Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Naomi Shihab Nye’s "Being from St. Louis" is a meditation on memory, place, and transformation, structured in free verse with a tone of nostalgic contemplation. The poem’s imagery is suffused with gray—gray bridges, gray rain, gray river, and gray sky—establishing a somber and weighty atmosphere, as if the city itself carries a heaviness that seeps into the poet’s consciousness. The recurring gray motif conveys a sense of industrial bleakness, childhood uncertainty, and the way memory can cast a subdued hue over the past.

The poem opens with a stark depiction of St. Louis’s industrial landscape: “Under the nickel-gray bridges / the rumbling trains snaked over, / and the bitter gray rain / draining toward holes in the streets.” These lines evoke a gritty, working-class cityscape, where movement is constant, yet the atmosphere remains oppressive. The mention of “the Veiled Prophet” introduces an air of mystery and secrecy. The Veiled Prophet, a controversial figure associated with St. Louis’s exclusive and historically problematic parade, is “floating past / in his strange parade. No one knew who he was.” This enigmatic image mirrors the uncertainty of childhood, where figures of authority and spectacle loom but remain incomprehensible.

The poem shifts from the external landscape to a moment of personal memory: “I cracked my head on cement when the giant lion / opened his jaws to roar NO / always NO / but we were going to do it anyway.” Here, Nye captures the rebellious spirit of youth, juxtaposing the harsh, unyielding reality of the city (symbolized by the roaring lion and the hard cement) with the irrepressible will of children determined to push forward despite obstacles. The “NO” suggests both literal and metaphorical restrictions, whether imposed by authority, society, or circumstance.

As the poem progresses, the imagery turns wintry: “Over the scum of the fallen gray leaves / and winter’s fist that held and held / till every secret tip of the tree was frozen.” The “fist” of winter suggests both the physical grip of cold and the emotional constriction of childhood within this setting. This merges with the defining presence of the Mississippi River: “beside the gray river that marked us off— / what did east or west mean if you were in the center?” The question of direction reflects a deeper existential uncertainty. Being in the center—geographically and metaphorically—can be a place of balance or a place of entrapment, and this ambiguity lingers in the poem.

The poem then moves toward an iconic image of St. Louis—the construction of the Gateway Arch: “and the silver Arch / that would surely fall, we said.” The poet and her childhood peers watch the final segment of the Arch being lifted into place by “a giant crane.” Their nervous anticipation, “That would surely fall. / Come tumbling down.” encapsulates the awe and skepticism of witnessing something monumental, fearing its failure yet being powerless to stop it. The Arch, as a national symbol of expansion and progress, stands in contrast to the bleakness of the earlier descriptions, but the speaker’s doubt reflects a childhood perspective that does not yet trust permanence or success.

A shift in time occurs as the poem moves from past apprehensions to present realizations: “Since those days we became people / who blink harder in sunlight.” This suggests that growing up in the grayness of St. Louis has shaped the poet and her peers, making them more sensitive to brightness and change. The moment of reflection becomes deeply personal as she returns to her childhood home: “returning to the house still standing, / to the trees who do not see us, / to the schoolyard to pick up / one pencil-sized stick from the rich gravel.” The image of picking up a stick from the schoolyard reflects a longing to reconnect with the past, to touch something small yet meaningful, something that bridges childhood and adulthood.

The poem’s final lines—“Who carry it home as we would have done / in another life when the earth was still writing / its name on our knees.”—capture the profound sense of nostalgia and change. The “earth writing its name on our knees” suggests the dirt and scrapes of childhood, when experience was direct and unfiltered. Now, the past is something to be carried home rather than lived in. The act of carrying a stick home echoes the way memory is carried—small, seemingly insignificant, but weighted with meaning.

"Being from St. Louis" is a deeply atmospheric poem, structured with fluid yet deliberate phrasing that allows the weight of each memory to settle. The choice of free verse gives the poem a natural, reflective rhythm, mirroring the way memories surface and blend together. The use of repetition—particularly with the gray imagery and the idea of things “falling”—reinforces the sense of unease, of a childhood spent half-wondering when things might collapse. Yet, in the end, nothing has fallen—the Arch stands, the house remains, and the poet is left to reckon with the permanence of what once felt impermanent. Through its evocative imagery and quiet meditation on place, "Being from St. Louis" is both a personal remembrance and a larger contemplation of how cities shape those who leave them.

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