The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni
Page 15
nourishment of self-actualization
we implore all the young to prepare for the young
because always there will be children
Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day
1978
Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day
Don’t look now
I’m fading away
Into the gray of my mornings
Or the blues of every night
Is it that my nails
keep breaking
Or maybe the corn
on my second little piggy
Things keep popping out
on my face
or
of my life
It seems no matter how
I try I become more difficult
to hold
I am not an easy woman
to want
They have asked
the psychiatrists psychologists politicians and
social workers
What this decade will be
known for
There is no doubt it is
loneliness
If loneliness were a grape
the wine would be vintage
If it were a wood
the furniture would be mahogany
But since it is life it is
Cotton Candy
on a rainy day
The sweet soft essence
of possibility
Never quite maturing
I have prided myself
On being in that great tradition
albeit circus
That the show must go on
Though in my community the vernacular is
One Monkey Don’t Stop the Show
We all line up
at some midway point
To thread our way through
the boredom and futility
Looking for the blue ribbon and gold medal
Mostly these are seen as food labels
We are consumed by people who sing
the same old song STAY:
as sweet as you are
in my corner
Or perhaps just a little bit longer
But whatever you do don’t change baby baby don’t
change
Something needs to change
Everything some say will change
I need a change
of pace face attitude and life
Though I long for my loneliness
I know I need something
Or someone
Or……
I strangle my words as easily as I do my tears
I stifle my screams as frequently as I flash my smile
it means nothing
I am cotton candy on a rainy day
the unrealized dream of an idea unborn
I share with the painters the desire
To put a three-dimensional picture
On a one-dimensional surface
Introspection
she didn’t like to think in abstracts
sadness happiness taking giving all abstracts
she much preferred waxing the furniture
cleaning the shelves putting the plates away
something concrete to put her hands on
a job well done in a specific time span
her eyes were two bright shiny six guns
already cocked
prepared to go off at a moment’s indiscretion
had she been a vietnam soldier or a mercenary
for Ian Smith all the children and dogs and goodly
portions of grand old trees would have been demolished
she had lived both long and completely enough
not to be chained to truth
she was not pretty
she had no objections to the lies
lies were better than the silence that abounded
nice comfortable lies like I need you
or Gosh you look pretty this morning
the lies that make the lie of life real
or lies that make real life livable
she lived on the edge of an emotional abyss
or perhaps she lived in the well of a void
there were always things she wanted
like arms to hold her
eyes that understood
a friend to relax with
someone to touch
always someone to touch
her life was a puzzle broken
into a hundred thousand little pieces
she didn’t mind being emotionally disheveled
she was forever fascinated by putting the pieces
together though most times
the center was empty
she never slept well
there wasn’t a time
actually
when sleep refreshed her
perhaps it could have
but there were always dreams
or nightmares
and mostly her own acknowledgment
that she was meant to be tired
she lived
because she didn’t know any better
she stayed alive
among the tired and lonely
not waiting always wanting
needing a good night’s rest
Forced Retirement
all problems being
as personal as they are
have to be largely
of our own making
i know i’m unhappy
most of the time
nothing an overdose
of sex won’t cure of course
but since i’m responsible
i barely have an average
intake
on the other hand
i’m acutely aware
there are those suffering
from the opposite affliction
some people die of obesity
while others starve to death
some commit suicide
because they are bored
others because of pressure
the new norm is as elusive
as the old
granting problems coming
from within
are no less painful
than those out of our hands
i never really do worry
about atomic destruction
of the universe
though i can be quite vexed
that Namath and Ali don’t retire
my father has to
and though he’s never made a million
or even hundreds of thousands
he too enjoys his work
and is good at it
but more goes
even when he doesn’t
feel like it
people fear boredom
not because they are bored
rather more from fear
of boring
though minds are either sharp
or dull
and bodies available
or not
and there’s something else
that’s never wrong
though never quite right
either
i’ve always thought the beautiful
are as pitiful
as the ugly
but the average is no guarantee
of happiness
i’ve always wandered a bit
not knowing if this is a function
of creeping menopause
or incipient loneliness
i no longer correct my habits
nothing makes sense
if we are just a collection of genes
on a freudian altar to the species
i don’t like those theories
telling me why i feel as i do
behaviorisms never made sense
outside feeling
i could say i am black female
and bright
in a white male mediocre world
but that hardly explains why
i sit on the beaches of st croix
<
br /> feeling so abandoned
The New Yorkers
In front of the bank building
after six o’clock the gathering
of the bag people begins
In cold weather they huddle
around newspapers
when it is freezing they get
cardboard boxes
Someone said they are all rich eccentrics
Someone is of course crazy
The man and his buddy moved
to the truck port
in the adjoining building
most early evenings he visits
his neighbors awaiting
the return of his friend
from points unknown to me
they seem to be a spontaneous
combustion these night people
they evaporate during the light of day
only to emerge at evening glow
as if they had never been away
I am told there are people
who live underground
in the layer between the subways
and the pipes that run them
they have harnessed the steam
to heat their corner
and cook their food
though there is no electricity
making them effectively moles
The twentieth century has seen
two big wars and two small ones
the automobile and the SST
telephones and satellites in the sky
man on the moon and spacecraft on Jupiter
How odd to also see the people
of New York City living
in the doorways of public buildings
as if this is an emerging nation
though of course it is
Look at the old woman
who sits on 57th Street and 8th Avenue
selling pencils
I don’t know where she spends the night
she sits summer and winter
snow or rain humming
some white religious song
she must weigh over 250 pounds
the flesh on her legs has stretched
like a petite pair of stockings
onto a medium frame
beyond its ability to fit
there are tears and holes
of various purples in her legs
things and stuff ooze from them
drying and running again
there is never though a smell
she does not ask you to buy
a pencil nor will her eyes
condemn your health
it’s easy really to walk by her
unlike the man in front
of Tiffany’s she holds her pencils
near her knee
you take or not
depending upon your writing needs
He on the other hand is blind and walking
his german shepherd dog
his sign says THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD GOES YOU and there is a long
explanation of his condition
It’s rather easy for the Tiffany shopper
to see his condition
he is Black
Uptown on 125th Street is an old blind Black woman
she is out only in good
weather and clothes
her house is probably spotless
as southern ladies are wont to keep house
and her wig is always on straight
You got something for me, she called
What do you want, I asked
What’s yo name? I know yo family
No, you don’t, I said laughing You don’t know
anything about me
You that Eyetalian poet ain’t you? I know yo voice. I seen
you on television
I peered closely into her eyes
You didn’t see me or you’d know I’m black
Let me feel yo hair if you Black Hold down yo head
I did and she did
Got something for me, she laughed
You felt my hair that’s good luck
Good luck is money, chile she said
Good luck is money
Crutches
it’s not the crutches we decry
it’s the need to move forward
though we haven’t the strength
women aren’t allowed to need
so they develop rituals
since we all know working hands idle
the devil
women aren’t supposed to be strong
so they develop social smiles
and secret drinking problems
and female lovers whom they never touch
except in dreams
men are supposed to be strong
so they have heart attacks
and develop other women
who don’t know their weaknesses
and hide their fears
behind male lovers
whom they religiously touch
each saturday morning on the basketball court
it’s considered a sign of health doncha know
that they take such good care
of their bodies
i’m trying to say something about the human condition
maybe i should try again
if you broke an arm or leg
a crutch would be a sign of courage
people would sign your cast
and you could bravely explain
no it doesn’t hurt—it just itches
but if you develop an itch
there are no salves to cover the area
in need of attention
and for whatever guilt may mean
we would feel guilty for trying
to assuage the discomfort
and even worse for needing the aid
i really want to say something about all of us
am i shouting i want you to hear me
emotional falls always are
the worst
and there are no crutches
to swing back on
Boxes
i am in a box
on a tight string
subject to pop
without notice
everybody says how strong
i am
only black women
and white men
are truly free
they say
it’s not difficult to see
how stupid they are
i would not reject
my strength
though its source
is not choice
but responsibility
i would not reject my light
though my wrinkles are also illuminated
something within demands
action
or words
if action is not possible
i am tired
of being boxed
muhammad ali must surely be pleased
that leon spinks relieved him
most of the time
i can’t breathe
i smoke too much
to cover my fears
sometimes i pick
my nose to avoid
the breath i need
i do also do the same
injustice to my poems
i write because
i have to
Poem
i have considered
my reluctance
to be a fear of death
there are all sorts of reasons
i don’t want to die
responsibility to family
obligations to friends
dreams of future greatness
i close my eyes and chant
on airplanes to calm
my fleeting heart
since we are riding on air
my will is as necessary
as the pilot’s abilities
to keep us afloat
i have felt that way
about other endeavors
however do we justify
our lives
the president of the united states
says Faith not deeds will determine
our salvation
that’s probably why larry flynt
a stand-in for carter
is without his insides now
i have faith of course
in the deeds i do
and see done
one really can’t hate
the act but love
the actor
only jewish theater and american politics
would even contemplate
such a contradiction
however will we survive
the seventies
i seize on little things
you can tell a lot about people
by the way they comb their hair
or the way they don’t look
you in the eye
am i discussing nixon
again
he went to humphrey’s funeral
and opened his house
(2.50 per head)
for the public to see
can’t decide if anita bryant
should marry carter or nixon
they both are so bad
they deserve her
there must be something fun
worth sharing
there is a split
between the jewish and black community
the former didn’t mind
until the latter put a name to it
i live in a city
that has turned into a garbage can
there is no disagreement
about that
there is some question
concerning the dog dung in the streets
as opposed to the dog dung in the administration
ahhhh but you will say
how awful of the poet
such insinuations she does make
nobody is perfect
i do after all have
this well reluctance