Poem Therapy at 5:57 P.M. - Naomi Shihab Nye

Naomi Shihab Nye

Famous
Naomi Shihab Nye

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.


The Academy Awards were broad casted last night, but I didn't watch because I was watching Anne Boleyn lose to Henry VIII on The Tudors. I remember watching Masterpiece Theater's series as a child and hating, hating Henry. Not too long ago I was at Borders, picked up a book on Henry VIII and flicked his picture on the jacket cover hard enough to leave an indent, said "ass" too loudly that a woman turned and looked annoyed. I huffed off. In my more immature moments, I would like to spit on his grave, but since Henry's interred in the quire of St George's Chapel in Windsor Castle, I won't, mainly because it's rude to spit, especially in a church, and honestly, it's not like I knew Henry, and there are more deserving tyrants and despots, and moreover, what's the point of expectorating on the floor that covers a centuries' old moldering hulk?

History is a savage and brutal mistress and fame is like a photograph of the floating world: transitory, fleeting, meaningless. Shahib Nye's poem captures the reality of fame, fame is relative to its audience. I love that the Dali Llama said "who" when asked what he thought of Tiger Wood's indiscretions.

I like the idea that my foot is famous to the shoe I wear, my hair to the stylist who complains of its thickness, my laugh is famous to my throat and mouth and ears, my incision is famous to my skin.

With youtube, blogs, flickr, facebook, myspace, websites, and the crush of new technologies, we're all famous in our need, our plea to the world to read our blog, see us, see me. And I think, for our anonymity in a world of brands and celebrities.

As for the Awards, I like to see who wore what gowns and jewels, and what films win, however arbitrary the judging sometimes seems. I am glad Jeff Bridges won for Crazy Heart. I like him, especially this grizzled incarnation.

I am also glad that Sapphire's novel Push will now garner more readers, fingers crossed anyway, especially now that Precious won last night for best supporting actress and best adapted screenplay. I would like to know if she attended the awards. If she was invited. Neither of the winners mentioned her. Hmmm. Here's the thing, if a book is adapted and made into a film, the writer should be there in the middle of the hoopla, preferably seated in the front row.

I googled and found that Sapphire was there, seated next to the very fine Lenny Kravitz. American woman get away from mee-ee! American woman, mamma let me bee-ee!