Review of Naomi Shihab Nye's 19 Varieties of Gazelle

Shortly into my reading of Naomi Shihab Nye's 19 Varieties of Gazelle, I was distracted by a sudden, severe wind outside that came with no warning and sent me scrambling for the basement. Ten minutes and a power outage later, the wind had died, leaving only a gentle fall of rain and several stunned people surveying the neighborhood damage. The only damage to my yard was the toppling of my privacy fence. Later, when I resumed my reading, I kept a wary eye on the window, somehow superstitiously convinced that the poems would usher in another wind. I turned a page, and my eyes froze on the first line of "Prayer in my Boot," which read, "For the wind no one expected."

It took me till the end of the book to realize there was not going to be another wind; the "fence" of suspicion and mistrust had fallen, and that is all Nye is aiming for. She achieves this without a violent wind. Granted, there is a force behind her voice, a zealous desire for peace, as might be expected in someone familiar with Middle East bloodshed. But she does not stand on a soapbox and shout slogans. Her voice is a calm one, both sad and optimistic, disapproving and gentle. She peels away the politics and places on maps, and gives us a Palestine in the form of coffee, almonds, figs, fruit, and tea with mint. These small bites feed us a meal of humanity more filling than protest and political platform. Nameless are many of the people in her poems -- fittingly so, for they become, as in "Olive Jar," our friends and family -- our fathers' "preference for shoes" and our grandmothers' "love for sweaters."

This edition of 19 Varieties of Gazelle was printed after the World Trade Center attacks of September 11, 2001. Nye's concern for the reputation of her people is evident in the glimpses she offers of everyday Palestinian life, an everyday life that involves both tragedy and life-savoring simplicity. It is the combination of the two that burns into our mind haunting images such as the little girl killed by the gun "which did not know [she] wanted to be a doctor."

While such scenes are effective in their disturbance, the hidden strength of these poems lies largely in the minor details. As Nye states in her introduction, "Through the immense grief in the wake of [9-11], we grasped on to the details to stay afloat. For some reason, I kept remembering a gentle Egyptian basket-seller on the streets of Cairo, and an elegant Arab man, an expert on brocade in the Old city of Jerusalem, who gave us twice the amount of cloth we paid for." Through her poems we learn that these details keep us rooted in the seemingly insignificant things that make us human.

These snapshots of humanity appear repeatedly in the cultural code of Arab hospitality. The first stanza of "Red Brocade" sums up this theme:

The Arabs used to say,
When a stranger appears at your door,
feed him for three days
before asking who he is
wher he's come from
where he's headed.
That way, he'll have strength
enough to answer.
Or, by then you'll be
such good friends
you don't care.

One cannot help but feel Nye is speaking for herself when the poem concludes: I refuse to be claimed. / Your plate is waiting. / we will snip fresh mint / into your tea. Nye, as server, wishes the reader to be a sort of blank slate, or better yet, a guest with an empty stomach. She wishes the reader to lay aside all preconceived ideas and let the host serve fresh mint -- new ideas, refreshing truths about the Arab culture. In the poem "19 Varieties of Gazelle," she writes that the gazelle "soared like history above an empty page." Nye, distrusting written history, desires to erase old ideas and begin anew.

Nye's final poem titled "Postscript" gives a cynical commentary on the tendency of the press to pervert spoken words. "Write it down," she concludes, "Always write it down. / Say it slowly. Say it / the way you learned words. Say it / as if the words count." She makes certain that she is heard; she makes certain that the reader will understand her, will leave her table feeling full.

Review of The Monarchs: A Poem Sequence by Alison Hawthorne Deming

Although the world of poetry certainly has more than its share of nature-praising verse, Alison Hawthorne Deming has thrown another log on the fire with her poetry sequence The Monarchs. A native of Connecticut who now lives in Arizona, she views the wild nature of the Southwest with the wisdom and appreciation of a former New England city liver.

So what does Deming offer as one more in a sea of nature lovers? Undoubtedly, one thing is what Scott Slovic calls Deming's "abiding fascination with natural science." The colorful imagery and unique metaphors of Deming's semi-scientific verse paint a more stirring picture than any emotional commentary could. In Writing the Sacred into the Real, Deming says, "What science-bashers fail to appreciate is that scientists, in their unflagging attraction to the unknown, love what they don't know. It guides and motivates their work; it keeps them up late at night; and it makes that work poetic."

Deming herself studies the human race in a similar way, approaching with compassion its mistakes and absurdities. While, on the one hand, the activities of people and the creatures of the natural world mirror one another, Deming's Nature sometimes chances by as a separate entity, transcending human struggles; like the Monarchs flying over the fearful townspeople in poem 4, Nature goes diligently about its business, oblivious to both our fear and fascination. A refreshing honesty underlies Deming's poetry: she is unwilling to glorify the elements of humanity that are popularly glorified, such as common perceptions of love, which she boldly declares a result of "misunderstandings" in poem 16.

Deming is not a cynic however. While she periodically equates love with untruth, she acknowledges in poem 23 that "to love is all there is / to separate us from tyrants, from the dark." Moreover, her sporadic references to dreaming make a gracious allowance for human frailty. From the would-be rapist in poem 2 to the child in poem 8 trying to dig to China, the human race engages in moments of absurd dreaming. Our dreams make us as precious or pitiable as the Monarch babies of poem 9 that "awake in a little park / surrounded by ruined cities, / not a doubt in their minuscule / minds that blooming fields await them."

The Monarchs is a contemplative study of the human race and the natural world of which it is both apart and separate. Through thought provoking insights and colorful imagery, readers of this volume will agree that Deming has met her own challenge to "make a thing out of this chaos, a thing / that will last."

I’m SICK of non-English speaking CSRs!!!

I have traveled many places and have met many people. I am fairly good at understanding accents. I am also OK with the fact that not everyone speaks English, and I believe we in the U.S. should become fluent in a second language, like they do in Europe. (Teach it from the time kids are small.) But I am NOT OK with the insane outsourcing we have done. Whenever I call a major corporation, I CANNOT understand a freaking word the CSRs are SAYING. And it's getting really irritating. I'm going to start refusing to speak to them. I'm going to start asking for an English speaking representative, and if they cannot provide one, then I will complain I could not receive service and cancel my account. I've HAD it with the faltering English. Whether people like it or not, English is still the American language and I want an English speaking rep. when I call an American corporation. It is time we required that anyone in a customer service position learn how to at least passably speak the language of the people they are SERVICING.