Red Brocade & The Sweet Arab, the Generous Arab by Naomi Shihab Nye.
"...To be able to say, this is a day and I live in it safely, with those I love, was all..."
#ReadPalestineWeek. 7 days of Palestinian Poetry: Day 3.
Two poems for you once again. I really couldn’t decide and these two complimented each other so perfectly that I really was left with no choice but to share both.
Naomi Shihab Nye was born in 1952 in St Louis, Missouri to a Palestinian father and an American mother of German-Swiss descent. The award winning poet has published/ contributed to over 30 volumes of poetry. Red Brocade was first published in her 2002 collection 19 Varieties of Gazelle (2002) and The Sweet Arab, the Generous Arab was first published in You and Yours (2005). Both were republished in ‘Tender Spot: Selected Poems’ (Bloodaxe Books, 2015).
Red Brocade
The Arabs used to say,
When a stranger appears at your door,
feed him for three days
before asking who he is,
where 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.
Let's go back to that.
Rice? Pine nuts?
Here, take the red brocade pillow.
My child will serve water
to your horse.
No, I was not busy when you came.
I was not preparing to be busy.
That's the armour everyone put on
to pretend they had a purpose
in the world.
I refuse to be claimed.
Your plate is waiting.
We will snip fresh mint
into your tea.
The Sweet Arab, the Generous Arab
Since no one else is mentioning you enough.
The Arab who extends his hand.
The Arab who will not let you pass
his tiny shop without a welcoming word.
The refugee inviting us in for a Coke.
Clean glasses on a table in a ramshackle hut.
Those who don't drink Coke would drink it now.
We drink from the silver flask of hospitality.
We drink and you bow your head.
Please forgive everyone who has not honoured your name.
You who would not kill a mouse, a bird.
Who feels sad sometimes even cracking an egg.
Who places two stones on top of one another
for a monument. Who packed the pieces,
carried them to a new corner. For whom the words
rubble and blast are constants. Who never wanted
those words. To be able to say,
this is a day and I live in it safely,
with those I love, was all. Who has been hurt
but never hurt in return. Fathers and Grandmothers,
uncles, the little lost cousin who wanted only
to see a Ferris wheel in his lifetime, ride it
high into the air. And all the gaping days
they bought no tickets
for spinning them around.Just in case you missed yesterday’s poems…
Until tomorrow,
Tasnim