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
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
The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni Page 13