The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni

by Nikki Giovanni

  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