Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Naomi Shihab Nye’s "Brushing Lives" is a poem of fleeting encounters, deep histories, and the unseen connections that shape our understanding of the world. Structured as a series of vignettes, it moves between observation, memory, and reflection, weaving together moments that reveal both the beauty and the sorrow of human existence.

The poem begins with an image of a waitress in Alexandria, Egypt, “skimming between tables in a black sheath skirt.” The description of her is cinematic—“her jaw precise and elegant, hair waving out from a definite scalp like 1942.” The reference to 1942 evokes a bygone era, a nostalgia for a kind of poised beauty that exists independently of time. The speaker, or observer, declares, “I saw the most beautiful woman of my life that day.” This moment, seemingly small, lingers because of her “brilliant” self-possession, the way she moves with grace and balance, “one gracious arm balancing a stumpy Coke bottle on a tray.” Despite her captivating presence, “the men went on talking. And the cars outside were not headed toward her door.” The world, indifferent to her quiet magnificence, moves on. This contrast—between personal awe and collective disregard—establishes one of the poem’s central tensions: the unnoticed significance of individual lives.

The second vignette shifts to the speaker’s father, who appears “with a husky voice” in a dark shop. The interaction between him and an “ancient man sunk low on a stool” carries a weight of unspoken history. The man recognizes something in the father’s speech: “You talk like the men who lived in the world when I was young.” This cryptic remark hints at a shared past, a recognition that remains incomplete until the father mentions “Palestine.” At this word, the old man rises, overwhelmed: “both arms out, streaming cheeks.” His grief is immediate and uncontainable. “I have stopped saying it. So many years.” His response underscores how loss, particularly the loss of homeland and identity, silences people over time. The father, in holding the man, “held Palestine, in the dark, at the corner of two honking streets.” This line is one of the poem’s most powerful—Palestine is no longer just a place but something carried, embodied, kept alive in gestures and recognition.

The father, after this moment of deep connection, “got lost coming back to our hotel.” This detail, seemingly mundane, is significant. The emotional weight of his exchange with the old man has momentarily untethered him, placing him in a state of disorientation. It is as if, by touching the past so viscerally, he has stepped out of time, and the simple act of returning to a hotel becomes momentarily impossible.

The poem closes with a meditation on “the ones who could save or break us, the ones we’re lonely for.” These are the people who hold knowledge, who have endured, who understand things we cannot yet grasp. They possess “an answer the size of a pocket handkerchief or a shovel”—a beautiful contrast that suggests both delicacy and labor, both something personal and something tied to work and survival. The final lines, “the ones who suffered what we most fear and survived,” serve as an acknowledgment of resilience, of the quiet strength embedded in those who have carried pain and continued forward.

Nye’s poem is structured loosely, its free verse allowing for a fluid, almost conversational movement between observation, memory, and introspection. The language is precise yet unembellished, with a tone that is both intimate and far-reaching. The poem’s power lies in its ability to capture the deep significance of ordinary encounters—moments that might pass unnoticed but, in hindsight, reveal profound truths about history, identity, and human connection. "Brushing Lives" suggests that even the briefest encounters can hold echoes of something larger, something that links us to others across time, geography, and silence.

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