Chasing Utopia

by Nikki Giovanni

  WEREWOLF AVOIDANCE

  I’ve never “blogged” before

  so this is new

  territory for me I do

  poet though and that

  is always somewhere in

  the netherland I think

  poetry is employed

  by truth I think

  our job is to tell

  the truth as we see it don’t you

  just hate a namby-pamby poem that goes

  all over the place saying nothing

  Poets should be strong

  in our emotions

  and our words that might make us

  difficult to live with but I do believe

  easier to love

  Poet is garlic

  Not for everyone

  but those who take it

  never get caught

  by werewolves

  EXERCISE

  I want to ride

  On a train

  I sometimes fly

  In a jet plane

  I love to cruise

  In a big boat

  I’d even float

  In a green moat

  Of course I could always

  Bike

  And for health reasons

  Hike

  But if I had my druthers

  I’d get my exercise

  In your arms

  I COMMUNICATE

  I communicate

  With you

  In the dark

  I am a shadow

  At eventide

  A white piece of chalk

  On a white blackboard

  I am a blackberry

  On a bear’s purple tongue

  I am a pebble in your oil tank

  Flush me out

  You will run smoother

  But with not nearly as much fun

  Bumping

  Moves us all along

  I fly away at morning

  To await your sleep

  I will sneak in

  Too dark

  Too quiet

  Too loving

  For you to say

  No More

  I don’t want a shadow

  I want you

  THE LONE RANGER RIDES THE LONESOME TRAIL AGAIN

  I watched The Visitor

  They

  Like boys shaking salt on slugs

  Chased

  Deported

  Misunderstood

  The pain

  Were indifferent to

  The lives

  They were destroying

  They tried to convince

  Me

  They were protecting

  Me

  Those boys

  Who explained

  Why they were throwing

  Stones at mother robin

  Breaking her wing

  And preventing not her flight

  But her ability to feed

  Her three little hatchlings

  Who are condemned to death

  By starvation

  They laughed

  In nazi-ese

  They were only doing

  Their jobs

  What pitiful

  Little gerbils

  We have

  Become

  We live

  To keep others

  From living

  I saw The Visitor

  Play his drum

  While Sarah Palin

  Field-dressed a moose

  And encouraged her daughter

  To have sex

  With her oldest son

  Sarah was

  After all

  Too busy at the PTA

  Explaining what abstinence means

  Oh boy

  What ecstasy

  I am embraced

  With lies

  And hypocrisy

  Hug me, Baby

  Do it Good

  I am an American

  My life

  Is a fucking prison

  Hi Ho, Silver

  Away!!!!

  FOR RUNAWAY SLAVES

  Here we stand

  Negotiating

  That space

  Between I’m in love

  With you

  And let’s be friends

  This will not turn out well

  I need a guitar

  Or a good drunk

  Or something ugly

  To find

  The song

  In these blues

  Let’s get a twelve-string

  Banjo

  And sing a song

  For runaway slaves

  MY DIET

  If you are what you eat

  I’m definitely having an exciting poem

  For breakfast

  Lunch will be a mean metaphor

  With lots of rhythm on the side

  Pounding that baked beat

  To say what’s on my mind

  Dinner is a more sedate affair

  A simile with a little sweetness

  For dessert

  And that should make for something

  Exciting to come

  Out of me

  In the morning

  NICKELS FOR NINA

  Saturdays were tedious because there were always chores which didn’t actually take that long but after lunch (which I always enjoyed with Grandmother) I had to go to the beauty parlor. As a kid I didn’t mind but when I got to be 14 or 15 I had other things to prepare for. Of course, many of my friends who were boys would go swimming on summer afternoons and most of us who were girls would sit and watch. Even with swimming caps our hair would get wet and “go back” so we stood or sat on the sidelines. The crazy thing about all that was if there was a dance at The Phillis Wheatley Y you also couldn’t “slow drag” because the boys would be sweaty against your face and your hair would get wet and “go back.” It goes without saying that we were not allowed to slow drag.

  But having survived all that, we awakened to wonderful Sunday mornings. We attended Mt. Zion Baptist Church where grandpapa was a Deacon and Grandmother helped with Sunday School and other things. I remember she wasn’t an Usher and she didn’t sing in the choir, though she had a beautiful voice, nor did she play the piano or organ, though she could do both.

  I wasn’t actually paid for chores, since I slept and ate there, but Grandpapa would give me a quarter or sometimes a bit more for Sunday School and church. I’m a big fan of “rendering” so I didn’t actually mind putting money in both times but finally my grandmother realized I had nothing left to go for ice cream with the other kids and she kind of directed me to “share” with God but not give it all. Ice cream is important, too. Peach, for her. Vanilla, for me.

  Bonnie, Joanne, David, and the rest would leave Sunday School at about 10:30 A.M. and walk down to Carter-Roberts Drug Store. Church didn’t start until 11:00. Carter-Roberts had a jukebox where a quarter would get you six songs which individually would be a nickel apiece. We all chipped in. It was Nina Simone. Live at Central Park I think. She was singing “I Loves You, Porgy.” I already was and remain a big fan of Porgy and Bess. I can understand, though I disagree with, the folk who disliked Amos ’n’ Andy. I could see it was important to see Black folk on TV and, to be fair, it was funny. Maybe not funny in the rerun called Good Times and certainly not funny in the sequel called The Jeffersons but Amos ’n’ Andy worked for me at that time. Porgy and Bess even I, a kid, knew was important. It is classic. And if you loved, as did I, mythology, Porgy and Bess fit right in. Let me confess: I never actually believed George Gershwin wrote all that music.

  I believed Gershwin spent a lot of time “uptown” to learn to translate the music that became Rhapsody in Blue. I grant him total control of An American in Paris. But P and B? No way. “Summertime” could be heard anywhere the Black community was giving thanks for another season. The rhythms are all gospel. Even the chants. “Strawberry Woman.” No way. And Nina Simone reclaimed it for us. She brought that southernersness but on a sophisticated level to us
. We all loved her.

  Our last nickels, having forgone ice cream, went to Nina. And we were satisfied.

  So you can imagine the thrill I felt when I walked into Michaux’s bookstore in Harlem one fall afternoon and Nina Simone was there! I didn’t even try to be cool about it. I love you!!! I gushed. She was very nice about it. That Nina Simone had read my book was beyond compare. I was over the top. My mother was coming to town and I was having a party to show Mommy that I have friends and I’m all right. I invited Nina. My thought was this: Probably most people are fans so they think the star is always busy doing glamorous things so the star never gets invited to do things with ordinary folk. I gave her my address and phone number. And left.

  She came. My mother was thrilled. So was everybody else. Nina was good people. I’m proud to call her my friend.

  BLUES FOR ROANOKE

  We sit like Sally Walker

  In a circle trying

  To spin something wonderful

  On this loom hoping

  Maybe a magic dwarf

  Will come to show

  Us where the gold is

  We sit in here together

  Not in a square nor

  Rectangle

  But the triangle between right wrong and really

  Who cares

  Facebook says I have friends

  Friends say strange things

  Avoiding my face

  There is a star

  Which is not me

  Though it should be

  On a hill

  It shines on Henry Street

  Where Duke Ellington played

  Where Nat “King” Cole sang

  Where dancers danced

  The blues away:

  The segregation blues

  The you can’t go here or come there blues

  The evil blues played on a stolen banjo

  The railroad blues that strummed the lines

  While the Pullman Porters called George by some

  Called Honey by some

  Called Daddy by some

  Called Grandpop swayed with the coming winds

  And danced the blues away

  We sit in a circle

  And that story that keeps us warm

  Feeds our hearts

  Makes us know

  This Star city is Mine

  That star at that mountain shines

  For me

  At me on me

  Doo wap doo wap

  I got the Roanoke blues

  And I’m feeling fine

  THE SPOTLIGHT IN THE SKY

  I am the spotlight in the sky

  Some call the moon

  I call to the wolves to howl

  With me

  Sending little red riding girls

  In their convertible Hondas

  Home

  Maybe I’m that girl everybody thinks

  They know

  I ride these winds

  And rap with owls

  The bats avoid us

  Because I’m out of tune

  What is this teenage thing

  That we all pass through

  This tunnel on the way

  To grown-up-ness

  Is what I see the grown-

  Up world

  War . . . waste . . . want

  I’d rather be

  In that spotlight

  At break of dawn

  Circling the sun

  On my way to rest

  Being a good Star

  City called Roanoke

  THE SPIDER WALTZ

  A spider looked at me

  And I at her

  I thought a spider would be scared

  but no

  She smiled and sat beside me

  in the chair

  And handed me a muffin we could share

  I thought “a waltz” is what this friendship needs

  And so I sang a simple melody:

  Come play with me

  Come be my friend

  And I will give you butter

  Come sing a song

  And dance a waltz

  And I will give you jam

  Come sing a song and dance with me

  And you will be my friend

  And we will laugh

  And we’ll have tea

  And we will spin together

  I WISH I COULD LIVE (IN A BOOK)

  (for Charles A. Smith, Jr.)

  I wish I could live

  In a book

  All wrapped up

  In my fairy

  Godmother’s arms

  Or sitting with my Cave

  Mother baking dinosaur

  Eggs

  If I lived

  In a book

  I could fly

  With Ali Baba

  And even though it’s not right

  To steal

  The Forty Thieves are

  Pretty cool

  Maybe there would be

  A book about me

  One day

  Just a little girl being brave

  In a world where water

  Is in short supply

  But everybody

  Has a gun

  I don’t think

  That’s a good idea

  I’d rather be in

  A book

  Making biscuits

  On the frontier

  Running with the wind

  Following very lightly

  On the laughter of the Prairie Dogs

  That would be so nice

  I think

  Living in a book

  I WISH I COULD LIVE (IN MUSIC)

  I wish I could live

  In music

  I’d be all

  Kinds:

  Opera arias

  Folk telling news

  Minuets

  Hoedown dancing

  calling square dancers

  Whoa! Bring me some

  Disco

  Yeah I’d be a Spiritual

  And then a wonderful

  Foot-stomping Gospel tune

  Some blues—almost forgot

  The Blues

  And we need Jazz

  I need me “A-Tisket

  A-Tasket”

  Some little yellow basket

  But not a White Horse

  I’m never gonna ride

  The White Horse

  I want to be Little Richard

  Even Donald Duck sang

  Little Richard

  I mean Quack Quack Quack Won’t You Come Along with Me?

  Now I’m rappin’

  I’m telling the news

  Napster freed me

  And I can choose

  To have it all

  For free download

  Yeah I want to live

  In music

  Teach Learn Rejoice

  In music

  In music I’m free

  To be a better me

  I WISH I COULD LIVE (IN A PAINTING)

  There is something

  About a railroad station

  Not only the big pretty ones

  Like in Cincinnati saying

  “Gateway to the South”

  or even Boston’s Back Bay with

  that heroic Tina Allen sculpture of A.

  Philip Randolph

  Union Station in DC . . . union being

  Not only North and South

  But working men and women getting

  A fair wage for giving

  A hard day’s work

  And those greatest of Black

  Men . . . the Pullman Porters . . .

  Who set the style . . . who took

  America from primitive to privilege

  Giving service all through the night

  Cooking the meals

  Setting the tables

  Washing . . . pressing so others could look

  Like gentlemen

  Others sorted the mail

  Which arrived

  On time in the right city


  No ZIP code needed thank you

  These men could read

  And no machine was invited

  To that party

  There is something about parallel

  Lines moving up

  And down over

  Horizon and dreams never ever

  Touching but rather on

  A lonely journey with another

  Lonely friend they don’t talk

  Though a song is sung

  Parallel lines . . . not sea

  Nor sky . . . hold the dreams

  Of women

  I wish I lived

  In a painting

  DON PULLEN

  (for the Jefferson Center)

  If dancers danced on their fingertips

  Then piano players should play with their toes

  The creative process is neither restrictive nor judgmental

  It is the search for something

  New and different and wonderful

  Or maybe the need to make the old