Did we meet when we were only a dream…of each other…Or did we meet with the cries…of labor…or fever…or no work this week
Do we know…because of the change of names…each other…Or do we know…because of an exchange of glances…that each is a bridge…free standing…stretched between the good years and the bad
It’s hard to remember…when we met…I am constantly being introduced…to a you…I never knew…I offer you the same…
Hello
Love: Is a Human Condition
An amoeba is lucky it’s so small…else its narcissism would lead to war…since self-love seems so frequently to lead to self-righteousness…
I suppose a case could be made…that there are more amoebas than people…that they comprise the physical majority…and therefore the moral right…But luckily amoebas rarely make television appeals to higher Gods…and baser instincts…so one must ask if the ability to reproduce oneself efficiently has anything to do with love…
The night loves the stars as they play about the Darkness…the day loves the light caressing the sun…We love…those who do…because we live in a world requiring light and Darkness…partnership and solitude…sameness and difference…the familiar and the unknown…We love because it’s the only true adventure…
I’m glad I’m not an amoeba…there must be more to all our lives than ourselves…and our ability to do more of the same…
Sky Diving
I hang on the edge
of this universe
singing off-key
talking too loud
embracing myself
to cushion the fall
I shall tumble
into deep space
never in this form
or with this feeling
to return to earth
It is not tragic
I will spiral
through that Black hole
losing skin limbs
internal organs
searing
my naked soul
Landing
in the next galaxy
with only my essence
embracing myself
as
I dream of you
A Journey
It’s a journey…that I propose…I am not the guide…nor technical assistant…I will be your fellow passenger…
Though the rail has been ridden…winter clouds cover…autumn’s exuberant quilt…we must provide our own guideposts…
I have heard…from previous visitors…the road washes out sometimes…and passengers are compelled…to continue groping…or turn back…I am not afraid…
I am not afraid…of rough spots…or lonely times…I don’t fear…the success of this endeavor…I am Ra…in a space…not to be discovered…but invented…
I promise you nothing…I accept your promise…of the same we are simply riding…a wave…that may carry…or crash…
It’s a journey…and I want…to go…
Resignation
I love you
because the Earth turns round the sun
because the North wind blows north
sometimes
because the Pope is Catholic
and most Rabbis Jewish
because winters flow into springs
and the air clears after a storm
because only my love for you
despite the charms of gravity
keeps me from falling off this Earth
into another dimension
I love you
because it is the natural order of things
I love you
like the habit I picked up in college
of sleeping through lectures
or saying I’m sorry
when I get stopped for speeding
because I drink a glass of water
in the morning
and chain-smoke cigarettes
all through the day
because I take my coffee Black
and my milk with chocolate
because you keep my feet warm
though my life a mess
I love you
because I don’t want it
any other way
I am helpless
in my love for you
It makes me so happy
to hear you call my name
I am amazed you can resist
locking me in an echo chamber
where your voice reverberates
through the four walls
sending me into spasmatic ecstasy
I love you
because it’s been so good
for so long
that if I didn’t love you
I’d have to be born again
and that is not a theological statement
I am pitiful in my love for you
The Dells tell me Love
is so simple
the thought though of you
sends indescribably delicious multitudinous
thrills throughout and through-in my body
I love you
because no two snowflakes are alike
and it is possible
if you stand tippy-toe
to walk between the raindrops
I love you
because I am afraid of the dark
and can’t sleep in the light
because I rub my eyes
when I wake up in the morning
and find you there
because you with all your magic powers were
determined that
I should love you
because there was nothing for you but that
I would love you
I love you
because you made me
want to love you
more than I love my privacy
my freedom my commitments
and responsibilities
I love you ’cause I changed my life
to love you
because you saw me one friday
afternoon and decided that I would
love you
I love you I love you I love you
I Wrote a Good Omelet
I wrote a good omelet…and ate a hot poem…
after loving you
Buttoned my car…and drove my coat home…in the rain…
after loving you
I goed on red…and stopped on green…floating
somewhere in between…
being here and being there…
after loving you
I rolled my bed…turned down my hair…slightly confused
but…I don’t care…
Laid out my teeth…and gargled my gown…then I
stood…and laid me down…
to sleep…
after loving you
Three/Quarters Time
Dance with me…dance with me…we are the song…we
are the music…Dance with me…
Waltz me…twirl me…do-si-do please…peppermint twist
me…philly
Squeeze
Cha cha cha…tango…two step too…
Cakewalk…charleston…bougaloo…
Dance with me…dance with me…all night long…
We are the music…we are the song…
Cancers
(not necessarily a love poem)
Cancers are a serious condition…attacking internal organs
…eating
them away…or clumping lumps…together…
The blood vessels carry…cancerous cells…to all body parts
…cruising
would be the term…but this is not necessarily a love poem…
Cancer is caused…by…
the air we breathe
the food we eat
the water we drink
Indices are unusually high…in cities that have baseball teams
…or people…
Coffee…milk…saccharine
cigarettes…sun…and birth control
devices�
�
are among the chief offenders…
Monthly phenomena stopped…internally…will
only lead…
to shock syndrome…
What indeed…porcelana…does a woman…want…
Cancers are…
the new plague
the modern black death
all that is unknown
yet
I have a cancer…in my heart…I’m told…on
knowledgeable authority…
it is not possible
For the heart we have…
cardiac arrest…and outright attacks…
holes in valves…and valve stoppage…
constricted vessels…and nefarious air
bubbles…
But then…my doctor never saw you…and doesn’t believe…
in the zodiac…
A Word for Me…Also
Vowels…are a part of the English language…There are five in the alphabet…though only one…between lovers…
My father…you must understand…was Human…My mother…a larva…and while I concede most Celestial Beings…have taken the bodies of the majority…I chose differently…No one understands me…at all…except the clouds…and grasses…and waters cresting…against the Heavens…
I just don’t know…what to do…with myself…I have forgotten the names…I feared being called…I have rested the burdens…of my will…I inhale the illogic…of the moment…exuding inert emotions…I am still…beside you…happily confused…
Words…are the foundation of thought…Many people think they think…but cannot put it…into words…My grandmother thought…she could drive a car…too…though she couldn’t do Reverse…There is a word for me…also…
I Am She
(for Nancy)
I am she…making rainbows…in coffee cups…watching fish jump…after midnight…in my dreams…
On the stove…left front burner…is the stew…already chewed…certain to burn…as I dream…of waves…of nothingness…
Floating to shore…riding a low moon…on a slow cloud…I am she…who writes…the poems…
The Room With the Tapestry Rug
And when she was lonely…she would go into the room…where all who lived…knew her well…
Her hands would touch…her lips…silently moving…would punctuate the talk…with a smile…or a frown…an occasional “Oh My”…
If it was cold…she would wrap herself…in the natted blue sweater…knitted by a grandmother…so many years ago…If warm…the windows were opened…to allow the wind…to partake of their pleasure…
Holidays were never sad…seasons in fact…unchanging…Family and friends…lovers and longings…rested…waited…never to betray…never to leave her…
Her books…her secret life…in the room with the tapestry rug…
Wild Flowers
We are like a field…of wild flowers…unpollinated…swaying against the wind…
Dew sparkling…buds bursting…we await the drying day…Let’s not gain…the notice of the woman…with the large straw basket…
Autumn will come…anyway…Let us continue…our dance…beneath the sun…
Love Thoughts
Planes fly patterns…rather than land…on icy runways…
I ran a pattern…around you…
Captains cut their engines…to passively ride storm waves…
You put me…on hold…
Only clear skies…and still waters…
Can support engines of displacement
Aretha said it best…in Lady Soul…Ain’t No Way…(for
me to love you)…
If you don’t…let me…
You Were Gone
You were gone
like a fly lighting
on that wall
with a spider in the corner
You were gone
like last week’s paycheck
for this week’s bills
You were gone
like the years between
twenty-five and thirty
as if somehow
You never existed
and if it wouldn’t be
for the gray hairs
I’d never know that
You had come
A Song for New-Ark
When I write I like to write…in total silence…Maybe total…silence…is not quite accurate…I like to listen to the notes breezing by my head…the grunting of the rainbow…as she bends…on her journey from Saturn…to harvest the melody…
There is no laughter…in the city…no joy…in the sheer delight…of living…City sounds…are the cracking of ice in glasses…or hearts in despair…The burglar alarms…or boredom…warning of illicit entry…The fire bells proclaiming…yet another home…or job…or dream…has deserted the will…to continue…The cries…of all the lonely people…for a drum…a tom-tom…some cymbal…some/body…to sing for…
I never saw old/jersey…or old/ark…Old/ark was a forest…felled for concrete…and asphalt…and bridges to Manhattan…Earth acres that once held families…of deer…fox…chipmunks…hawks…forest creatures…and their predators…now corral business…men and women…artists…and intellectuals…People…and their predators…under a banner of neon…graying the honest Black…cradling the stars above…and the earth below…turning to dust…white shirts…lace curtains at the front window…automobiles lovingly polished…Dreams…encountering racist resistance…New-Ark knows too much pain…sees too many people who aren’t special…watches the buses daily…the churches on Sunday…the bars after midnight…disgorge the unyoung…unable…unqualified…unto the unaccepting…streets…I lived…one summer…in New-Ark…New-Jersey…on Belleville Avenue…Every evening…when the rats left the river…to visit the central ward…Anthony Imperiali…and his boys…would chunk bullets…at the fleeing mammals…refusing to recognize…the obvious…family…ties…I napped…to the rat-tat-tat…rat-tat-tat…wondering why…we have yet to learn…rat-tat-tats…don’t even impress…rats…
When I write I want to write…in rhythm…regularizing the moontides…to the heart/beats…of the twinkling stars…sending an S.O.S…. to day trippers…urging them to turnback…toward the Darkness…to ride the night winds…to tomorrow…I wish I understood…bird…Birds in the city talk…a city language…They always seem…unlike humans…to have something…useful…to say…Other birds…like Black americans…a century or so ago…answer back…with song…I wish I could be a melody…like a damp…gray…feline fog…staccatoing…stealthily…over the city…
Occasional Poems
1991–1998
Poem of Angela Yvonne Davis
(October 16, 1970)
i move on feeling and have learned to distrust those who don’t
i move in time and space determined by time and space feeling
that all is natural and i am
a part of it and “how could you?” they ask you had everything
but the men who killed the children in birmingham aren’t on
the most wanted list and the men who killed schwerner, chaney
and Goodman aren’t on the most wanted list and the list of names
unlisted could and probably would include most of our “finest
Leaders” who are WANTED in my estimation for at least serious
questioning so we made a list and listed it
“but you had everything,” they said and i asked “quakers?” and i asked
“jews?” and i asked “being sent from home?” my mother told me the world
would one day speak my name then she recently suggested angela Yvonne
why don’t you take up sports like your brother and i sais “i don’t run
as well as he” but they told me over and over again “you can have them
all at your feet” though i knew they were at my feet when i was born
and the heavens opened up sending the same streak of lightning through
my mother as thr
ough new york when i was arrested
and i saw my sisters and brothers and i heard them tell the young
racists “you can’t march with us” and i thought i can’t march at all
and i looked at the woman whose face was kissed by night as she said
“angela you shall be free” and i thought i won’t be free even if i’m set
loose, the game is set the tragedy written my part is captive
i thought of betty shabazz and the voices who must have said “aren’t you
sort of glad it’s over?” with that stupidity that fails to notice
it will never be over for some of us and our children and our
grandchildren. betty can no more forget that staccato than i the pain
in jonathan’s face or the love in george’s letters. and i remember
the letter where i asked “why do’t you write Beverly axelrod and become
rich and famous” and his complete reply
i remember water and sky and paris and wanting someone to be mine
a german? but the world is in love with germans so why not? though
The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni Page 21