A Poem Off Center
how do poets write
so many poems
my poems get decimated
in the dishes the laundry
my sister is having another crisis
the bed has to be made
there is a blizzard on the way go to the grocery store
did you go to the cleaners
then a fuse blows
a fuse always has to blow
the women soon find themselves
talking either to babies or about them
no matter how careful we are
we end up giving tips
on the latest new improved cleaner
and the lotion that will take the smell away
if you write a political poem
you’re anti-semitic
if you write a domestic poem
you’re foolish
if you write a happy poem
you’re unserious
if you write a love poem
you’re maudlin
of course the only real poem
to write
is the go to hell writing establishment poem
but the readers never know who
you’re talking about which brings us back
to point one
i feel i think sorry for the women
they have no place to go
it’s the same old story blacks
hear all the time
if it’s serious a white man
would do it
when it’s serious
he will
everything from writing a poem
to sweeping the streets
to cooking the food
as long as his family doesn’t eat it
it’s a little off center
this life we’re leading
maybe i shouldn’t feel sorry
for myself
but the more i understand women
the more i do
The Winter Storm
somewhere there was a piano playing
but not in the bar
where she was sitting
somewhere across the candlelights
like a ship threading its way
through the morning fog
two people were surely moving
toward completion
she knew she had feelings
that were unfulfilled
there must certainly be a revolution
somewhere
but she couldn’t see it
the idea of fulfillment baffled her
most assuredly she remembered
the sheets were clean
and he was tender
it was an accident
that rush of red wine starting with her toes
that came over her ending with a sigh
she had always hated people
who had to talk and instruct
or give indiscreet encouragement
she had laughed and laughed
what a marvelous thing you have discovered
she told him
she looked to see if anyone was happy
in the bar in which she was sitting
how many aeons had it been
how many men
enough to make her secure
in her desirability
too many to allow herself to say
she loved them all
remembering the names was the hardest
though she always retained the ability
to rate them
what indeed made sex
so fascinating to everyone
at best it’s a tooth in a pain
that rubbing the gums will ease
at worst it’s a desire denied
like the eyes closing
to the evening’s sunset
she looked and crossed her support-hosed legs
in the bar with the music just out of reach
one always remembers passion
whether fantasy or fact
that rush of pure glandular energy
what really did she feel
she straightened her gray flannel panel skirt
pulling her gray silk blouse tight against her breasts
rubbing her left arm with the square gold band
against the chill that settled on the right
she looked around at the lonely faces
in the bar without the music
what made people interested
in other people
in whom they have no interest
but yes she recalled
as the drink was served
there is an energy crisis that’s why
i’m having this drink
amid a raging storm outside
there is one inside too
and spring will not lessen
its ferocity
unconsciously as black women
are wont to do
she hummed a tune and patted her foot
to the gospel beat
the tips of the black pumps were a grayish white
the ice and salt having taken
their measure
she examined her nails
noting the cuticles needed trimming
a dim reflection from the mirror on the wall
showed her the face and form of a coward
life she justified is not heroic
but survival
tonight through the storm
she would sit in a bar
with only the music in her head
in the morning for sure she would go
home
Age
we tend to fear old age
as some sort of disorder that can be cured
with the proper brand of aspirin
or perhaps a bit of Ben Gay for the shoulders
it does of course pay to advertise
one hates the idea of the first gray hair
a shortness of breath
devastating blows to the ego
indications we are doing
what comes naturally
it’s almost laughable
that we detest aging
when we first become aware
we want it
little girls of four or five push
with eyes shining brightly at gram or mommy
the lie that they are seven or eight
little girls at ten worry
that a friend has gotten her monthly
and she has not
little girls of twelve
can be socially crushed
by lack of nobs on their chests
little boys of fourteen want
to think they want
a woman
the little penis that simply won’t erect
is shattering to their idea of manhood
if perhaps they get a little peach fuzz
on their faces they may survive
adolescence proving there may indeed be life
after high school
the children begin to play older
without knowing the price is weariness
age teaches us that our virtues
are neither virtuous nor our vices
foul
age doesn’t matter really
what frightens is mortality
it dawns upon us that we can die
at some point it occurs we surely shall
it is not death we fear
but the loss of youth
not the youth of our teens
where most of the thinking took place
somewhere between the navel and the knee
but the youth of our thirties where career
decisions were going well
and we were respected for our abilities
or the youth of our forties
where our decisions proved if not right
then not wrong either
and the house after all is half paid
it may simply be that work
is so indelibly tied
to age that the loss
of work brings the depression
of impending death
there are so many too many
who have never worked
and therefore for whom death
is a constant companion
as lack of marriage
lowers divorce rates
lack of life
prevents death
the unwillingness to try
is worse than any failure
in youth our ignorance gives us courage
with age our courage gives us hope
with hope we learn that man is more
than the sum of what he does
we also are what we wish we did
and age teaches us
that even that doesn’t matter
Because
i wrote a poem
for you because
you are
my little boy
i wrote a poem
for you because
you are
my darling daughter
and in this poem
i sang a song
that says
as time goes on
i am you
and you are me
and that’s how life
goes on
Their Fathers
i will be bitter
when i grow old
i have seen the weakness
of our race
though i as with many others
am reluctant
to give it name
each day i face
the world through fantasies
of past glories
who i deceive i am not
at all sure
not myself
not the whites above
surely even the children
know the sterility
of their fathers
there are both reasons
and excuses
none are lacking in
understanding the causes
a cold front meeting
a warm mass of air
causes rain also
but that reason offers
less comfort
than a simple raincoat
mankind alone
among the mammals
communicates with his species
justification for his behavior
none among us lack compassion
or understanding or even sympathy
emotion is not a response
to inaction
and undoubtedly there are those
who are so unfeeling
they cannot represent mental
or emotional health
we have seen the Germans
and the Israeli reaction
and the Palestinian response
in our own time
we know the truth
of the Africans and Indians
we know we have only begun
the horror that is waiting
south of our borders
and south of our latitude
blood perhaps should not
all ways be the answer
but perhaps it always is
my people have suffered
so much for so long
we are pitiful
in our misery
we boost our spirits
by changing our minds
rather than our condition
blacks are still rather cheap
to purchase
unemployment insurance
a grant for a program programmed to fail
enough seed money to insure bankruptcy
my people like magnificent race
horses have blinders
there is always talk
of the mighty past
but no plans
for a decent future
if no man is an island
black americans stand to prove
a people can be a peninsula
we are extended phallic like in an ocean
of whiteness
though that is not our problem
our extension like arms on
the body or legs on
a trunk is essential to balance
one neither walks nor stands without
extensions
one is not black without white
nor male without female
what is true of the mass is no less
true of the individual
someone said the only emotion
black men show
is rage or anger
which is only partly true
the only rage and anger
they show are to those
who would want to love them
and bear their children
and with them walk into the future
why do we
who have offered expectation
have to absorb pain
i will grow bitter
in old age
because life is not a problem
but a process
and there are no formulas
to our situation
the dinosaurs became extinct
ripened fruit falls from the bough
and i grow tired of hoping
it’s only natural
that bitterness rests within
my spirit
the air is polluted
streams are poisoned
and i have seen the hollow look
of hatred in the dull
worn faces
of their fathers
Life Cycles
she realized
she wasn’t one
of life’s winners
when she wasn’t sure
life to her was some dark
dirty secret that
like some unwanted child
too late for an abortion
was to be borne
alone
she had so many private habits
she would masturbate sometimes
she always picked her nose when upset
she liked to sit with silence
in the dark
sadness is not an unusual state
for the black woman
or writers
she took to sneaking drinks
a habit which displeased her
both for its effects
and taste
yet eventually sleep
would wrestle her in triumph
onto the bed
she was nervous
when he was there
and anxious
when he wasn’t
life to her
was a crude cruel joke
played on the livers
she boxed her life
like a special private seed
planting it in her emotional garden
to see what weeds
would rise
to strangle
her
Adulthood II
There is always something
of the child
in us that wants
a strong hand to hold
through the hungry season
of growing up
when she was a child
summer lasted forever
and christmas seemed never
to come
now her bills from easter
usually are paid
by the 4th of july
in time to buy the ribs
and corn and extra bag of potatoes
for salad
the pit is cleaned
and labor day is near
time to tarpaulin
the above ground pool
thanksgiving turkey
is no sooner soup
than the children’s shoes
wear thin saying
christmas is near again
bringing the february letters asking
“did you forg
et
us last month”
her life looks occasionally
as if it’s owed to some
machine
and the only winning point
she musters is to tear
mutilate and twist
the cards demanding information
payment
and a review of her credit worthiness
she sits sometimes
in her cubicled desk
and recalls her mother
did the same things
what we have been given
we are now expected to return
and she smiles
Habits
i haven’t written a poem in so long
i may have forgotten how
unless writing a poem
is like riding a bike
or swimming upstream
or loving you
it may be a habit that once acquired
is never lost
but you say i’m foolish
of course you love me
but being loved of course
is not the same as being loved because
or being loved despite
or being loved
if you love me why
do i feel so lonely
and why do i always wake up alone
and why am i practicing
not having you to love
i never loved you that way
if being loved by you is accepting always
getting the worst
taking the least
hearing the excuse
and never being called when you say you will
then it’s a habit
like smoking cigarettes
or brushing my teeth when i awake
something i do without
thinking
but something without
which i could just as well do
most habits occur
because of laziness
we overdrink
because our friends do
we overeat
because our parents think
we need more flesh
on the bones
and perhaps my worst habit
is overloving
and like most who live
to excess
The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni Page 16
