BeeLyn Naihiwet

Cover art by Katrina Russell.

About the Book

Plenty is a book that would not be denied. An unlikely seed planted long ago, it took its time to take root and bloom, not unlike myself. Plenty is the companion I wish I had as I journeyed to become the woman I am today. May it be so for you. ⁣

Reviews

In this fine first collection, BeeLyn Naihiwet offers us tender, unflinching poems that immerse us in experiences both personal and universal. Through her clear-eyed and compassionate observations on love and family, the poet provides us a map through the often-treacherous geography of the heart. The narrator of Plenty is one who fights courageously for relationship; accepts disappointment with fierce grace. In these exquisite poems, Naihiwet reveals she is more than enough as both a woman and poet: she is plenty. 

—Joy Roulier Sawyer, author of Lifeguards and Tongues of Men and Angels

These poems oscillate beautifully between observing the vast and the small. They often live in the metaphorical world of the eye and its power to capture, to name, to make real, and to erase. As Plenty reveals the uncertain power of sight and of the word, this collection reminds us of the enduring echo of a past that shifts under our gaze. This vibrant and multilayered collection meditates on the ache of love and its fluid capacity to nourish and destroy, like water. In one moment, we see the mirage of the one person's salvation in another's face. In the next moment, we see that same person gathered together, whole, through the power of her own recognition. These poems compel us to see ourselves and see each other anew.    

— Natalie J. Graham, author of Begin with a Failed Body

BeeLyn Naihiwet’s Plenty is full of gifts. It tells stories that take readers into an intimate moment or through a life’s journey rendered on a page. It is also peppered with short poems as quick as a koan that flash with brilliance, bright as well-cut gems. I appreciate Nahiwet’s voice—candid, clear and straightforward, yet full of range—humor, flirtation, anger, and longing. At the same time, a current of sound and craft ripples pleasantly underneath these poems, never distracting from the stories she tells, but adding an extra depth of pleasure. I came to look forward to the characters of her family who reappear, whether at a diner or from the dead, who help tell the larger story of a woman finding her place in “the northwestern corner / of a stable and racist Western Society,” a place within a family, with an intimate other, and in congruence with herself.

 — Jayne Relaford Brown, author of My First Real Tree (FootHills) and “Finding Her Here”;  2019-2021 Poet Laureate of Berks County, Pennsylvania.

Excerpts

In the middle of dinner my little sister reports 
her first day of kindergarten was fun except 
for the teacher who gave her a brown 
crayon to draw a self-portrait.
"I said to her, ‘I'm not brown, I'm Black’" Roza says, 
adding, "She didn't even know that!" 
I feel my father object from across 
the table. I don't take my eyes off Roza.
She stands up on her knees in her chair,
her small body barely able to contain her big 
ideas. She says that the teacher pointed 
to her hair to make the distinction between 
the color black and the brown of Roza's skin.
Instantly I picture the classroom scene:
Roza glaring at the teacher, unable 
to argue with a lady who clearly knows her colors.
I wait for her to finish chewing
a mouthful of chicken, followed by a long sip 
of water. She loves being the center of attention.  
I wonder if she knows my heart's in her mouth,
anxious that I hadn't been clear enough 
about the complexities of color and race, 
and how to tell my father that 
the moon made me do it.
Finally she says, "I said, ‘Yeah my hair is Black 
and I'm Black and my sister is Black and 
my family is Black, so I need a Black crayon.’"
She gives a big laugh. 

— Clear, pg. 7, Plenty.

Love, n. A high voltage fan with variable speeds. Love, n. The sky, a blanket. Love, n. The number 1, denoting a beginning. Love, n. The time from when you purchase a lottery ticket to when you check the results. Love, n. An unlikely friendship. Love, n. A window. Love, n. An unpopular opinion. Love, n. The last parking spot. Love, n. The kindness of strangers.  Love, n. Blind spots. Love, n. The moon, a witness.  Love, n. Self-diagnosis. Love, n. Quiet. Love, n. The shadow of an idea. Love, n. Baby's breath. Love, n. The world at 4:00 am. Love, n. Water. Love, n. Blackness. Love, n. Moss. Love, n. The poetry of traffic. Love, n. The color purple. Love, n. The hoodie

— Rebound, pg. 54, Plenty.

I give him the moon. He says it invades the night.

I give him the sea. He says it divides the land.

I give him the garden. He says it depresses the ground.

I give him the air. He says it abandons the body.

I give him this poem. He says it serves the poet. 

— Tide, pg. 34, Plenty.