The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni (18 page)

in africa night walks

into day as quickly

as a moth is extinguished

by its desire for flame

the clouds in the caribbean carry

night like a young man

with a proud erection dripping

black dots across the blue sky

the wind a mistress of the sun howls

her displeasure at the involuntary

fertilization

but nights are white

in new york

the shrouds of displeasure

mask our fear of facing

ourselves between the lonely

sheets

poetry is motion graceful

as a fawn

gentle as a teardrop

strong like the eye

finding peace in a crowded room

we poets tend to think

our words are golden

though emotion speaks too

loudly to be defined

by silence

sometimes after midnight or just before

the dawn

we sit typewriter in hand

pulling loneliness around us

forgetting our lovers or children

who are sleeping

ignoring the weary wariness

of our own logic

to compose a poem

no one understands it

it never says “love me” for poets are

beyond love

it never says “accept me” for poems seek not

acceptance but controversy

it only says “i am” and therefore

i concede that you are too

a poem is pure energy

horizontally contained

between the mind

of the poet and the ear of the reader

if it does not sing discard the ear

for poetry is song

if it does not delight discard

the heart for poetry is joy

if it does not inform then close

off the brain for it is dead

if it cannot heed the insistent message

that life is precious

which is all we poets

wrapped in our loneliness

are trying to say

and always         there are the children

there will be children in the heat of day

there will be children in the cold of winter

children         like a quilted blanket

are welcomed in our old age

children         like a block of ice to a desert sheik

are a sign of status in our youth

we feed the children with our culture

that they might understand our travail

we nourish the children on our gods

that they may understand respect

we urge the children on the tracks

that our race will not fall short

but children are not ours

nor we theirs         they are future         we are past

how do we welcome the future

not with the colonialism of the past

for that is our problem

not with the racism of the past

for that is their problem

not with the fears of our own status

for history is lived not dictated

we welcome the young of all groups

as our own with the solid nourishment

of food and warmth

we prepare the way with the solid

nourishment of self-actualization

we implore all the young to prepare for the young

because always there will be children

Don't look now

I'm fading away

Into the gray of my mornings

Or the blues of every night

Is it that my nails

keep breaking

Or maybe the corn

on my second little piggy

Things keep popping out

on my face

or

of my life

It seems no matter how

I try I become more difficult

to hold

I am not an easy woman

to want

They have asked

the psychiatrists         psychologists         politicians and

social workers

What this decade will be

known for

There is no doubt         it is

loneliness

If loneliness were a grape

the wine would be vintage

If it were a wood

the furniture would be mahogany

But since it is life         it is

Cotton Candy

on a rainy day

The sweet soft essence

of possibility

Never quite maturing

I have prided myself

On being in that great tradition

albeit circus

That the show must go on

Though in my community the vernacular is

One Monkey Don't Stop the Show

We all line up

at some midway point

To thread our way through

the boredom and futility

Looking for the blue ribbon and gold medal

Mostly these are seen as food labels

We are consumed by people who sing

the same old song         
STAY:

as sweet as you are

in my corner

Or perhaps                
just a little bit longer

But whatever you do        
don't change baby baby don't

change

Something needs to change

Everything         some say         will change

I need a change

of pace       face       attitude and life

Though I long for my loneliness

I know I need something

Or someone

Or……

I strangle my words as easily as I do my tears

I stifle my screams as frequently as I flash my smile

it means nothing

I am cotton candy on a rainy day

the unrealized dream of an idea unborn

I share with the painters the desire

To put a three-dimensional picture

On a one-dimensional surface

she didn't like to think in abstracts

sadness happiness taking giving         all abstracts

she much preferred waxing the furniture

cleaning the shelves putting the plates away

something concrete to put her hands on

a job well done in a specific time span

her eyes were two bright shiny six guns

already cocked

prepared to go off at a moment's indiscretion

had she been a vietnam soldier or a mercenary

for Ian Smith         all the children and dogs and goodly

portions of grand old trees would have been demolished

she had lived both long and completely enough

not to be chained to truth

she was not pretty

she had no objections to the lies

lies were better than the silence that abounded

nice comfortable lies like         I need you

or         Gosh you look pretty this morning

the lies that make the lie of life real

or lies that make real life livable

she lived on the edge of an emotional abyss

or perhaps she lived in the well of a void

there were always things she wanted

like arms to hold her

eyes that understood

a friend to relax with

someone to touch

always         someone to touch

her life was a puzzle broken

into a hundred thousand little pieces

she didn't mind being emotionally disheveled

she was forever fascinated by putting the pieces

together         though most times

the center was empty

she never slept well

there wasn't a time

actually

when sleep refreshed her

perhaps it could have

but there were always dreams

or nightmares

and mostly her own acknowledgment

that she was meant to be tired

she lived

because she didn't know any better

she stayed alive

among the tired and lonely

not waiting         always wanting

needing a good night's rest

all problems being

as personal as they are

have to be largely

of our own making

i know i'm unhappy

most of the time

nothing an overdose

of sex won't cure of course

but since i'm responsible

i barely have an average

intake

on the other hand

i'm acutely aware

there are those suffering

from the opposite affliction

some people die of obesity

while others starve to death

some commit suicide

because they are bored

others because of pressure

the new norm is as elusive

as the old

granting problems coming

from within

are no less painful

than those out of our hands

i never really do worry

about atomic destruction

of the universe

though i can be quite vexed

that Namath and Ali don't retire

my father has to

and though he's never made a million

or even hundreds of thousands

he too enjoys his work

and is good at it

but more         goes

even when he doesn't

feel like it

people fear boredom

not because they are         bored

rather more from fear

of boring

though minds are either sharp

or dull

and bodies available

or not

and there's something else

that's never wrong

though never quite right

either

i've always thought the beautiful

are as pitiful

as the ugly

but the average is no guarantee

of happiness

i've always wandered a bit

not knowing if this is a function

of creeping menopause

or incipient loneliness

i no longer correct my habits

nothing makes sense

if we are just a collection of genes

on a freudian altar to the species

i don't like those theories

telling me why i feel as i do

behaviorisms never made sense

outside feeling

i could say i am black female

and bright

in a white male mediocre world

but that hardly explains why

i sit on the beaches of st croix

feeling so abandoned

In front of the bank building

after six o'clock the gathering

of the bag people begins

In cold weather they huddle

around newspapers

when it is freezing they get

cardboard boxes

Someone said they are all rich eccentrics

Someone is         of course         crazy

The man and his buddy moved

to the truck port

in the adjoining building

most early evenings he visits

his neighbors awaiting

the return of his friend

from points unknown to me

they seem to be a spontaneous

combustion these night people

they evaporate during the light of day

only to emerge at evening glow

as if they had never been away

I am told there are people

who live underground

in the layer between the subways

and the pipes that run them

they have harnessed the steam

to heat their corner

and cook their food

though there is no electricity

making them effectively moles

The twentieth century has seen

two big wars and two small ones

the automobile and the SST

telephones and satellites in the sky

man on the moon and spacecraft on Jupiter

How odd to also see the people

of New York City living

in the doorways of public buildings

as if this is an emerging nation

though of course it is

Look at the old woman

who sits on 57th Street and 8th Avenue

selling pencils

I don't know where she spends the night

she sits summer and winter

snow or rain humming

some white religious song

she must weigh over 250 pounds

the flesh on her legs has stretched

like a petite pair of stockings

onto a medium frame

beyond its ability to fit

there are tears and holes

of various purples in her legs

things and stuff ooze from them

drying and running again

there is never         though         a smell

she does not ask you to buy

a pencil nor will her eyes

condemn your health

it's easy really to walk by her

unlike the man in front

of Tiffany's she holds her pencils

near her knee

you take or not

depending upon your writing needs

He on the other hand is blind and walking

his german shepherd dog

his sign says
THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD GOES YOU
and there is a long

explanation of his condition

It's rather easy for the Tiffany shopper

to see his condition

he is Black

Uptown on 125th Street is an old blind Black woman

she is out only in good

weather and clothes

her house is probably spotless

as southern ladies are wont to keep house

and her wig is always on straight

You got something for me, she called

What do you want, I asked

What's yo name? I know yo family

No, you don't, I said laughing         You don't know

anything about me

You that Eyetalian poet ain't you? I know yo voice. I seen

you on television

I peered closely into her eyes

You didn't see me or you'd know I'm black

Let me feel yo hair         if you Black         Hold down yo head

I did and she did

Got something for me, she laughed

You felt my hair         that's good luck

Good luck is money, chile         she said

Good luck is money