than the next village.

      She takes counsel from bugs so

      puffs of dust find her first.

      Could that be a friend?

      They pretended not to see us.

      They came at night with weapons.

      What was our crime? That we liked

      respect as they do? That we have pride?

      She stares through a hole in the fence,

      barricade of words and wire,

      feels the rising fire

      before anyone strikes a match.

      She has a better idea.

      Moon over Gaza

      I am lonely

      for my friends.

      They liked me,

      trusted my coming.

      I think they looked up at me

      more than other people do.

      I who have been staring down so long

      see no reason for the sorrows humans make.

      I dislike the scuffle of bombs blasting

      very much. It blocks my view.

      A landscape of grieving

      feels different afterwards.

      Different sheen from a simple desert,

      rubble of walls, silent children who once said

      my name like a prayer.

      Sometimes I am bigger than

      a golden plate,

      a giant coin,

      and everyone gasps.

      Maybe it is wrong

      that I am so calm.

      Exotic Animals, Book for Children

      Armadillo means

      “little armored one.”

      Some of us become this to survive

      in our own countries.

      I would like to see an armadillo

      crossing the road.

      Our armor is invisible,

      it polishes itself.

      We might have preferred to be

      a softer animal, wouldn’t you?

      With fur and delicate paws,

      like an African Striped Grass Mouse,

      also known as Zebra Mouse.

      Janna

      At 7, making videos.

      At 10, raising the truth flag.

      At 11, raising it higher,

      traveling to South Africa,

      keffiyah knotted on shoulders,

      interviews in airports.

      Please, could you tell us …

      You know gazing into a camera

      can be a bridge, so you stare

      without blinking.

      People drift to the sides of the film,

      don’t want to be noticed,

      put on the spot.

      You know the spot is the only thing

      that matters.

      What else? Long days,

      tired trousers pinned

      on roof lines,

      nothing good expected.

      It’s right in front of me,

      I didn’t go looking for it.

      We’re living in the middle of trouble.

      No reason not to say it straight.

      They do not consider us equal.

      They blame us for everything,

      forgetting what they took,

      how they took it.

      We are made of bone and flesh and story

      but they poke their big guns

      into our faces

      and our front doors

      and our living rooms

      as if we are vapor.

      Why can’t they see

      how beautiful we are?

      The saddest part?

      We all could have had

      twice as many friends.

      Separation Wall

      When the milk is sour,

      it separates.

      The next time you stop speaking,

      ask yourself why you were born.

      They say they are scared of us.

      The nuclear bomb is scared of the cucumber.

      When my mother asks me to slice cucumbers,

      I feel like a normal person with fantastic dilemmas:

      Do I make rounds or sticks? Shall I trim the seeds?

      I ask my grandmother if there was ever a time

      she felt like a normal person every day,

      not in danger, and she thinks for as long

      as it takes a sun to set and says, Yes.

      I always feel like a normal person.

      They just don’t see me as one.

      We would like the babies not to find out about

      the failures waiting for them. I would like

      them to believe on the other side of the wall

      is a circus that just hasn’t opened yet. Our friends,

      learning how to juggle, to walk on tall poles.

      Dareen Said Resist

      And went to jail.

      We were asking, What?

      You beat us with butts of guns

      for years,

      tear-gas our grandmas,

      and you can’t take

      Resist?

      In Northern Ireland They Called It “The Troubles”

      What do we call it?

      The very endless nightmare?

      The toothache of tragedy?

      I call it the life no one would choose.

      To be always on guard,

      never secure,

      jumping when a skillet drops.

      I watch the babies finger their

      cups and spoons and think

      they don’t know yet.

      They don’t know how empty

      the cup of hope can feel.

      Here in the land of tea and coffee

      offered on round trays a million times

      a day, still a thirst so great

      you could die every night, longing

      for a better life.

      How Long?

      The tiny journalist

      is growing taller very quickly.

      She’s adding breadth, depth,

      to every conversation,

      asking different questions, not just

      Who What When Where Why?

      but How long? How can it be?

      What makes this seem right to you?

      Even when she isn’t present,

      she might be taping from the trees.

      What happened to you in the twentieth century?

      Remember? We never forgot about it. You did.

      Rounded up at gunpoint,
    our people

      brutally beaten, pummeled in prisons,

      massacred for a rumor of stones.

      Once there was a stuffed squash

      who didn’t wish to be eaten.

      Kousa habibti, pine nuts for eyes.

      I dreamed about her when I was five.

      She helped me start my mission.

      For Palestine

      In memory, Fr. Gerry Reynolds of Belfast, “Let us pray for Palestine”

      How lonely the word PEACE is becoming.

      Missing her small house under the olive trees.

      The grandmothers carried her in a bucket when

      they did their watering.

      She waited for them in the sunrise,

      then fell back into reach. Whole lives unfolded.

      The uncles tucked her into suit coat pockets

      after buttoning white shirts for another day.

      Fathers, mothers, babies

      heard her whispering in clouds over Palestine,

      mingling softly, making a promise,

      sending her message to the ground.

      It wasn’t a secret.

      Things will calm down soon, she said.

      Hold your head up. Don’t forget.

      When Ahed went to prison, we shook

      our tired hands in the air and wept.

      Young girl dreaming of a better world!

      Don’t shoot her cousins, my cousins, our cousins.

      Wouldn’t you slap for that?

      It was only a slap.

      The word Peace a ticket elsewhere for some.

      People dreamed night and day of calmer lives.

      Maybe Peace would be their ticket back too.

      They never threw away that hope. Karmic wheel,

      great myth of fairness kept spinning …

      I dreamed of Ahed’s hair.

      When I was born, they say

      a peaceful breeze lilted the branches—

      my first lullaby. The temperature dropped.

      A voice pressed me forward,

      told me to speak.

      Being raised in a house of stories with garlic

      gave me courage.

      Everything began, Far, far away. Long, long ago.

      And everything held us close.

      Is this your story, or mine?

      Olive oil lives in a dented can with a long spout.

      What happens to Peace when people fight?

      (She hides her face.)

      What does she dream of?

      (Better people.)

      Does she ever give up?

     

    Prev Next
Read online free - Copyright 2016 - 2025