The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni

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The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni Page 13

by Nikki Giovanni


  who never knew how much more real is a dream than reality

  so julian bond was elected president and rap brown chief

  justice of the supreme court and nixon sold himself

  on 42nd street for a package of winstons

  (with the down home taste) and our man on the moon said

  alleluia

  and we all raised our right fist in the power sign

  and the earth was thrown off course and crashed into the sun

  but since we never recognize the sun

  we went right on to work in our factories

  and offices and laundry mats and record shops

  the next morning and only the children

  and a few poets knew

  that a change had come

  I Laughed When I Wrote It

  (Don’t You Think It’s Funny?)

  the f.b.i. came by my house three weeks ago

  one white agent one black (or i guess negro would be

  more appropriate) with two three-button suits on (one to a man)

  thin ties—cuffs in the bottoms—belts at their waists

  they said in unison:

  ms. giovanni you are getting to be quite important

  people listen to what you have to say

  i said nothing

  we would like to have you give a different message

  i said: gee are all you guys really shorter than hoover

  they said:

  it would be a patriotic gesture if you’d quit saying

  you love rap brown and if you’d maybe give us some

  leads

  on what some of your friends are doing

  i said: fuck you

  a week later the c.i.a. came by two unisexes one blond afro

  one darker one three bulges on each showing lovely bell

  bottoms and boots

  they said in rounds:

  sister why not loosen up and turn on

  fuck the system up from the inside

  we can turn you on to some groovy

  trips and you don’t have to worry

  about money or nothing take the commune

  way and a few drugs it’ll be good for you

  and the little one

  after i finished a long loud stinky fart i said serenely

  definitely though with love

  fuck you

  yesterday a representative from interpol stopped me in the park

  tall, neat afro, striped hip huggers bulging only in the right

  place

  i really dig you, he said, i want to do something for you

  and you alone

  i asked what he would like to do for me

  need a trip around the world a car bigger apartment

  are you lonely i mean we need to get you comfortable

  cause a lot of people listen to you and you

  need to be comfortable to put forth a positive image

  and digging the scene i said listen i would sell

  out but i need to make it worth my while you understand

  you just name it and i’ll give it to you, he assured me

  well, i pondered, i want aretha franklin and her piano

  reduced to fit next to my electric

  typewriter on my desk and i’ll do anything you want

  he lowered his long black eyelashes and smiled a whimsical smile

  fuck you, nikki, he said

  On Seeing Black Journal and Watching Nine Negro Leaders “Give Aid and Comfort to the Enemy” to Quote Richard Nixon

  it wouldn’t have been

  so bad if there had

  been a white rock group singing

  “steal away” from the side lines

  (at least that would have made it

  honest)

  it is not too late/is too/is not/yah yah/so yo mama/is not

  “Sir would you keep your remarks

  succinct” said straight face

  to people who were used to talking hours and never

  sucking cint

  “come with me—i mean come to me—that is i got rhythm

  —i mean

  i can orchestrate and harmonize and ooo wee can i do a

  militant

  shuffle”

  “well i’m from small plains oklahoma and i want

  to know about the sewer problem

  just how should black people approach them”

  “would whoever answers please

  just be brief we have important calls

  from all over the country!”

  “i want the integrationists to go on

  record just where do you stand

  on sewers?!!!??!*?

  chorus

  oh jesus was a lovely cat

  he taught us how to pray

  and every night we get on our knees

  and this is what we say:

  oh i hate the white man

  i love the white man

  and it’s just a natural fact

  that one way or other if you stick around

  he’ll get on your back

  and what about naomi?

  for the answers to these and other important questions

  like: do we have any Black leaders

  stay tuned to (music please———)

  the sets were turned off

  the white men stood up scratched themselves

  and said well we’re good for another

  four hundred years or so

  the Black youngsters turned off

  their sets got down

  on their knees and prayed

  oh Lord please

  don’t take the honkie

  away

  And Another Thing

  i’m leaving at five

  she said why

  are niggers always

  late

  a circle he replied is

  a sunbeam that saw

  itself and fell

  in love

  niggers would be

  late for their own

  damned funerals

  it’s the early bird

  he whispered in her

  ear that catches the worm

  but no one ever said why

  the worm gets up

  how we gonna get this

  country moving when we can’t

  get together

  on such simple shit

  sometimes he said brushing

  her afro back with his rough hands

  you scrub clothes to remove

  a spot and sometimes you soak

  them first

  you not even listening to me

  you’re not listening to me

  they looked at each other

  for a moment

  and another thing

  she began

  We

  we stood there waiting

  on the corners

  in the bars

  on the stoops

  in the pews

  by the cadillacs

  for buses

  wanting for love

  watching to see if hope would come by

  we stood there hearing

  the sound of police sirens

  and fire engines

  the explosions

  and babies crying

  the gas escaping

  and the roaches breeding

  the garbage cans falling

  and the stairways creaking

  we listened

  to the books opening

  and hearts shutting

  the hands rubbing

  the bodies sweating

  we were seeing the revolution screeeeeeeeeeeching

  to a halt

  trying to find a clever way

  to be empty

  My House

  i only want to

  be there to kiss you

  as you want to be kissed

  when you need to be kissed

  where i want to kiss you

  cause it’s my house
/>   and i plan to live in it

  i really need to hug you

  when i want to hug you

  as you like to hug me

  does this sound like a silly poem

  i mean it’s my house

  and i want to fry pork chops

  and bake sweet potatoes

  and call them yams

  cause i run the kitchen

  and i can stand the heat

  i spent all winter in

  carpet stores gathering

  patches so i could make

  a quilt

  does this really sound

  like a silly poem

  i mean i want to keep you

  warm

  and my windows might be dirty

  but it’s my house

  and if i can’t see out sometimes

  they can’t see in either

  english isn’t a good language

  to express emotion through

  mostly i imagine because people

  try to speak english instead

  of trying to speak through it

  i don’t know maybe it is

  a silly poem

  i’m saying it’s my house

  and i’ll make fudge and call

  it love and touch my lips

  to the chocolate warmth

  and smile at old men and call

  that revolution cause what’s real

  is really real

  and i still like men in tight

  pants cause everybody has some

  thing to give and more

  important needs something to take

  and this is my house and you make me

  happy

  so this is your poem

  The Women and the Men

  1975

  The Women Gather

  (for Joe Strickland)

  the women gather

  because it is not unusual

  to seek comfort in our hours of stress

  a man must be buried

  it is not unusual

  that the old bury the young

  though it is an abomination

  it is not strange

  that the unwise and the ungentle

  carry the banner of humaneness

  though it is a castration of the spirit

  it no longer shatters the intellect

  that those who make war

  call themselves diplomats

  we are no longer surprised

  that the unfaithful pray loudest

  every sunday in every church

  and sometimes in rooms facing east

  though it is a sin and a shame

  so how do we judge a man

  most of us love from our need to love not

  because we find someone deserving

  most of us forgive because we have trespassed not

  because we are magnanimous

  most of us comfort because we need comforting

  our ancient rituals demand that we give

  what we hope to receive

  and how do we judge a man

  we learn to greet when meeting

  to cry when parting

  and to soften our words at times of stress

  the women gather

  with cloth and ointment

  their busy hands bowing to laws that decree

  willows shall stand swaying but unbroken

  against even the determined wind of death

  we judge a man by his dreams

  not alone his deeds

  we judge a man by his intent

  not alone his shortcomings

  we judge a man because it is not unusual

  to know him through those who love him

  the women gather strangers

  to each other because

  they have loved a man

  it is not unusual to sift

  through ashes

  and find an unburnt picture

  Once a Lady Told Me

  like my mother and her grandmother before

  i paddle around the house

  in soft-soled shoes

  chasing ghosts from corners

  with incense

  they are such a disturbance my ghosts

  they break my bric-a-brac and make

  me forget to turn my heating stove

  the children say you must come to live

  with us all my life i told them i’ve lived

  with you now i shall live with myself

  the grandchildren say it’s disgraceful

  you in this dark house with the curtains

  pulled snuff dripping from your chin

  would they be happier if i smoked cigarettes

  i was very exquisite once very small and well courted

  some would say a beauty when my hair was plaited

  and i was bustled up

  my children wanted my life

  and now they want my death

  but i shall pad around my house

  in my purple soft-soled shoes

  i’m very happy now

  it’s not so very neat, you know, but it’s my

  life

  Each Sunday

  if she wore her dresses

  the same length as mine

  people would gossip viciously

  about her morals

  if i slept head barely touching

  the string of freshwater fake pearls

  mouth slightly open eyebrows knitted

  almost into a frown

  people would accuse me of running around

  too much

  suddenly her eyes springing away

  from her sleep intensely

  scope the pulpit and fall

  on me

  i wonder did she dream

  while baking cold-water cornbread

  of being a great reporter churning

  all the facts together and creating

  the truth

  did she think while patching the torn pants

  and mending the socks of her men of standing

  arms outstretched before a great world

  body offering her solution for peace

  what did she feel wringing the neck

  of Sunday’s chicken breaking the beans

  of her stifled life

  she sits each sunday black

  dress falling below her knees which have drifted

  apart defining a void

  in the temple of her life in the church of her god

  strong and staunch and hopeful

  that we never change

  places

  The December of My Springs

  in the december of my springs

  i long for the days

  i shall somehow have

  free from children and dinners

  and people i have grown stale with

  this time i think i’ll face love

  with my heart instead of my glands

  rather than hands clutching to satiate

  my fingers will stroke to satisfy

  i think it might be good

  to decide rather than to need

  that pitter-patter rhythm of rain

  sliding on city streets is as satisfying

  to me as this quiet has become

  and like the raindrop i accede to my nature

  perhaps there will be no

  difference between the foolishness of age

  and the foolishness of youth

  some say we are responsible

  for those we love

  others know we are responsible

  for those who love us

  so i sit waiting

  for a fresh thought

  to stir the atmosphere

  i’m glad i’m not iron

  else i would be burned

  by now

  The Life I Led

  i know my upper arms will grow

  flabby it’s true

  of all the women in my family

  i know that the purple veins

/>   like dead fish in the Seine

  will dot my legs one day

  and my hands will wither while

  my hair turns grayish white i know that

  one day my teeth will move when

  my lips smile

  and a flutter of hair will appear

  below my nose i hope

  my skin doesn’t change to those blotchy

  colors

  i want my menses to be undifficult

  i’d very much prefer staying firm and slim

  to grow old like a vintage wine fermenting

  in old wooden vats with style

  i’d like to be exquisite i think

  i will look forward to grandchildren

  and my flowers all my knickknacks in their places

  and that quiet of the bombs not falling in cambodia

  settling over my sagging breasts

  i hope my shoulder finds a head that needs nestling

  and my feet find a footstool after a good soaking

  with epsom salts

  i hope i die

  warmed

  by the life that i tried

  to live

  Mother’s Habits

  i have all

  my mother’s habits

  i awake in the middle of night

  to smoke a cigarette

  i have a terrible fear of flying

  and i don’t like being alone

  in the dark

  sleep is a sport we all

  participate in

  it’s the scourge of youth

  and a necessity of old age

  though it only hastens the day

  when dissolution is inevitable

  i grow tired

  like my mother doing without

  even one small word

  that says i care

  and like my mother i shall fade

 

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