The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni

by Nikki Giovanni

Conversation

  “yeah” she said “my man’s gone too

  been dead longer than you is old”

  “what do you do” i asked

  “sit here on the porch and talk to the old folk

  i rock and talk and go to church most times”

  “but aren’t you lonely sometimes” i asked

  “now you gotta answer yo own question”

  “i guess the children help a lot you got grandchildren

  haven’t you”

  “oh the children they come and go always in a hurry

  got something to do ain’t no time for old folks

  like me”

  she squinted at the sun packing her jaw

  with bruton snuff

  “the old days done gone…and i say good-bye

  peoples be going to the moon and all…ain’t that

  wonderful…to the moon”

  and i said “i see stars all the time aretha franklin

  and sly were at madison square garden recently”

  “what you doing here” she asked

  “i’m a poet” i said

  “that ain’t no reason to be uppity”

  and the sun beat down on my head while

  a dragonfly admonished my flippancy

  but a blue and yellow butterfly sat on my knee

  i looked her square in the eye

  “i ain’t gonna tell you” she said and turned her head

  “ain’t gonna tell me what” i asked

  “what you asking me you gotta live to be seventy-nine

  fore you could understand anyhow”

  “now you being uppity” i said

  “yeah but i earned it” she replied and shifting her wad

  she clapped her hands and smiled

  “you been here before”

  and i said “yes ma’am but would you tell me just one thing

  what did i learn”

  and she spat out her juice

  “honey if you don’t know how can i”

  i wanted to argue but the sun was too hot and the sky

  too lazy and god heaved a sigh that swept under my blouse

  and i felt me feeling a feeling

  she crossed her legs at the ankle

  and straightened her back

  “tell you this” she said

  “keep yo dress up and yo pants down and you’ll be all right”

  and i said impatiently “old lady you got it all wrong”

  “honey, ain’t never been wrong yet

  you better get back to the city cause you one of them

  technical niggers and you’ll have problems here”

  Rituals

  i always wanted to be a bridesmaid

  honest to god

  i could just see me floating

  down that holy aisle leading

  some dear friend to heaven

  in pink and purple organza with lots and lots

  of crinoline pushing the violets out from my dress

  hem

  or maybe in a more sophisticated endeavor

  one of those lovely sky blue slinky numbers

  fitting tight around my abounding twenty-eights

  holding a single red rose white gloves open in the back

  always forever made of nylon and my feet nestled gently

  in chandlers number 699 which was also the price plus

  one dollar to match it pretty near the dress color

  wedding rituals have always intrigued me

  and i’d swear to friends i wouldn’t say goddamn not even

  once no matter what neither would i give a power

  sign but would even comb my hair severely

  back and put that blue shit under my eyes

  i swear i wanted to be in a wedding

  Poem for Stacia

  i see wonder

  in little things

  like thorn figurines rowing

  across my table

  or stacia caring

  by imposing which being

  such a little thing wasn’t

  a big imposition

  and i saw a rainbow

  after a very cloudy day

  but i looked down to swat

  a mosquito and lost

  it in the midst

  The World Is Not a Pleasant Place to Be

  the world is not a pleasant place

  to be without

  someone to hold and be held by

  a river would stop

  its flow if only

  a stream were there

  to receive it

  an ocean would never laugh

  if clouds weren’t there

  to kiss her tears

  the world is not

  a pleasant place to be without

  someone

  The Only Song I’m Singing

  they tell me that i’m beautiful i know

  i’m Black and proud

  the people ask for autographs

  i sometimes draw a crowd

  i’ve written lots of poetry and other

  kinds of books

  i’ve heard that white men crumble

  from one of my mean looks

  i study hard and know my facts

  in fact the truth is true

  the only song i’m singing now is my song

  of you

  and i’m asking you baby please

  please somehow show me what i need

  to know so i can love you right

  now

  i’ve had great opportunities to move

  the world around

  whenever they need love and truth they call

  me to their town

  the president he called me up and asked

  me to come down

  but if you think you want me home i think

  i’ll stick around

  and i’m asking you baby please baby baby show me

  right now most of the things i need to know

  so i can love you somehow

  The Butterfly

  those things

  which you so laughingly call

  hands are in fact two

  brown butterflies fluttering

  across the pleasure

  they give

  my body

  I Remember

  i remember learning you jump

  in your sleep and smile

  when you wake up

  at first you cuddle

  then one arm across my stomach

  then one leg touching my leg then

  you turn your back

  but you smile when you wake up

  i was surprised to know you don’t care

  if your amp burns all night and that you could

  play ohmeohmy over and over again just

  because you remembered

  i discovered you don’t like hair

  in your bathroom sink and never step

  your wet feet onto a clean rug

  you will answer your phone

  but you don’t talk too long and you do

  rub my toes and make faces

  while you talk

  and your voice told her anyway

  that i was there

  you can get up at three and make sandwiches

  and orange juice and tell jokes

  you sometimes make incoherent sentences

  you snore

  and you smile when you wake up

  i know you cry when you’re hurt

  and curse when you’re angry

  and try when you don’t feel

  like it and smile at me

  when you wake up

  these things i learned through

  a simple single touch

  when fleshes clashed

  A Certain Peace

  it was very pleasant

  not having you around

  this afternoon

  not that i don’t love you

  and want you and need you

  and love loving and wanting a
nd needing you

  but there was a certain peace

  when you walked out the door

  and i knew you would do something

  you wanted to do

  and i could run

  a tub full of water

  and not worry about answering the phone

  for your call

  and soak in bubbles

  and not worry whether you would want something

  special for dinner

  and rub lotion all over me

  for as long as i wanted

  and not worry if you had a good idea

  or wanted to use the bathroom

  and there was a certain excitement

  when after midnight you came home

  and we had coffee

  and i had a day of mine

  that made me as happy

  as yours did you

  When I Nap

  when i nap

  usually after 1:30

  because the sun comes

  in my room then

  hitting the northeast

  corner

  i lay at the foot

  of my bed and smell

  the sweat of your feet

  in my covers

  while i dream

  Mixed Media

  on my bedroom wall hang a poster

  two pen and inks one oil one framed photograph

  something with a lot of color that i don’t

  quite know its substance

  and you

  cause i got tired of bathing and oiling

  and waiting for you to be too tired or

  too drunk and when i realized it was your smile

  that turned me on i engraved it

  just above the shelf where the ash tray sits

  i cut your eyes and ears and nose away

  leaving your lips to open me

  to a very energetic

  sober brother

  Just a New York Poem

  i wanted to take

  your hand and run with you

  together toward

  ourselves down the street to your street

  i wanted to laugh aloud

  and skip the notes past

  the marquee advertising “women

  in love” past the record

  shop with “The Spirit

  In The Dark” past the smoke shop

  past the park and no

  parking today signs

  past the people watching me in

  my blue velvet and i don’t remember

  what you wore but only that i didn’t want

  anything to be wearing you

  i wanted to give

  myself to the cyclone that is

  your arms

  and let you in the eye of my hurricane and know

  the calm before

  and some fall evening

  after the cocktails

  and the very expensive and very bad

  steak served with day-old baked potatoes

  after the second cup of coffee taken

  while listening to the rejected

  violin player

  maybe some fall evening

  when the taxis have passed you by

  and that light sort of rain

  that occasionally falls

  in new york begins

  you’ll take a thought

  and laugh aloud

  the notes carrying all the way over

  to me and we’ll run again

  together

  toward each other

  yes?

  [ Untitled ]

  there is a hunger

  often associated with pain

  that you feel

  when you look at someone

  you used to love and enjoyed

  loving and want

  to love again

  though you know you can’t

  that gnaws at you

  as steadily as a mosquito

  some michigan summer

  churning his wings

  through your window screen

  because the real world

  made up of baby clothes

  to be washed

  food

  to be cooked

  lullabies

  to be sung

  smiles

  to be glowed

  hair

  to be plaited

  ribbons

  to be bowed

  coffee

  to be drunk

  books

  to be read

  tears

  to be cried

  loneliness

  to be borne

  says you are a strong woman

  and anyway he never thought you’d really miss him

  The Wonder Woman

  (A New Dream—for Stevie Wonder)

  dreams have a way

  of tossing and turning themselves

  around and the times

  make requirements that we dream

  real dreams for example

  i wanted to be

  a sweet inspiration in my dreams

  of my people but the times

  require that i give

  myself willingly and become

  a wonder woman

  Categories

  sometimes you hear a question like “what is

  your responsibility as an unwed mother”

  and some other times you stand sweating profusely before

  going on stage and somebody says “but you are used

  to it”

  or maybe you look into a face you’ve never seen

  or never noticed and you know

  the ugly awful loneliness of being

  locked into a mind and body that belong

  to a name or non-name—not that it matters

  cause you feel and it felt but you have

  a planetrainbussubway—it doesn’t matter—something

  to catch to take your arms away from someone

  you might have thought about

  putting them around if you didn’t

  have all that shit to take you safely away

  and sometimes on rainy nights you see

  an old white woman who maybe you’d really care about

  except that you’re a young Black woman

  whose job it is to kill maim or seriously

  make her question

  the validity of her existence

  and you look at her kind of funny colored eyes

  and you think

  if she weren’t such an aggressive bitch she would see

  that if you weren’t such a Black one

  there would be a relationship but anyway—it doesn’t matter

  much—except you started out to kill her and now find

  you just don’t give a damn cause it’s all somewhat of a bore

  so you speak of your mother or sister or very good friend

  and really you speak of your feelings which are too personal

  for anyone else

  to take a chance on feeling

  and you eat that godawful food and you get somehow

  through it and if this seems

  like somewhat of a tentative poem it’s probably

  because i just realized that

  i’m bored with categories

  Straight Talk

  i’m giving up

  on language

  my next book will be blank

  pages of various textures and hues

  i have touched in

  certain spots and patterns

  and depending upon the mood the reader can come

  with me or take me somewhere else

  i smell blood a’cookin

  “but why” i asked when she said “i’m afraid

  to see men cry”

  “because i depend” she replied “on their strength”

  “but are they any less strong for crying

  nylon stockings wear better if they’re washed first”

  mommy said it’s only
pot

  luck but you can have some

  science teaches us matter

  is neither created nor destroyed

  and as illogical as it is there is nothing

  worthwhile but people

  and lord knows how irrational we are

  i’ll just have a scrambled egg

  if it’s all right

  the question turns on a spelling problem

  i mean i hate

  to squash a roach and thought about giving up

  meat between the shadow

  and the act falls the essence encore!

  the preceding paragraph was brought to you by the letter E

  in the name of huemanity

  an acorn to an ant

  is the same as a white man to a Black JOB

  enjoyed waiting on

  the lord tell me

  why can’t i

  and i’m glad i’m smart cause i know

  smart isn’t enough and i’m glad

  i’m young cause “youth and truth are making love” i’m glad

  i’m Black not only

  because it’s beautiful but because it’s me

  and i can be dumb and old and petty and ugly

  and jealous but i still need love

  your lunch today was brought to you

  by the polytech branch of your local

  spear o agnew association

  HEY! this is straight talk!

  have a good day

  Scrapbooks

  it’s funny that smells and sounds return

  so all alone uncalled unneeded

  on a sweaty night as i sit armed

  with coffee and cigarettes waiting

  sometimes it seems

  my life is a scrapbook

  i usta get 1.50 per week

  for various duties unperformed