Naomi Shihab Nye - Time You Let Me In: 25 Poets under 25

Today we will do nothing
or anything, she said, and then
I added, it depends on the wind.
There are swerves
in everything, in the trees
and likewise in the clouds.
Tomorrow will come
no doubt with some surprise
or another. But for now raise the blinds,
there are windows in everything
wide the sky
a perfect blue. ALEXIS D. PEPPER-SMITH

If you drive old farm road 43 from Corpus Christi, Texas, up to Driscoll right at dawn and for the thirty minutes or so afterward, through the tiny towns of London and Petronila, past the cotton gins and weather-beaten farmhouses and few stop signs and blinking red lights, past the mysterious old tractors, some shrouded under tarps, some parked right where they stopped working, youll sometimes see a soft haze or mist. A vast horizontal cloud of fog in all directions, rising from the amazingly flat earth into the air, but hoveringas if the old fields are breathing. after a quiet, mysterious night of winking stars and wind from the bay, the fields are turning over in their rumpled soil beds. after a quiet, mysterious night of winking stars and wind from the bay, the fields are turning over in their rumpled soil beds.

The breath of the ages is rising. And you are inside it. There is something so companionable about this mysterious time of day, which I first witnessed as a twenty-three-year-old, driving to conduct poetry workshops at H. M. King High School in Kingsville. Those hopeful silent fields could almost signify an entire coming-of-age period of life.

Magical awakening, a little spooky, doesnt last longsometimes difficult on the visiondid we miss the turn? Are we on the right road? Late teens, early twentieswe feel our childhood possibilities realizing themselves in whatever experimental first jobs we find and awkward/graceful moves we make, earth and sky so connected. We tell ourselves, Take a deep breathhold on will we be able to do it? Will adulthood welcome us, too, along with all our friends? Where are they right now? We pause even when there isnt a rest stopwhat cant we stand to leave behind? What astonishing surprises are about to unfold? How will language carry us along, rolling, rolling, on the old blacktop, as we pull onto the shoulder for a moment of pause and observation while all the speedier cars and pickups barrel by? Reading the poems for Time You Let Me In reminded me of the sensation of vast horizontal breathing. The voices of these wonderful writers open up into whole worlds of roots and rumpled sleep and radiant dreaming. Theres hope here, and humor, and snazzy intelligence. No matter what age we are, we need these voices. I remember my own son teaching me how to use a computerwhen he was threeand think of how these sharp poets grew up in a sizzling world of computer and high-tech informationfor surebut theyre still timeless in their passions, interests, complications, and devotions.

They have much to report and remind us of. As the writer Sandra Cisneros once said, we all carry all our ages within ussomewhere deep inside in there, every older person is still seven... and seventeen... and, we might wonder, is it possible were all carrying an eighty-year-old, too? Theres a grapefruit stand at Driscoll where trucks from the Texas Valley unload huge mountains of fresh citrus dailysucculent ruby red grapefruits, perfect plump oranges, a new kind of giant lemononto crooked wooden tables, into cardboard bins. Thats the feeling of being in ones twenties, sometimesso much to pick fromhow will we do it? If we buy this entire sack of grapefruits, will we be able to eat them in time before they spoil? Can we give half of them away? Poet Anna West wrote, We crave the sweet: the honey, sugar, kiss of berries on our tonguea happy thought to wash the sensors of our brains with bliss and push aside the trampled feelings brought about by twinges of remorse, regret when looking at the empty hive. Anna West also wrote, I want to eat the melancholy I can feel inside my ribs, beside my heart.

I want to eat the sad... I love these lines for their potency and full-on claiming of experienceno standing back opinionating or pontificating. Just a deep dive into sensations of being alivesongs of presence extending in all directions. There has never been a shortage of hope and change for young artists and writers under the age of twenty-five. Its their currencyto experiment, penetrate layers and realms and eras and elements, participate in many directions, discover what is coming next. Moderation can waitplenty of time for that later.

Nows the time to be an explorer inside the rich hours. When were lucky enough to risk expressive endeavors, no telling what will happen next. Were rooting for life, stumbling, picking up what we find when we fall. We never realized how beautiful we were then , a slightly older friend said to me recently, looking through a box of fading pictures. I was stunned to see her at twenty-one, cascading long hair and flowered dress, grinning widely into the camera. We never feel beautiful at all.

We feel lumpy, disheveled. And look at uswe were all so beautiful. One writer I communicated with, Lauren Jensen, wrote that, alas, she had just turned twenty-six, so her poems wouldnt be eligible. She said, The project sounds, well, cool. I really like the concept of bringing young writers together as at times it feels we should be existing/writing from somewhere we are not. For a few weeks this winter I felt I became a forty-year-old man filled with wit, heartache, and a closet of herringbone...

I missed my overalls. I missed my hair. And, what was I saying? Maybe just how I like that youre carding at the door, creating a space for young writers to be young, and together... Carding at the door made me laughcome on in, whoever you are. In a time of dire economic downturn and worldwide nervousness about all things financial, writing and reading remain the cheapest artsand theyre portable, too. May your interest continue to exceed your investment.

Whatever age we are, we need to figure out how to keep letting one another into our worlds. What will change? Everything. Better world. Richer fields. Fuller harvest. tilted back beside him almost blind walking this dark road I asked the shadowed sky wouldnt it be lonely to be that last light? he said tentatively I guess. still to the stars I said I wonder which ones have already died. still to the stars I said I wonder which ones have already died.

I thought which stars last light like a last breath rushes towards us now like a final sigh of air a final word unheard and unrecorded. I said we might be pulling that light into our eyes this instant. isnt that just amazing? he looked at me while I looked up probing the stars with dreamy eyes he said I had never thought of it that way. silently I recognized that as the most stunning sentencethe most beautiful words ever uttered.

like our parents always told us not to like firefighters warn against were playing games and making the rules up as we go were matching warmth to warmth starting fires burning wishes into our skin were hidden holding forbidden lights were children whose fathers have taught never touch but were finding these new flames we smother at the sound of footsteps

Our atmospheres sift starlight differently. We filter different color skies.