The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni
Page 8
Cultural Awareness
as we all probably realize
on some level
people are basically selfish
and perhaps in some cases
a little more than thoughtless
mostly i would suppose
because of the nature of life
under this and most other
systems
but someone came by
and brought to my attention
how ridiculously mean
i was being
most people
he assured me
have followed the teachings
of the honorable maulana elijah el shabbaz
and do not have anything at all
to do with pork
and here he found
when visiting me
that i didn’t have
zig-zag papers
for a kosher
substitute
For Saundra
i wanted to write
a poem
that rhymes
but revolution doesn’t lend
itself to be-bopping
then my neighbor
who thinks i hate
asked—do you ever write
tree poems—i like trees
so i thought
i’ll write a beautiful green tree poem
peeked from my window
to check the image
noticed the school yard was covered
with asphalt
no green—no trees grow
in manhattan
then, well, i thought the sky
i’ll do a big blue sky poem
but all the clouds have winged
low since no-Dick was elected
so i thought again
and it occurred to me
maybe i shouldn’t write
at all
but clean my gun
and check my kerosene supply
perhaps these are not poetic
times
at all
Balances
in life
one is always
balancing
like we juggle our mothers
against our fathers
or one teacher
against another
(only to balance our grade average)
3 grains salt
to one ounce truth
our sweet black essence
or the funky honkies down the street
and lately i’ve begun wondering
if you’re trying to tell me something
we used to talk all night
and do things alone together
and i’ve begun
(as a reaction to a feeling)
to balance
the pleasure of loneliness
against the pain
of loving you
For a Poet I Know
if you sang songs i could make a request
does the same hold true of poems
i’d like a poem about me
i’m black and exist and for real
i’d like a poem about your uncle
who got out of his bed to let us screw
yeah and maybe a poem
about how i tried
to talk to you one night
and you suggested i read my own poems
what were you really thinking
i’d like to hear a poem about your wig
everybody’s got a wig
aretha’s is on her head
james brown’s is humphrey
mine is columbia
yours is the college you teach at
or the people who sent you there
i want a poem telling how tired you are
of fucking women
and relating to your hospital
experiences
or maybe a poem about who you’d like
to lay beside and dream with
and a real long poem on what you dream about
i really need a rare book poem
and what they mean to you
and a new book poem about what you read
and a joe goncalves poem about a hardworking brother
and a carolyn rodgers poem about a beautiful sister
and a father poem for hoyt fuller
and a jet poem because we’ve never been in it
and a scared poem about me taking your clothes off
then offering an excuse
and a man poem about how you reached your Blackness
or perhaps an alcoholic poem about your mother
and a climbing poem about how you reached the heights
and a you poem mostly
cause your other poems
don’t tell me who you are
and i
having felt and tasted you know
what you should know and relate to
that you should write and are capable of writing
a tall lean explosive poem
not just a quiet half white hating poem
about a black poem
called a black poet
that i know and would like to love
again
For Teresa
and when i was all alone
facing my adolescence
looking forward
to cleaning house
and reading books
and maybe learning bridge
so that i could fit
into acceptable society
acceptably
you came along
and loved me
for being black and bitchy
hateful and scared
and you came along
and cared that i got
all the things necessary
to adulthood
and even made sure
i wouldn’t hate
my mother
or father
and you even understood
that i should love
peppe
but not too much
and give to gary
but not all of me
and keep on moving
’til i found me
and now you’re sick
and have been hurt
for some time
and i’ve felt guilty
and impotent
for not being able
to give yourself
to you
as you gave
yourself
to me
My Poem
i am 25 years old
black female poet
wrote a poem asking
nigger can you kill
if they kill me
it won’t stop
the revolution
i have been robbed
it looked like they knew
that i was to be hit
they took my tv
my two rings
my piece of african print
and my two guns
if they take my life
it won’t stop
the revolution
my phone is tapped
my mail is opened
they’ve caused me to turn
on all my old friends
and all my new lovers
if i hate all black
people
and all negroes
it won’t stop
the revolution
i’m afraid to tell
my roommate where i’m going
and scared to tell
people if i’m coming
if i sit here
for the rest
of my life
it won’t stop
the revolution
if i never write
another poem
or short story
if i flunk out
of grad school
if my car is reclaimed
and my record player
won’t play
and if i never see
&
nbsp; a peaceful day
or do a meaningful
black thing
it won’t stop
the revolution
the revolution
is in the streets
and if i stay on
the 5th floor
it will go on
if i never do
anything
it will go on
Black Judgements
(Of bullshit niggerish ways)
You
with your bullshit niggerish ways
want to destroy me
You want to preach
responsible revolution
along with progressive
procreation
Your desires will not be honored
this season
Shivering under the armour
of your
white protector
fear not
for thou art evil
The audacity of wanting
to be near the life
of what you seek to kill
Can you love
can you hate
is your game any damn good
Black Judgements are upon you
Black Judgements are upon you
Re: Creation
1970
For Tommy
to tommy who:
eats chocolate cookies and lamb chops
climbs stairs and cries when i change
his diaper
lets me hold him only on his schedule
defined my nature
and gave me a new name (mommy)
which supersedes all others
controls my life
and makes me glad
that he does
Two Poems:
From Barbados
the mother palm had plaited her daughter’s
hair for us
to sit under
while her bad little boy
cloud wet
in public grape trees
stretched the moon
across the sand shadows
each nation sharing its natural
gift
to enhance a cultural
exchange
my use of english
has not always been
spoken
as you now know
and your english
cast in the middle of salt and sand
isn’t just the “little” the guide
book tells us of
there is something more Bajan
to your language
and more african to my response
in muted conversation
we met
and i take with me
your english
gift
For Harold Logan
(Murdered by “persons unknown” cause he wanted to own a Black club on Broadway)
he was just a little
gangster with a high
voice
and a poetic mind that recognized
genius and let it grow
but someone pruned
his life
he didn’t lie or steal
could give you measure
for emotion he paid
for what he wanted and had
but someone stole
his life
the sanitation committee had a big meeting
concerning broadway
said the lights weren’t bright like
they used to be
a cleaning man came
and removed his life
said Broadway was getting
too dusty
No Reservations
(for Art Jones)
there are no reservations
for the revolution
no polite little clerk
to send notice
to your room
saying you are WANTED
on the battlefield
there are no banners
to wave you forward
no blaring trumpets
not even a blues note
moaning wailing lone blue note
to the yoruba drums saying
strike now shoot
strike now fire
strike now run
there will be no grand
parade
and a lot thrown round
your neck
people won’t look up and say
“why he used to live next to me
isn’t it nice
it’s his turn now”
there will be no recruitment
station
where you can give
the most convenient hours
“monday wednesday i play ball
friday night i play cards
any other time i’m free”
there will be no reserve
of energy
no slacking off till next time
“let’s see—i can come back
next week
better not wear myself out
this time”
there will be reservations
only
if we fail
Alone
i can be
alone by myself
i was
lonely alone
now i’m lonely
with you
something is wrong
there are flies
everywhere
i go
For Two Jameses (Ballantine and Snow) In iron cells
we all start
as a speck
nobody notices us
but some may hope
we’re there
some count days and wait
we grow
in a cell that spreads
like a summer cold
to other people
they notice and laugh
some are happy
some wish to stop
our movement
we kick and move
are stubborn and demanding
completely inside
the system
they put us in a cell
to make us behave
never realizing it’s from cells
we have escaped
and we will be born
from their iron cells
new people with a new cry
For Gwendolyn Brooks
brooks start with cloud condensation
allah crying
for his lost children
brooks babble
from mountain tops to settle
in collecting the earth’s essence
pure spring fountain
of love knowledge
for those who find
and dare drink
of it
Autumn Poems
the heat
you left with me
last night
still smolders
the wind catches
your scent
and refreshes
my senses
i am a leaf
falling from your tree
upon which i was
impaled
Rain
rain is
god’s sperm falling
in the receptive
woman how else
to spend
a rainy day
other than with you
seeking sun and stars
and heavenly bodies
how else to spend
a rainy day
other than with you
Poem for Lloyd
it’s a drag
sitting around waiting
for death
gotta do something before
i die
it’s so lonely dying
all alone
gotta do something
before i die
gotta gotta get a gun
walking talking thinking gun
before i die
they’re so lonely
funeral dirg
es
hip black angry funeral
dirges
gotta gotta get a gun
it’s so lonely
when you die
gotta gotta get a gun to kill
death
Housecleaning
i always liked house cleaning
even as a child
i dug straightening
the cabinets
putting new paper on
the shelves
washing the refrigerator
inside out
and unfortunately this habit has
carried over and i find
i must remove you
from my life
Poem for Aretha
cause nobody deals with Aretha—a mother with four
children—having to hit the road
they always say “after she comes
home” but nobody ever says what it’s like
to get on a plane for a three week tour
the elation of the first couple of audiences the good
feeling of exchange the running on the high
you get from singing good
and loud and long telling the world
what’s on your mind
then comes the eighth show on the sixth day the beginning
to smell like the plane or bus the if-you-forget-your-tooth brush
in-one-spot-you-can’t-brush-until-the-second-show the strangers
pulling at you cause they love you but you having no love to give back
and singing the same songs night after night day after day
and if you read the gossip columns the rumors that your husband
is only after your fame
the wondering if your children will be glad to see you and maybe
the not caring if they are the scheming to get out