Chasing Utopia Read online

  Grandpapa and Aesop were wrong. The Grasshopper did contribute. Where would we be without the imagination that encounters with art and artists bring? We’d be little Ants working day and night selfishly hoarding the bounty nature provides with no joy in the benefits of our work. We can . . . and we should . . . do better than that.

  MY SISTER AND ME

  Chocolate cookies

  Chocolate cakes

  Chocolate fudge

  Chocolate lakes

  Chocolate kisses

  Chocolate hugs

  Two little chocolate girls

  In a chocolate rug

  No one can find us

  We’re all alone

  Two little chocolate girls

  Running from home

  Chocolate chickies

  Chocolate bunnies

  Chocolate smiles

  From chocolate mommies

  Chocolate rabbits

  Chocolate snakes

  Two little chocolate girls

  Wide awake

  What an adventure

  My, what fun

  My sister and me

  Still on the run

  Still on the run

  My sister and me

  Still

  On the run

  SPICES

  i used to watch

  my mother cook

  she would invariably sigh

  a little sigh then light

  a cigarette

  since no one smokes

  anymore Beans

  have not tasted as good

  i have her sigh

  and stacks of spices

  “This one is cardamom

  It comes from Southeast Asia”

  “This one is nutmeg

  the defense of this spice by a Brit was so fierce

  the world court heard the case and the Dutch

  gave up Manhattan Island for the little island

  in the Indian Ocean that grew nutmegs”

  and cloves . . . stick them in an orange for a

  Christmas present

  or a ham to make

  a design

  cooking with Mommy was

  Geography “These pansies you can eat”

  “These mushrooms will

  kill you” (should we put them in your father’s eggs? she’d laugh

  and say)

  the green things

  rosemary thyme tarragon cilantro

  the fennel we grew brought mean

  yellow jackets so

  we get it at Kroger’s

  “The trick to a great

  Ham

  is a song” she’d say

  And we would sing loud and lustily

  She harmonizing with me but me

  Unable to carry a straight melody

  Now it is ready

  cold water almost to the top

  fennel allspice pepper pods of all colors

  No Salt—it’s a rule

  green spices till it

  looks right then

  cinnamon on the uncovered top

  low heat until boiling

  (about 2 hours)

  let cool 15 minutes

  pour off water then

  let cool on your platter

  I make my Ham the way

  my mother made hers

  with lots of talk and love and laughter

  THE OTHER PLACE

  Corn bread muffins

  A streak of lean

  Mustard greens simmering

  On Grandmother’s stove

  Boiled ham

  Fresh churned butter

  Grandpapa reading the comics to Grandmother

  And me

  While we cook

  I set the table

  With the everyday dishes

  They both like ice-cold water

  We are home

  I am home

  Safe against the dangers

  Of the other place

  THE LIONESS CIRCLES HER BROOD IN NEW ORLEANS TO SWIM HOME

  (for Marvalene Hughes)

  When the storm was coming, the first storm . . . Rita, Marvalene called . . . unhappy. “I have to evacuate the school . . . and I just got here.” I made nice noises because Marvalene is a friend . . . an old . . . not aged . . . friend and I could tell she was upset. I am a big fan of when you can’t change it, you’ve got to go with it. “Want me to come down?” I asked trying to offer support. She didn’t say “Dummy! If folk could come down I wouldn’t be evacuating the school.” She just said “No. I’m going to visit my sister. I’ll be all right.” I watched Rita make land. I tracked her. New Orleans and Dillard had made it through. I remembered Hugo here in Blacksburg when my fifty-pound umbrella weight was sliding across my deck. I was in Florida even before that when Hurricane David penetrated the walls of my condo. So while I was aware of the fear I was still trying to remember we had all gotten through. Then along came Katrina.

  Katrina was shaping up to be one of those hurricanes that we all remember. I’m a big Al Gore fan and I was absolutely in awe when I saw his film. This was going to be quite a moment.

  My son and I, when he was a little boy, used to visit an island called Young Island which is off the coast of St. Vincent. For the hip folk, Young Island is about a two-hour sail from Mustique which is where Princess Margaret and her friends used to hang out at or near the Cotton House. I never made it to the Cotton House but one night our manager said “There’s a tropical depression coming our way. You may want to go on up to your suite after dinner.” There were a lot of things to love about Young Island: no phones; no shoes; no roads. Of course, this was before everybody and their mother had a cell phone. You could go there to totally relax. The most dangerous thing in or near the island was a piranha who had been fed so much garbage she was friendly. No worry there. I tried to understand why I would need to go to my room after dinner. The island is quite small. No one is ever around. And why on earth would I worry about the tropical being sad? Isn’t that what a depression means? Then it hit.

  Lightning thunder winds like I have never seen. Thomas came from his room to “sit with me” but we both were scared to death. Since the island is essentially a rock that has been hollowed out we were safe except for the front window which we got way away from. The next morning when I saw the manager I said something like “Boy! Was that ever a storm!” “Yes,” he answered in that way the Brits do when they are coping with a real problem. “It’s one of our worst tropical depressions in years. We’re all right but St. Vincent was really hard-hit.” Now I understood. It was not mental. Katrina wasn’t either.

  When my phone rang and I heard Marvalene’s voice I knew she was upset. “I have to evacuate the campus again!” Yeah, but this time it was going to be real real bad.

  The story of Dillard University is a story of courageous leadership. Dillard took the hardest hit of the colleges but Dillard had the strongest person to handle it. After the Storm is an important voice to add to the lore of the wrath of Katrina. We need to understand how Marvalene Hughes put her heart on her shoulder and made everyone care that this school survive. It’s a great story. And not only because Marvalene is my friend but because she demonstrated the very best of all of us. I had to share with her that the Katrina era was the only time I had wished I was rich. I would have written a check for a million dollars and never looked back. But since I’m a poet I do have books. I culled my personal library for first editions and once the library building was rehabilitated I sent about eleven hundred first editions to help jump-start Dillard’s library. I wish I could have done more. But I, and others, gave the measure of what we had. Following Marvalene’s lead.

  THE RIGHT WAY

  My grandmother’s grits

  Are so much better than mine

  Mine tend to be lumpy

  And a bit disorientated

  Though that is probably

  My fault

  I always want

  To put 1 cup grits

  In
to 4 cups cold

  Water with 1 teaspoon

  Salt

  And start them all together

  Grandmother did it

  The Right Way

  She started with cold water

  That she brought

  To a boil

  Shifted the grits slowly

  Into the bubbles

  Then added her salt

  She also hummed

  While she stirred

  With her wooden spoon

  I wonder if I

  Should learn

  To sing

  SPRING BLOOMS

  Everyone knows

  In Spring love grows

  Among the birds and the bees

  And the humans too

  That squiggly worm

  Which makes the soil turn

  Also falls in love

  The Robin gets up

  As an early bird should

  To catch a careless bug

  But maybe the Robin

  Has made a mistake

  And simply wanted a hug

  At any rate

  I need a date

  With you to watch the moon bloom

  We’ll sit and we’ll chat

  About this and that

  And maybe like that owl and that cat

  We’ll dance by the light of the moon the moon

  We can dance by the light of the moon

  THE INTERNATIONAL OPEN

  (Tennis Players vs. Poets)

  tennis players

  and poets

  talk to themselves

  one complaining

  of unforced errors

  the other lamenting

  lovers

  not here

  poets find wonderful

  witty repartee

  to captivate

  the imagination

  of the beloved

  tennis players curse

  in languages we don’t

  understand

  explaining the loss

  of points

  poets understand loss

  old age marriage

  fatigue and well

  just not going to

  make any sense

  to this person

  this time

  game point

  set point

  match point

  no love

  THE GIGGLE BANK

  The Poet was having a typical day: too much to do with too little time to do it in, yet . . . she was excited. Today she would have a Christmas/Birthday dinner with friends. True, she would have to share the occasion but, hell, if poetry isn’t about sharing, what is?

  She was up early because she knew she would need a nap in order to stay alert. The Poet is a great napper and heartily recommends it.

  She was off first thing to The Giggle Bank. She hadn’t been to the Bank since before the Sadness. And because this was a special day she didn’t want any thoughts other than happy ones. To be on the safe side she decided to make a substantial withdrawal.

  The Giggle Bank requires an appointment. As the Poet sped through town she was willing to risk a ticket because she just couldn’t be late. It can be difficult to get an appointment with The Giggle Fairy, since so many people always want to see her. The Poet had had to pull a few strings to be seen on such short notice. She remembered The Giggle Fairy from younger days but they had not seen each other in a while.

  Your Mother left you a bunch of Giggles, the Poet was told. Probably a years or so’s worth. You never did come back to ask us after she went on her journey to the sky.

  I was sad, said the Poet.

  The Giggle Fairy was having none of that: Well, we noted you went to the Wyne Bank and made many withdrawals.

  Yes, the Poet confessed, and many silly phone calls in the middle of the night seeking a comforting voice.

  Had you come to us, GF sternly stated, we could have saved you some embarrassment.

  Yes, the Poet acknowledged, and I am working very hard to set things right. That’s why this evening is so important to me. May I ask if the Administrator has been in for a withdrawal?

  You know we cannot answer that. Nor can we answer if her Wonderful Husband has or has not been in. We are a secure bank, you know.

  The Poet appreciated the tip. Then maybe I should get enough for the car and for the dinner.

  Where are you going to dinner?

  About an hour and a half south. Maybe two hours for dinner. An hour and a half back. I think five hours of Giggles should do us proud.

  Well, here you are. And don’t forget: You Must Not Leave Any Giggles Just Laying Around.

  Are you still having that sale? For every Giggle I use I get two back in the bank?

  Yes, of course. Even though you haven’t been in that is still the arrangement we made with your Grandmother. What a laffer she was! There were times we would have been out of Giggles but your Grandmother always found a reason to raise a smile. We were hoping you might . . . but never mind. I’m glad you came to us. Enjoy your evening.

  The Poet hurried home to quickly nap, shower, dress, and eat a bit. She wanted champagne for the drive and knew she must eat to keep everything on an even keel.

  And what a lovely night. The drive down was just about the expected time until the driver got lost. But not for long. The meal was exquisite. The wine wonderful. The service and the company beyond compare. Dinner was not over at nine but rather eleven. And there were still two hours, more or less, to home. Then the unexpected happened.

  Everyone had been laughing and giggling and having such a good time that no one realized the Giggles had run out. The Poet should have warned the table but she was so busy laughing she forgot. The Poet knew what would happen: The Administrator would crash on the way home. The Wonderful Husband who had also laughed but who is very protective of the Administrator would not ever have allowed himself to sleep. The Director of a Special Program never slept when she was out. That only left the Poet and the Administrator. Someone had to close her eyes until more Giggles would be obtained.

  The Administrator yawned, blinked, and lay her head in the Wonderful Husband’s lap. Riding sideways like that would give her bad dreams so she sat up and drifted away. The Poet was enchanted. The Poet was under the impression she was the only one who could sleep sitting up and here we had the Administrator doing it.

  Probably it was the trust the Administrator showed when she closed her eyes. She entrusted her Wonderful Husband to the Director and the Poet knowing they would do everything in their power to make him comfortable. Whereas he was, indeed, the only man in the group, the Poet was the only poet so there was outreach. The Administrator leaned back and drifted deeper into a comfortable and safe place. The Poet took that as the highest compliment, since one will do many things with people but sleeping in their presence is a sign of true friendship. The Couple were taken home first. The Administrator awoke and her Wonderful Husband safely escorted her into the house. They blinked the lights to say Good Night.

  The Poet and the Director were then dropped off. As the Poet was taking her good clothes off to air and hang up, she, as was her habit, checked her pockets and there, to her surprise, were a couple of leftover Giggles. She remembered now that she had scooped some up when she had gone to the Ladies’ Room. Oh, Wow! Had they been brought forward the Administrator would have been allowed to stay awake and Giggle on the way home. Of course, the Poet justified, dinner was two hours longer than expected and there had been plenty of Giggles to go around but these would have made the trip home totally participatory. I should have remembered, the Poet admonished herself. I wonder, as had become a way of life between the two of them, how I can make this up.

  She thought and thought, then realized there was nothing she could do. It was a perfect evening. And everyone was happy. So the Poet did a wise thing: she put the Giggles under her pillow and danced and Giggled all through that night in her dreams.

  KICK STRETCH KICK

  I wish I c
ould

  Exercise

  While I sit

  In class listening

  To my students

  Pontificate

  I would stretch

  My legs

  And point

  My toes

  Then lift

  Each or the other

  To the top

  Of the table

  No one needs

  To know

  And I need to lose

  Five pounds

  Gee whillikers I wish

  I could stretch

  My mind

  MRS. SCOTT

  I was a Mama’s girl. I adored her. The only other person who even came close was Grandmother. I would follow Grandmother so closely that when she stopped I would run into her. But finally it came. I had an older sister, Gary. She would have been Gary Eugene but she was a girl so they changed it to Gary Ann. I am Yolande, Jr., because I was named after my mother. Gary went to school. I actually found that to my liking. Mommy and I would get up and have breakfast with Gary and Gus, our father. Then off they would go and my world would brighten considerably. Mommy and I would wash or iron or, my favorite, dust. We didn’t have a car so we walked to the grocery, stopped by to give a holler to friends. And if the day was going well Mommy might play a hand or two of Canasta with Mrs. Morris and Aunt Jeannie. She wasn’t really my aunt but a good friend of Mommy’s so we called her by that honorific. But it finally came. I knew Mrs. Hicks because she lived across the street from us. Her kids were younger than we were so we didn’t play with them but we all knew each other. I probably even knew Mrs. Hicks taught school but it wasn’t something I needed to relate to as I didn’t go. But it finally came. Mommy woke me up early because I had to bathe and get dressed. I have to tell you I was skeptical. What could be better than staying at home with Mommy? I poked around with my breakfast while Gus and Gary were telling me how much I would enjoy school. I still don’t trust it when people are excited about you doing something. Oh you’ll love it they say knowing full well this will cut your heart out. But I have always prided myself on my bravery. I don’t run from physical, emotional, or intellectual fights. I could handle this, I kept saying to myself. But the tears welled up and by the time we arrived at Oak Avenue School they were spilling over. Then Mommy said Good-bye. It was too much. I bawled my heart out. Mrs. Hicks, who was the kindergarten teacher, tried to cheer me up and distract me. I was having none of it. But the first-grade teacher, Mrs. Scott, said Come on, Nikki. You can visit my class. The irony is that both kindergarten and first grade were in the same room. But I was always a sucker for that kind of logic. When I would fall or stumble Mommy would say Come here, Nikki, and I’ll pick you up. It worked every time. I took Mrs. Scott’s hand and walked to the other side. Mrs. Scott had a physical condition that caused her head to bobble and I think I thought she needed me. She didn’t. But I didn’t know that. So I guess it’s only fair to say my first mentor was Mrs. Scott. She let me think she needed me. And I stayed in school. And all that I have learned and been able to share I think I owe to Mrs. Scott.