in the early evening
after the cabs have stopped
to pick you up and the doorman said
“Good evening ma’am. Pleasant weather we’re having”
The images of Charles White remind me
of eating cotton candy at the zoo on a rainy day
and the candy not melting and all the other kids wondering
why
I remember once when I was little
before I smoked too many cigarettes
entering the church picnic sack race
I never expected to win just thought it would be fun
I came in second and drank at least a gallon
of lemonade then wandered off
to an old rope swing
Of all the losses of modern life the swing
in the back yard is my special regret
one dreams going back and forth of time and space
stopping bowing to one’s sheer magnificence
pumping higher and higher space blurs time
and the world stops spinning while I in my swing
give a curtsey correctly
my pigtails in place and my bangs cut
just right
“But why aren’t the artists the politicians” she asked
“because they’re too nice” was the reply
“too logical too compassionate”
which not understanding I took to mean “sexy”—at least
that’s how come and passionate were used in the novels
Johnetta and I used to sneak and read
And in the grown up world I think I understand
that passion is politics that being is beauty
and we are all in some measure responsible
for the life we live and the world
we live in
Some of us take the air, the land, the sun
and misuse our spirits others of us have earned
our right to be called men and women
Charles White and his art were introduced to me
through magazines and books—that’s why I love them
Charles White and his art were shared with me through
love and concern—that’s why I value those
Charles White and his art live in my heart and the heart
of our people—that’s why I think
love is worthwhile
The Drum
(for Martin Luther King, Jr.)
The drums…Pa-Rum…the rat-tat-tat…of drums…
The Pied Piper…after leading the rats…to death…took
the children…to dreams…Pa-Rum Pa-Rum…
The big bass drums…the kettles roar…the sound of
animal flesh…resounding against the wood…Pa-Rum
Pa-Rum…
Kunta Kinte was making a drum…when he was
captured…Pa-Rum…
Thoreau listened…to a different drum…rat-tat-tat-Pa-
Rum…
King said just say…I was a Drum Major…for peace…
Pa-Rum Pa-Rum…rat-tat-tat Pa-Rum…
Drums of triumph…Drums of pain…Drums of life…
Funeral drums…Marching drums…Drums that call…
Pa-Rum Pa-Rum…the Drums that call…rat-tat-tat-tat…
the Drums are calling…Pa-Rum Pa-Rum…rat-tat-tat Pa-
Rum…
A Poem on the Assassination of Robert F. Kennedy
Trees are never felled…in summer…Not when the fruit…is yet to be borne…Never before the promise…is fulfilled…Not when their cooling shade…has yet to comfort…
Yet there are those…unheeding of nature…indifferent to ecology…ignorant of need…who…with ax and sharpened saw…would…in boots…step forth damaging…
Not the tree…for it falls…But those who would…in summer’s heat…or winter’s cold…contemplate…the beauty…
Eagles
(a poem for Lisa)
Eagles are a majestic species…living in the thin searing air…
building
nests on precipitous ledges…
they are endangered…but unafraid…
An eagle’s nest is an inverted dimple…made of ready smiles…
unbleached
saris…available arms…and clean soap smells…
to withstand all…elements…
Nestled in the chocolate chaos…destined to become:
roller skaters
submarine eaters
telephone talkers
people
are improperly imprinted ducklings…
Eagles perched…on those precipitous ledges…insist upon
teaching…
the young…to fly…
Flying Underground
(for the children of Atlanta)
Every time the earth moves…it’s me…and all my friends…flying underground…Off to a soccer game…or basketball showdown…sometimes stickball…baseball…wicket…Sweat falls from clouds…crowded ’neath the sun…cheering us…Sweat climbs up…to morning grass…when we run too fast…Always running…always fun…flying underground…I can make the earth move…flying underground…
I work…Saturday afternoons…and sometimes after school…Going to the store…for Mrs. Millie Worthington…Everybody knows her…with her legs swollen…’bout to burst…Most times Chink…Mr. Chink Mama says…but everybody calls him Chink…gives me a dime…to get his snuff…or some chewing tobacco…Always go to Hunter Street…or to the Coliseum…when a show’s in town…Do groceries…bags…peanuts/popcorn/ice cold pop!…Never gonna do dope…but maybe run a number…Walking…running…I get tired…Been cold…but not too much…Never been…really hungry…Just get tired…a lot…
Teacher says I do…real good…in school…I like to read books…where things happen…if I was Tom…Sawyer I’d get that fence…painted…I draw pictures…with lots of sun and clouds…Like to play I do…a lot…and I talk…in class…
I cried once…I don’t know why…I can’t remember now…Mrs. Evans held my hand…Nothing holds me now…They opened up a spot…and put me underground…Don’t cry Mama…look for me…I’m flying…
Her Cruising Car
A Portrait of Two Small Town Girls
There is nothing…that can be said…that can frighten me…anymore…Sadden me…perhaps…disgust me…certainly…but not make me afraid…It has been said…Learn What You Fear…Then Make Love To It…dance with it…put it on your dresser…and kiss it good…night…Say it…over and over…until in the darkest hour…from the deepest sleep…you can be awakened…to say Yes…
She never learned…no matter how often people tried…that it was hers…the fear and the Life…the glory of the gamble…It was her quarter…she had to pick the machine…She never understood…simple duty…knowing only to give all of herself…or none…There was no balance…to her triangle…though three points…are the strongest mathematical figures…no tingle…when struck…no joy…in her song…no comfort in her chair…war/always war…with whom she was…who she wanted to be…and what they wanted…of her…
One reason I think…I am qualified…to run the world…though my appointment is not imminent…is when I get…what I want…I am happy…It is surprising to me…how few people are…When they win…like Richard Nixon or John McEnroe…they are unhappy…when they lose…impossible…One reason I think…I have neither ulcers nor nail biting habits…is I know to be careful…of what I want…I just may get it…
She was never taught…that everything is earned…that Newton was right…for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction…Interest is obtained…only on Savings…Personality is developed…only on risk…What is sought…must first be given…We please others…by only allowing them access…to that part of ourselves which is public…If familiarity breeds contempt…use breeds hatred…
Turtles…the kind you find in pet stores…the kind Darwin met on Galápagos…grow to fit the environment…There are…probably…some ge
netic limits…but a small turtle…in a small bowl…will not outgrow…her home…Flowers…will rise…proportionate more to the size…of the pot…than the relationship of sun…to rain…Humans seldom deviate…If she hadn’t been a small town girl…with a mind and heart molded absolutely…to fit the environment…she might have developed…a real skill…a real desire…to discover herself…and her gifts…As it was…as it is…she simply got used…and used to using…
She was never a loner…never made…to understand that life…in fact…is a solitary journey…that only one…was going to St. Ives…that no one held her bag…while the old woman traveled to Skookum…that the Little Red Hen and the Engine That Could…did it themselves…She was…let’s face it…the leader of the pack…the top of the heap…cheerleader extraordinaire…She was very popular…sought after by all the right people…for her jokes…her parties…her parents’ car…The telephone was invented…just for her…She set up the friendships…the going steadys…the class officers…yearbook staff…Who’s-In-Who’s-Out…through the witch wire…Nothing could happen…without her input…She actually thought…it was important…who went with whom…to the junior prom…But somebody had to pick up the fallen streamers…sweep the now scarred dance floor…turn out the lights before they could go home…
We were born…in the same year…our mothers delivered…by the same doctor…of the same city…in the same hospital…We were little chubby girls in pink…passing cigarettes at the lawn parties…My mother made me play…with her…and hers…with me…We didn’t really mind…we shared the same friends…hers…and the same ideas…mine…Maybe I became…too accustomed…to the sameness…It was certainly easier…for me to shed…her friends…than she to shed…my notions…Our mothers belonged…to the same clubs…Our fathers tracked…the same night devils…They all had the same expectations…from…of…at…or to…us…I liked to brood…she didn’t…She liked to laugh…I didn’t…I thought I was ugly…she didn’t…
Pots are taught not to call kettles Black…people who live in glass houses…don’t throw stones…small town girls learn early…or not at all…that they can make a life…or abort the promise…One of us tried…one of us didn’t have to…To each…according to her birth…from each according to her ability…Which is bastardized Marx…but legitimate bourgeoisie…She was never caring…She never learned to see…beyond her own windshield…that there were other people on the sidewalk…other cars…on the road…She drank…too much…for too long…Maybe in the back of her mind…or heart…or closet…there was a sign saying: There-Is-More-Than-This…but she wouldn’t pull it out…put it up…or even acknowledge that some things…many things…were missing…I accept…if not embrace…the pain…the sign on my car says: I Brake For Gnomes…the one in my heart reads: Error In Process—Please Send Chocolate…
Into the rising sun…or setting years…accustomed to the scattered friends littering the road…she drives on…with the confidence of small town drivers who know every wayfall…toward the smaller minds…around the once hopeful lovers…into the illusion of what it is…to be a woman…through the delusion that trip necessitates…never once slowing…to ask Did I Hurt You…May I Love You…Can I/May I Please Give…You A Lift…With the surety…of one who never had to walk…she accelerates…toward boredom…secure in the understanding…that everybody knows her…and would be unlikely to ticket…her cruising car…She was my friend…more than a sister…really…a part of the mirror…against which I adjust…my makeup…I have no directions…but here is a sign…Thomas Wolfe was wrong…Maybe it will be read…
The Cyclops in the Ocean
Moving slowly…against time…patiently majestic…the cyclops…in the ocean…meets no Ulysses…
Through the night…he sighs…throbbing against the shore…declaring…for the adventure…
A wall of gray…gathered by a slow touch…slash and slither…through the waiting screens…separating into nodules…making my panes…accept the touch…
Not content…to watch my frightened gaze…he clamors beneath the sash…dancing on my sill…
Certain to die…when the sun…returns…
Harvest
(for Rosa Parks)
There is an old story…I learned in church…one evening…about a preacher…and his deacon…fishing…It seems that every time…the good brother got a bite…the fish would scamper…away…and the deacon…would curse…The preacher…probably feeling…his profession demanded…a response…said to the deacon Brother…should you curse like that…with me here…over some fish…And the deacon agreed…They fished on…the deacon losing more fish…when finally a big big one…got away…The deacon remembered his vow…looked at his empty pole…reminded himself of the vow…looked at his empty pole…sucked in his breath…turned to the preacher…and remarked Reverend…Something Needs To Be Said…
I guess everybody wants…to be special…and pretty…the boys…just want to be strong…or fast…all the same things…children want…everywhere…It was ordinary…as far as I can see…my childhood…but…well…I don’t know…much…about psychology…We had a lot of pride…growing up…in Tuskegee…You could easily see…what our people could do…if somebody set a mind…to it…Father was a carpenter…Mama taught school…I got married…at nineteen…
You always felt…you should do something…It just wasn’t right…what they did to Negroes…and why Negroes…let it happen…Colored people couldn’t vote…couldn’t use the bathroom in public places…couldn’t go to the same library they paid taxes for…had to sit on the back of the buses…couldn’t live places…work places…go to movies…amusement parks…Nothing…if you were colored…Just signs…always signs…saying No…No…No…
My husband is a fine man…a fighting man…When we were young…belonging to the N double A C P was radical…dangerous…People got killed…run out of town…beaten and burned out…just for belonging…My husband belonged…and I belonged…In 1943…during the war…Double Victory was just as important…one thing without the other was not good…enough…I was elected Secretary…of the Montgomery branch…I am proud…of that…Many people just think History…just fell on my shoulders…or at my feet…1 december 1955…but that’s not true…
Sometimes it seemed it was never going…to stop…That same driver…who had me arrested…had put me off a bus…from Maxwell Air Base…where I had worked…or maybe they all…look the same…I wasn’t looking…for anything…That Colvin girl had been arrested…and nobody did anything…I didn’t think…they would do anything…when the driver told us…it was four of us…to move…Three people moved…I didn’t…I couldn’t…it was just so…wrong…Nobody offered to go…with me…A neighbor…on the same bus…didn’t even tell…my husband…what had happened…I just thought…we should let them know…I should let them know…it wasn’t right…You have to realize…I was forty years old…all my life…all I’d seen…were signs…that everything was getting worse…
The press people came…around after…we won…I had to reenact…everything…I was on the aisle…the man by the window…got up…I don’t fault him…for getting up…he was just doing…what he was told…Across the aisle were two women…they got up…too…There was a lot of violence…physical and verbal…I kinda thought…something might happen…to me…I just didn’t…couldn’t…get up…
They always tell us one…person doesn’t make any difference…but it seems to me…something…should be done…In all these years…it’s strange…but maybe not…nobody asks…about my life…If I have children…why I moved to Detroit…what I think…about what we tried…to do…somehow…you want to say things…are better…somehow…they are…not in many ways…People…older people…are afraid…younger people…are too…I really don’t know…where it will end…Our people…can break…your heart…so can other…people…I just think…it makes a difference…what one person does…young people forget that…what one person does…makes a difference…
The deacon…of cours
e…wanted to curse…because the fish got…away…perhaps there is something…other to be done…about the people we lose…We always talk…about how everyone was Black…before it was fashionable…overlooking the reality…that were that true…Black would have been fashionable…before it was…and might have stayed in vogue…longer than it did…Something needs to be said…about Rosa Parks…other than her feet…were tired…Lots of people…on that bus…and many before…and since…had tired feet…lots of people…still do…they just don’t know…where to plant them…
Reflections/On a Golden Anniversary
You never know…when you meet…Is it at introduction…with polite handshakes and an exchange of names…Or is it with eyes…that ask can you…will you…maybe…love me
It seems sometimes that I always wanted…to be grown…and warm…and free…and loved…yet you never know…until it stops…that you were…Until the dolls…that some called children…had children…you think of as dolls…and you remember Yes…maybe I was grown…up perhaps…wider for sure…more patient…less tolerant…who knows what…exactly…until it stops
Love is more than stopping that ache…It’s paying those bills…cooking that food…cleaning this house…answering when someone says Mama…and hoping it’s a child…who calls
The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni Page 20
