Fuel by Naomi Shihab Nye
This is more standard literary poetry: a set of observations, and then some “insight”, “what this is really about,” a revelation. There are some lovely poems here: “Hidden,” quoted in many reviews is nice; also “Alphabet;” the opening lines of “The Rider” are lovely (A boy told me/if he roller-skated fast enough/his loneliness couldn’t catch up with him); “Pause” brings some nice observations; and the closing poems, “The Last Day of August” and “I Still Have Everything You Gave Me” offer a nice closing sense.
The last lines of “Listening to Poetry in a Language I Do Not Understand” are probably my favorite of her closing insights:
One word rolls across the floor,
lodging under the slipper
of the man who has felt uncomfortable
Now he knows what to say.