Grandpapa and Aesop were wrong. The Grasshopper did contribute. Where would we be without the imagination that encounters with art and artists bring? We’d be little Ants working day and night selfishly hoarding the bounty nature provides with no joy in the benefits of our work. We can . . . and we should . . . do better than that.
MY SISTER AND ME
Chocolate cookies
Chocolate cakes
Chocolate fudge
Chocolate lakes
Chocolate kisses
Chocolate hugs
Two little chocolate girls
In a chocolate rug
No one can find us
We’re all alone
Two little chocolate girls
Running from home
Chocolate chickies
Chocolate bunnies
Chocolate smiles
From chocolate mommies
Chocolate rabbits
Chocolate snakes
Two little chocolate girls
Wide awake
What an adventure
My, what fun
My sister and me
Still on the run
Still on the run
My sister and me
Still
On the run
SPICES
i used to watch
my mother cook
she would invariably sigh
a little sigh then light
a cigarette
since no one smokes
anymore Beans
have not tasted as good
i have her sigh
and stacks of spices
“This one is cardamom
It comes from Southeast Asia”
“This one is nutmeg
the defense of this spice by a Brit was so fierce
the world court heard the case and the Dutch
gave up Manhattan Island for the little island
in the Indian Ocean that grew nutmegs”
and cloves . . . stick them in an orange for a
Christmas present
or a ham to make
a design
cooking with Mommy was
Geography “These pansies you can eat”
“These mushrooms will
kill you” (should we put them in your father’s eggs? she’d laugh
and say)
the green things
rosemary thyme tarragon cilantro
the fennel we grew brought mean
yellow jackets so
we get it at Kroger’s
“The trick to a great
Ham
is a song” she’d say
And we would sing loud and lustily
She harmonizing with me but me
Unable to carry a straight melody
Now it is ready
cold water almost to the top
fennel allspice pepper pods of all colors
No Salt—it’s a rule
green spices till it
looks right then
cinnamon on the uncovered top
low heat until boiling
(about 2 hours)
let cool 15 minutes
pour off water then
let cool on your platter
I make my Ham the way
my mother made hers
with lots of talk and love and laughter
THE OTHER PLACE
Corn bread muffins
A streak of lean
Mustard greens simmering
On Grandmother’s stove
Boiled ham
Fresh churned butter
Grandpapa reading the comics to Grandmother
And me
While we cook
I set the table
With the everyday dishes
They both like ice-cold water
We are home
I am home
Safe against the dangers
Of the other place
THE LIONESS CIRCLES HER BROOD IN NEW ORLEANS TO SWIM HOME
(for Marvalene Hughes)
When the storm was coming, the first storm . . . Rita, Marvalene called . . . unhappy. “I have to evacuate the school . . . and I just got here.” I made nice noises because Marvalene is a friend . . . an old . . . not aged . . . friend and I could tell she was upset. I am a big fan of when you can’t change it, you’ve got to go with it. “Want me to come down?” I asked trying to offer support. She didn’t say “Dummy! If folk could come down I wouldn’t be evacuating the school.” She just said “No. I’m going to visit my sister. I’ll be all right.” I watched Rita make land. I tracked her. New Orleans and Dillard had made it through. I remembered Hugo here in Blacksburg when my fifty-pound umbrella weight was sliding across my deck. I was in Florida even before that when Hurricane David penetrated the walls of my condo. So while I was aware of the fear I was still trying to remember we had all gotten through. Then along came Katrina.
Katrina was shaping up to be one of those hurricanes that we all remember. I’m a big Al Gore fan and I was absolutely in awe when I saw his film. This was going to be quite a moment.
My son and I, when he was a little boy, used to visit an island called Young Island which is off the coast of St. Vincent. For the hip folk, Young Island is about a two-hour sail from Mustique which is where Princess Margaret and her friends used to hang out at or near the Cotton House. I never made it to the Cotton House but one night our manager said “There’s a tropical depression coming our way. You may want to go on up to your suite after dinner.” There were a lot of things to love about Young Island: no phones; no shoes; no roads. Of course, this was before everybody and their mother had a cell phone. You could go there to totally relax. The most dangerous thing in or near the island was a piranha who had been fed so much garbage she was friendly. No worry there. I tried to understand why I would need to go to my room after dinner. The island is quite small. No one is ever around. And why on earth would I worry about the tropical being sad? Isn’t that what a depression means? Then it hit.
Lightning thunder winds like I have never seen. Thomas came from his room to “sit with me” but we both were scared to death. Since the island is essentially a rock that has been hollowed out we were safe except for the front window which we got way away from. The next morning when I saw the manager I said something like “Boy! Was that ever a storm!” “Yes,” he answered in that way the Brits do when they are coping with a real problem. “It’s one of our worst tropical depressions in years. We’re all right but St. Vincent was really hard-hit.” Now I understood. It was not mental. Katrina wasn’t either.
When my phone rang and I heard Marvalene’s voice I knew she was upset. “I have to evacuate the campus again!” Yeah, but this time it was going to be real real bad.
The story of Dillard University is a story of courageous leadership. Dillard took the hardest hit of the colleges but Dillard had the strongest person to handle it. After the Storm is an important voice to add to the lore of the wrath of Katrina. We need to understand how Marvalene Hughes put her heart on her shoulder and made everyone care that this school survive. It’s a great story. And not only because Marvalene is my friend but because she demonstrated the very best of all of us. I had to share with her that the Katrina era was the only time I had wished I was rich. I would have written a check for a million dollars and never looked back. But since I’m a poet I do have books. I culled my personal library for first editions and once the library building was rehabilitated I sent about eleven hundred first editions to help jump-start Dillard’s library. I wish I could have done more. But I, and others, gave the measure of what we had. Following Marvalene’s lead.
THE RIGHT WAY
My grandmother’s grits
Are so much better than mine
Mine tend to be lumpy
And a bit disorientated
Though that is probably
My fault
I always want
To put 1 cup grits
In
to 4 cups cold
Water with 1 teaspoon
Salt
And start them all together
Grandmother did it
The Right Way
She started with cold water
That she brought
To a boil
Shifted the grits slowly
Into the bubbles
Then added her salt
She also hummed
While she stirred
With her wooden spoon
I wonder if I
Should learn
To sing
SPRING BLOOMS
Everyone knows
In Spring love grows
Among the birds and the bees
And the humans too
That squiggly worm
Which makes the soil turn
Also falls in love
The Robin gets up
As an early bird should
To catch a careless bug
But maybe the Robin
Has made a mistake
And simply wanted a hug
At any rate
I need a date
With you to watch the moon bloom
We’ll sit and we’ll chat
About this and that
And maybe like that owl and that cat
We’ll dance by the light of the moon the moon
We can dance by the light of the moon
THE INTERNATIONAL OPEN
(Tennis Players vs. Poets)
tennis players
and poets
talk to themselves
one complaining
of unforced errors
the other lamenting
lovers
not here
poets find wonderful
witty repartee
to captivate
the imagination
of the beloved
tennis players curse
in languages we don’t
understand
explaining the loss
of points
poets understand loss
old age marriage
fatigue and well
just not going to
make any sense
to this person
this time
game point
set point
match point
no love
THE GIGGLE BANK
The Poet was having a typical day: too much to do with too little time to do it in, yet . . . she was excited. Today she would have a Christmas/Birthday dinner with friends. True, she would have to share the occasion but, hell, if poetry isn’t about sharing, what is?
She was up early because she knew she would need a nap in order to stay alert. The Poet is a great napper and heartily recommends it.
She was off first thing to The Giggle Bank. She hadn’t been to the Bank since before the Sadness. And because this was a special day she didn’t want any thoughts other than happy ones. To be on the safe side she decided to make a substantial withdrawal.
The Giggle Bank requires an appointment. As the Poet sped through town she was willing to risk a ticket because she just couldn’t be late. It can be difficult to get an appointment with The Giggle Fairy, since so many people always want to see her. The Poet had had to pull a few strings to be seen on such short notice. She remembered The Giggle Fairy from younger days but they had not seen each other in a while.
Your Mother left you a bunch of Giggles, the Poet was told. Probably a years or so’s worth. You never did come back to ask us after she went on her journey to the sky.
I was sad, said the Poet.
The Giggle Fairy was having none of that: Well, we noted you went to the Wyne Bank and made many withdrawals.
Yes, the Poet confessed, and many silly phone calls in the middle of the night seeking a comforting voice.
Had you come to us, GF sternly stated, we could have saved you some embarrassment.
Yes, the Poet acknowledged, and I am working very hard to set things right. That’s why this evening is so important to me. May I ask if the Administrator has been in for a withdrawal?
You know we cannot answer that. Nor can we answer if her Wonderful Husband has or has not been in. We are a secure bank, you know.
The Poet appreciated the tip. Then maybe I should get enough for the car and for the dinner.
Where are you going to dinner?
About an hour and a half south. Maybe two hours for dinner. An hour and a half back. I think five hours of Giggles should do us proud.
Well, here you are. And don’t forget: You Must Not Leave Any Giggles Just Laying Around.
Are you still having that sale? For every Giggle I use I get two back in the bank?
Yes, of course. Even though you haven’t been in that is still the arrangement we made with your Grandmother. What a laffer she was! There were times we would have been out of Giggles but your Grandmother always found a reason to raise a smile. We were hoping you might . . . but never mind. I’m glad you came to us. Enjoy your evening.
The Poet hurried home to quickly nap, shower, dress, and eat a bit. She wanted champagne for the drive and knew she must eat to keep everything on an even keel.
And what a lovely night. The drive down was just about the expected time until the driver got lost. But not for long. The meal was exquisite. The wine wonderful. The service and the company beyond compare. Dinner was not over at nine but rather eleven. And there were still two hours, more or less, to home. Then the unexpected happened.
Everyone had been laughing and giggling and having such a good time that no one realized the Giggles had run out. The Poet should have warned the table but she was so busy laughing she forgot. The Poet knew what would happen: The Administrator would crash on the way home. The Wonderful Husband who had also laughed but who is very protective of the Administrator would not ever have allowed himself to sleep. The Director of a Special Program never slept when she was out. That only left the Poet and the Administrator. Someone had to close her eyes until more Giggles would be obtained.
The Administrator yawned, blinked, and lay her head in the Wonderful Husband’s lap. Riding sideways like that would give her bad dreams so she sat up and drifted away. The Poet was enchanted. The Poet was under the impression she was the only one who could sleep sitting up and here we had the Administrator doing it.
Probably it was the trust the Administrator showed when she closed her eyes. She entrusted her Wonderful Husband to the Director and the Poet knowing they would do everything in their power to make him comfortable. Whereas he was, indeed, the only man in the group, the Poet was the only poet so there was outreach. The Administrator leaned back and drifted deeper into a comfortable and safe place. The Poet took that as the highest compliment, since one will do many things with people but sleeping in their presence is a sign of true friendship. The Couple were taken home first. The Administrator awoke and her Wonderful Husband safely escorted her into the house. They blinked the lights to say Good Night.
The Poet and the Director were then dropped off. As the Poet was taking her good clothes off to air and hang up, she, as was her habit, checked her pockets and there, to her surprise, were a couple of leftover Giggles. She remembered now that she had scooped some up when she had gone to the Ladies’ Room. Oh, Wow! Had they been brought forward the Administrator would have been allowed to stay awake and Giggle on the way home. Of course, the Poet justified, dinner was two hours longer than expected and there had been plenty of Giggles to go around but these would have made the trip home totally participatory. I should have remembered, the Poet admonished herself. I wonder, as had become a way of life between the two of them, how I can make this up.
She thought and thought, then realized there was nothing she could do. It was a perfect evening. And everyone was happy. So the Poet did a wise thing: she put the Giggles under her pillow and danced and Giggled all through that night in her dreams.
KICK STRETCH KICK
I wish I c
ould
Exercise
While I sit
In class listening
To my students
Pontificate
I would stretch
My legs
And point
My toes
Then lift
Each or the other
To the top
Of the table
No one needs
To know
And I need to lose
Five pounds
Gee whillikers I wish
I could stretch
My mind
MRS. SCOTT
I was a Mama’s girl. I adored her. The only other person who even came close was Grandmother. I would follow Grandmother so closely that when she stopped I would run into her. But finally it came. I had an older sister, Gary. She would have been Gary Eugene but she was a girl so they changed it to Gary Ann. I am Yolande, Jr., because I was named after my mother. Gary went to school. I actually found that to my liking. Mommy and I would get up and have breakfast with Gary and Gus, our father. Then off they would go and my world would brighten considerably. Mommy and I would wash or iron or, my favorite, dust. We didn’t have a car so we walked to the grocery, stopped by to give a holler to friends. And if the day was going well Mommy might play a hand or two of Canasta with Mrs. Morris and Aunt Jeannie. She wasn’t really my aunt but a good friend of Mommy’s so we called her by that honorific. But it finally came. I knew Mrs. Hicks because she lived across the street from us. Her kids were younger than we were so we didn’t play with them but we all knew each other. I probably even knew Mrs. Hicks taught school but it wasn’t something I needed to relate to as I didn’t go. But it finally came. Mommy woke me up early because I had to bathe and get dressed. I have to tell you I was skeptical. What could be better than staying at home with Mommy? I poked around with my breakfast while Gus and Gary were telling me how much I would enjoy school. I still don’t trust it when people are excited about you doing something. Oh you’ll love it they say knowing full well this will cut your heart out. But I have always prided myself on my bravery. I don’t run from physical, emotional, or intellectual fights. I could handle this, I kept saying to myself. But the tears welled up and by the time we arrived at Oak Avenue School they were spilling over. Then Mommy said Good-bye. It was too much. I bawled my heart out. Mrs. Hicks, who was the kindergarten teacher, tried to cheer me up and distract me. I was having none of it. But the first-grade teacher, Mrs. Scott, said Come on, Nikki. You can visit my class. The irony is that both kindergarten and first grade were in the same room. But I was always a sucker for that kind of logic. When I would fall or stumble Mommy would say Come here, Nikki, and I’ll pick you up. It worked every time. I took Mrs. Scott’s hand and walked to the other side. Mrs. Scott had a physical condition that caused her head to bobble and I think I thought she needed me. She didn’t. But I didn’t know that. So I guess it’s only fair to say my first mentor was Mrs. Scott. She let me think she needed me. And I stayed in school. And all that I have learned and been able to share I think I owe to Mrs. Scott.
Chasing Utopia Page 2