Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “How Palestinians Keep Warm” is a meditation on language, mythology, and resilience in the face of displacement. The poem intertwines celestial imagery, ancestral memory, and the act of storytelling as a means of survival, warmth, and connection. It explores the relationship between language and endurance, showing how words and stories sustain people when physical warmth is scarce. By drawing on Arabic star names and weaving them into a narrative of both hardship and imagination, Nye reflects on how culture, history, and storytelling function as sources of comfort and identity.

The opening lines introduce the idea that words can generate warmth: “Choose one word and say it over / and over, till it builds a fire inside your mouth.” This suggests that repetition—whether of prayer, memory, or myth—creates a sense of internal heat, a kind of spiritual sustenance. The poem then invokes named stars: “Adhafera, the one who holds out, Alphard, solitary one.” The poet reminds us that “the stars were named by people like us,” drawing a link between past and present, between those who once looked up at the sky and those who still do, seeking meaning and connection in the face of uncertainty. The stars “line up on the long path between worlds,” suggesting both a celestial journey and a metaphor for displacement—one that mirrors the path of refugees or the wandering soul.

The stars themselves are without judgment: “They nod and blink, no right or wrong / in their yellow eyes.” This line suggests that the universe remains indifferent to human suffering, yet there is also a quiet dignity in this acknowledgment. The stars, like words, remain constant, even as earthly conditions change. The address to “Dirah, little house” follows—a plea for shelter, for a space of belonging. This invocation of the stars and the “little house” mirrors the Palestinian experience of exile, where the longing for home is both literal and spiritual.

The poem shifts to personal and communal loss: “My well went dry, my grandfather’s grapes / have stopped singing.” The drying well suggests a depletion of resources, a symbol of both physical and cultural drought. The reference to the grandfather’s grapes links to agricultural traditions, an inheritance of the land that is now fading. The poet then introduces a domestic, urgent image: “I stir the coals, / my babies cry.” The act of stirring the coals signifies both an attempt to create warmth and a metaphorical search for something sustaining in a difficult environment. The crying of the babies reinforces the generational stakes—how does one pass down hope, identity, and a sense of belonging when tangible roots are disappearing?

The question “How will I teach them / they belong to the stars?” expresses a dilemma between earthly displacement and cosmic permanence. The children, in their innocence, “build forts of white stone and say, ‘This is mine.’” This act, at once playful and profound, echoes real-world conflicts over land and belonging. The poet wonders how to teach them to see beyond possession, beyond the idea of borders and ownership, toward something vaster and more eternal.

The reference to Mizar, a star whose name means “veil” or “cloak,” introduces another layer of imagery. The poet imagines an “ancient man” behind it, “fanning a flame.” This figure, perhaps an ancestor or guardian spirit, stirs the “dark wind of our breath,” linking the elements of fire and air to the endurance of Palestinian identity. The final vision of embers spreading “on the blessed hills” suggests both a return and a resilience—a spark of survival that continues even when home is distant or lost.

In an intimate, self-aware turn, the poet interrupts herself: “Well, I made that up. I’m not so sure about Mizar.” This admission underscores the theme of storytelling as a means of survival. Whether or not the mythology is “true” is secondary to the fact that it sustains the speaker and her children. The poem closes on a note of stark realism: “I know we need to keep warm here on earth / And when your shawl is as thin as mine is, you tell stories.” The shawl—fragile, inadequate against the cold—becomes a metaphor for the thinness of physical protection. What remains is the warmth of stories, of spoken history, of words passed down like embers.

“How Palestinians Keep Warm” captures the fragility of existence and the resilience of culture. Nye employs celestial imagery, ancestral memory, and the human necessity of storytelling to illustrate how people sustain themselves in exile. The stars serve as both a metaphor for endurance and a reminder of the past—named by ancestors, witnessed by present generations, and still shining regardless of earthly turmoil. The poem ultimately suggests that, in the absence of physical security, language and myth become a people’s source of warmth, their way of keeping alive the identity that history attempts to erase.

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