Poet, teacher, essayist, anthologist, songwriter and singer, Naomi Shihab Nye is one of the country's most acclaimed writers. Her voice is generous; her vision true; her subjects ordinary people, and ordinary situations which, when rendered through her language, become remarkable. In this, her fourth full collection of poetry, we see with new eyes-a grandmother's scarf, an alarm clock, a man carrying his son on his shoulders. Valentine for Ernest MannYou can't order a poem like you order a taco. Walk up to the counter and say, I'll take two"and expect it to handed back to youon a shiny plate. Still, I like you spirit. Anyone who says, "Here's my address, write me a poem," deserves something in reply. So I'll tell a secret instead:poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are sleeping. They are the shadowsdrifting across our ceilings the momentbefore we wake up. What we have to dois live in a way that lets us find them. Once I knew a man who gave his wifetwo skunks for a valentine. He couldn't understand why she was crying."I thought they had such beautiful eyes."And he was serious. He was a serious manwho lived in a serious way. Nothing was uglyjust because the world said so. He reallyliked those skunks. So, he re-invented themas valentines and they became beautiful. At least, to him. And the poems that had been hidingin the eyes of skunks for centuriescrawled out and curled up at his feet. Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give uswe find poems. Check your garage, the odd sockin your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite. And let me know. Poet, teacher, essayist, anthologist, songwriter and singer, Naomi Shihab Nye is one of the country's most acclaimed writers. Her voice is generous; her vision true; her subjects ordinary people, and ordinary situations which, when rendered through her language, become remarkable. In this, her fourth full collection of poetry, we see with new eyes-a grandmother's scarf, an alarm clock, a man carrying his son on his shoulders. Valentine for Ernest MannYou can't order a poem like you order a taco. Walk up to the counter and say, "I'll take two"and expect it to handed back to youon a shiny plate. Still, I like you spirit. Anyone who says, "Here's my address, write me a poem," deserves something in reply. So I'll tell a secret instead:poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are sleeping. They are the shadowsdrifting across our ceilings the momentbefore we wake up. What we have to dois live in a way that lets us find them. Once I knew a man who gave his wifetwo skunks for a valentine. He couldn't understand why she was crying."I thought they had such beautiful eyes."And he was serious. He was a serious manwho lived in a serious way. Nothing was uglyjust because the world said so. He reallyliked those skunks. So, he re-invented themas valentines and they became beautiful. At least, to him. And the poems that had been hidingin the eyes of skunks for centuriescrawled out and curled up at his feet. Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give uswe find poems. Check your garage, the odd sockin your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite. And let me know." | Red Suitcase by Naomi Shihab Nye, Paperback | Indigo Chapters