Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Naomi Shihab Nye’s "Hello" is a meditation on fear, invasion, and the uneasy coexistence of human and non-human presences. The poem’s surreal imagery and shifting perspectives give it an unsettling quality, turning an ordinary encounter with a rat into a metaphor for intrusion, vulnerability, and the persistence of the unwanted.

The poem begins with a direct, almost sinister scene: “Some nights / the rat with pointed teeth / makes his long way back / to the bowl of peaches.” The specificity of “pointed teeth” immediately marks the rat as a figure of menace, while “makes his long way back” suggests a history of trespass, as if this violation has happened before. The setting—a dining room, where food is meant to be shared—is significant. The rat “sinking his tooth / drinking the pulp” of the peaches turns an everyday object into something tainted. His presence is both physical and symbolic, a silent, gnawing force that takes “in darkness” and vanishes “before you awaken.” His existence is secretive, yet unavoidable—an unseen force of consumption and disturbance.

The speaker acknowledges the reader’s expected reaction: “knowing you will read / this message and scream.” This moment is striking; the rat's presence, translated into words, provokes the same response as the real thing. The rat’s “only text” is his act of taking—he does not communicate in human terms, but through his silent disruptions. The idea of “text” here subtly blurs the lines between physical reality and interpretation, as if the rat’s existence is a kind of unspoken narrative that must be confronted.

The second stanza shifts in tone, moving from an external description of the rat’s actions to a deeper reflection on his origins. “Where is the mother of the rat? / The father, the shredded nest,” the speaker asks, invoking an almost mythical backstory. By questioning the rat’s lineage, the poem suggests that the rat is not an isolated creature but part of a cycle—one that extends beyond human perception. The rhetorical question “which breath were we taking / when the rat was born” suggests an unsettling simultaneity between human and rat existence, as if their lives have always been entangled.

The speaker reacts with fear and revulsion, calling the rat by “the names of the devil” and refusing to enter certain spaces without protection: “I would not enter those rooms / without a stick to guide me.” The fear is palpable—rooms that should be familiar and safe have been transformed into sites of dread. The description of the rat’s nose as a “wick” furthers the ominous tone, suggesting ignition, something waiting to flare up unexpectedly. Light and darkness are significant here; the speaker “leans on the light” for safety, but beneath the house, “the moist earth” and “the trailing tails of clouds” whisper the rat’s presence. There is no clear boundary between what is imagined and what is real—the rat exists both in physical form and in the speaker’s mind.

In the final stanza, the poem moves beyond the literal. The rat’s existence becomes metaphorical, a presence intertwined with the speaker’s own existence. The human world of “sad shoes and hideouts” is not so different from the rat’s world of secrecy and trespass. The phrase “our lock on the door” contrasts with “his delicate fingered paws / that could clutch and grip”—a reminder that barriers are only temporary, that intrusion is always possible. The line “his blank slate of fur” suggests something unreadable, something that defies meaning yet remains undeniable.

The poem’s closing image is both haunting and profound: “The bed that was a boat is sinking.” The idea of the bed as a boat suggests an imagined refuge, a space of safety and rest, but it is no longer secure. The “shores of morning” emerge, revealing “things we never wanted to be, or meet.” The line captures the dread of waking, of facing what has been avoided. The final line—“and all the rats are waving hello”—is chilling. The rats are no longer singular but plural, multiplying in the speaker’s imagination. They do not retreat but greet the speaker, acknowledging their presence as an undeniable fact.

"Hello" transforms a mundane encounter with a rat into an existential reflection on fear, the persistence of unwanted things, and the porous boundary between human and animal, self and other. The poem’s eerie tone, rich with surreal and mythic undertones, forces the reader to confront discomfort, making the rat both a literal intruder and a symbol of deeper anxieties. The ending suggests that fear and the things we wish to keep out are never fully banished—they remain, waiting, ever-present, and eventually, they make themselves known.

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