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The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni

Page 15

by Nikki Giovanni


  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

 

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