Chasing Utopia Read online

  WHERE DID THE NIGHT GO

  I baked it

  In a biscuit

  And someone came along

  While I wasn’t looking

  And stole it away

  I had planned

  To take it

  For Show-and-Tell

  Naked I would unveil

  My prize

  The moon would dress me

  In moon dust

  The stars settling over

  My head

  And you with your arms

  Outstretched

  Would awake me

  Warm

  In the light of day

  While the night made its way

  Into the kitchen

  To become

  Morning pancakes

  IT’S JUST LOVE

  it’s just love

  it won’t sweeten

  your coffee

  or ice your tea

  it won’t grill

  your steak

  or bake your crusty bread

  it certainly won’t

  pour your olive oil

  over your shredded parmigiano-reggiano cheeses

  it might make

  you laugh

  it’s just love

  it won’t rub

  your feet or your back

  it won’t tousle

  your hair

  or paint your

  fingernails Red

  it might make you

  want Red

  fingernails

  though

  it’s only love

  it has no coupon value

  though it also does

  not expire

  just me

  just you

  just love

  yeah

  good for nothing

  love

  throw it away

  when you get

  tired of it

  STILL LIFE WITH APRON

  I would like to see you

  Cooking

  I would like for you to cook

  For me

  I would like to see you decide

  Upon a menu

  Go to the market

  And pick the fruit

  The vegetables

  The fish

  I would like to see you smell the fish Test the flesh for freshness and firmness

  I would like to watch you

  In the bakery

  In the bakery by the dinner rolls

  Deciding: Rolls or Crusty Bread

  I would watch you run back

  To get the Goat Butter

  I would like to be sitting in a corner

  And you

  Intent upon your meal

  Not noticing me

  When you go to the wine store

  I would watch you wrestle with red or white

  White, of course, because it’s fish but red

  Is Seductive who ever fell in love

  Over a glass of white wine

  I—uncharacteristically on time—

  Would like you to greet me

  In a butcher’s apron

  I would like to watch you greet me only

  In an apron

  You would ask me to undress

  To undress for you

  Before I sit down at the beautiful table

  Before you hand me my glass

  You would ask me to undress

  I would like to watch you watch me

  Undressing for you

  I would like to watch the movement inside the apron

  As I undress for you

  I would like to watch you walk

  No

  Stroll to your closet

  Where you bring out your old buffalo plaid dressing gown

  Your pilly much-washed dressing gown that smells like you

  After you brush your teeth

  After you shower After you comb your hair

  I would like to embrace your odor

  Your odor Your essence as we sit down to eat

  I would like for you to cook for me

  I would like that

  Very much

  ONE THING

  There is only one

  Thing better

  Than waking up to Ben Webster

  blowing

  Monday Morning Blues

  In my ear

  There is only one

  Thing better

  Than waking up to coffee

  Perking

  Bread

  Rising

  Bacon

  Frying

  There is only one

  Thing better

  Than a blue sky

  Birds chirping

  The garbage being picked up

  On time

  Yeah

  Only one

  Thing better

  AND EVERYONE WILL ANSWER

  I had driven to Buffalo. As a Midwesterner with southern roots driving a car has always been fun and comforting. I had had a 1960 Volkswagen that I had purchased for about six hundred dollars. I was in grad school at the University of Pennsylvania. I was studying Social Work in the hopes of emulating my mother and one of her best friends and an incredible “aunt” to me, Theresa Elliot. All the Social Workers I knew were cool and I had been awarded a scholarship. Unfortunately I was never meant to work in any real sort of system. After a year it was decided by all, respectfully and, I might add, lovingly, that Social Work school was not for me. Through the good offices of a great Social Worker, Louise Shoemaker, I was accepted into the MFA program at Columbia. I had a car, a scholarship, and New York City. Could there be anything better?

  Now I was in Langston Hughes territory. I lived in a wonderful apartment building at 84th and Amsterdam. I had exciting neighbors in film, dance, Broadway, and jazz. I was also a bit of a rebel so I knew the young people who were changing the world. I don’t care what anyone says: We were the Great Generation. But I lent my car to a friend who took a job in another city and it was towed. I purchased another. But I gave that to my nephew who had other issues and it was totaled. So I purchased a Peugeot diesel which I gave to my sister when she got her 3rd divorce but that would be a few years off.

  It was my thought that the MFA program was there to help me/let me/encourage me to write a book. I did. By the end of my first year. I was ready to receive my degree and go on. Columbia didn’t look at it that way so I, degreeless, just went on. We in the Black Arts movement, which wasn’t really a movement but a group of people who had similar objectives, took a page from the Beats who had taken lessons from Langston Hughes. Read your work to the People. I wasn’t afraid of a job but my thought was if I could pay the rent, have some food on the table, gas was twenty-five cents a gallon, and something left over for those things that make life fun like Barbados and clothes, then I would be O.K. After my son was born I understood I need a bit more structure than that but still a job seemed so foreign. Get a lecture bureau, I said to myself. So I began to read poetry and lecture.

  I had driven to Buffalo because driving is relaxing. No one can get to you. You can think or daydream or sing old songs to yourself that nobody else knows or cares about. I know it wasn’t winter because only an idiot would drive to Buffalo in winter but it wasn’t summer either. It seems it was after Christmas so I’m thinking spring. But early spring, since I had a remembrance of a heavy jacket. I hadn’t had a coat since college but I remember it was important to stay warm.

  I arrived at the University, greeted folk, laughed, talked, signed books, those sorts of things when someone came to me with “An Urgent Message: Call your office.” I didn’t know what the “urgent message” could be: Thomas, my son, hurt himself; Debbie who was babysitting him hurt herself; Wendy, the dog, ran away or something might have been wrong with one of my parents. I really couldn’t see anything else. But I knew for certain if I called and found out, I wouldn’t be able to go onstage that evening. So I tucked the note in my pocket and did what I had been invited to do. When I got to the ho
tel I called. My father had had a stroke and was in the hospital. I called Mommy to tell her I was in Buffalo and I’d be home as soon as I could. Being a great believer in peppermint and coffee I checked out of the hotel, got in the car, bought a cup of joe, and hit the road. I made it to Painesville, Ohio, where I pulled over for a couple of hours, then repeated step one and went on to Cincinnati.

  It’s funny how you can live in a house and never notice things falling apart. Walking through the back door which is always how we entered the house I noticed the floor was not right; the upstairs bathroom had a damp floor; the walls were not dirty, Mommy was a great housekeeper, but needing attention. There was no question of what needed to happen. They needed help. I don’t know. It’s funny, though not humorous, to see that your parents have grown old. I called Debbie to ask if she would bring Thomas down.

  My thought was a couple of months and all would be set right. But it wasn’t just the stroke, there was an intestinal cancer. And there was no health insurance. Next step: sell the apartment in New York. I know people think cancer doesn’t hurt and people think your insurance co-pay is reasonable but neither is true. 20 percent of cancer will put you into bankruptcy. My first thought was Mommy should divorce him, then he would be eligible for one of the programs. This is over thirty years ago but Mommy would have none of it so we needed a lawyer to get things straightened out. We had known Gloria Haffer for a very long time. She and Mommy were friends. And her dad, Ben, had hired me when I was in high school to work the cash register at his store. Now Gloria was a lawyer considering starting her own firm. We caught the gold ring.

  Nothing makes me as nervous as filling out forms and things. All I had to do now, which is a strength of mine, was get the physicalities right. Mommy had taught third grade before she went into Social Work. One of her students, Bobby Hunter, now did construction. When he heard what was happening he came and retiled the bathroom. Rather than paint the walls I convinced Mommy to put wallpaper on them. We both hated the kitchen floor so we put a wood floor in. Things were shaping up. 1168 Congress was a three-bedroom house. Mommy had her room: Gus, my father, would have his when he came home from the hospital; and Thomas had the third. That left the entire basement to me. It was good space. Friends and I built cabinets, bookshelves, and stuff for a den. The bathroom was papered and made special with photos. The other big room was where I showered and dressed. I should explain. The bathroom was really une toilette and a basin. I found, as I am a lover of antiques, an old claw-footed tub for $25 in Newport, Kentucky. It cost about the same to have it delivered to the basement, a plumber hooked it up, and I had a Mogambo-type shower. The washing machine emptied into it. I put a refrigerator down there and I was set. Essence magazine came down to do an article on me and photographed the whole house. We looked good. The bedroom was small with no clock and no phone. There was only one rule: If I am asleep . . . Do Not Awake Me. To this day I can and do wake up when I should. If I do not I am either sick or too tired to go on. In either case: Do Not Wake Me Up.

  My father was a nervous man. If nothing else, he would tap his foot or wring his hands. He was always in motion. In the spring and summer his yard and garden got his attention. He’d always be outside planting or pulling or doing something. He had a beautiful yard. But in the winter the basement got the brunt of this attention. He would wax and wax the floor. After fifteen or twenty years the buildup was incredible. I kept looking at the floor and it was making me crazy. I guess to some extent I am kin to Gus, too, though I am neither mean nor impatient. As the house was pulling into being a lovely comfortable place again, my part still needed work. One night in what I recognize to be a Gus move, I took a straight razor and began getting the wax up. At first it was only a tile or two, maybe four or six. Then looking at the entire three rooms I knew I’d have to do more. So every night when everyone else was in bed I worked on removing the wax. It wore me out but the wax was yielding.

  I am an admirer of many writers and their poems, plays, essays, and novels. I love nonfiction, too. But being in the business I had enough sense to know writers are not the work they produce. You may love a writer’s book but meeting the writer can break your heart. Yet I could not resist wanting to meet Toni Morrison after reading The Bluest Eye. Maybe reading it two or three times. I was still in New York and I knew she worked at Random House. One day I got up my nerve. “This is Nikki Giovanni, I write poetry, and I wonder if it is possible to speak to Toni Morrison.” I was incredibly nervous but then she came on the phone and I had no idea what I wanted to say. She was kind enough to invite me for a drink after work and I must say I was thrilled that she had actually read my work. At that time I didn’t drink so a “drink” to me was Campari or coffee. I walked down to Random House and we went somewhere. It seems there were other people there but I don’t remember. Toni is a great storyteller and she was telling the table about meeting Muhammad Ali. It was fun.

  Of course when Sula was published she was on track to do what she did: become one of the greatest novelists of her generation. Whenever I could I would go to her readings and she always said nice things about me. I am not much with phones, though we talked a few times. Then my father had a stroke and I moved to Cincinnati. And began working to restore my mother’s home. Details take a lot out of you. I was up in the morning to make breakfast; some mornings I took Mommy to work. Worked on the house. Worked on my poems. Things. Things one does to keep things running smoothly. By habit, which I still have, dinner was started or laid out, while breakfast dishes were being washed.

  One day Mommy had not gone to work. I don’t know why she didn’t. She wasn’t sick or anything and it wasn’t snowy or icy. It threw my routine off, though. Since I was spending a great part of my night with a straight razor getting wax up I was tired during the day. I was a napper. I still am. I said to Mommy I think I’ll take a nap. Thomas came home about four so it would have to have been early enough that I could get an hour in before school was out. Mommy knew the rule. I had just drifted when I heard the phone ring. I knew if it was for me Mommy would take a message. But I heard her footsteps on the stairs. I am not a particularly angry person but I could feel myself working up a lather. “Baby,” she almost whispered, “it’s for you.” “I’m asleep.” “But Baby,” she timidly insisted, “it’s Toni Morrison. You have to get up.”

  And I did. And this was Toni’s question: “I’m thinking about quitting my job and writing full-time. I’ve been working since I was fourteen years old. What’s it like not to have a job? You’re the only person I know who doesn’t work.” I poured a cup of coffee. “You’re Toni Morrison. You don’t need a job. You’re great. Run an ad: WANTED: SOMEONE TO TAKE CARE OF A GREAT NOVELIST. Everyone will answer.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asked. “Guaranteed,” I replied. “I’m a poet. We know these things.”

  And they each lived happily ever after.

  DAY PASS TO HEAVEN

  Gus Giovanni Yolande Giovanni

  (1914–1982) (1919–2005)

  My father who seldom got things what I would call “right” hit the jackpot when courting my mother: He brought her A Bell for Adano which she loved. Or maybe she just loved the idea that a man would think to bring a book. Being on a winning track he gave her A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. She married him. And my big sister was born. I always say that the reason a couple has another child is that the first one needed if not perfection a bit of tweaking. My sister heartedly disagreed but they had me anyway. I may not have been an improvement but I did love, do love, to read. No matter what else is wrong in the world a book will take you away from it. My sister was a reader too but she never liked to discuss the characters. My mother did. And so do I.

  My favorite story that Mommy would read to me was “King of the Golden River.” I recognize it now as a parable but I loved it. And would read it to myself when I learned to read. Gluck’s brothers were so mean. I loved it that they turned to stone. Mommy’s favorites were things like Gone with the Win
d or All This and Heaven, Too. I was reading from her library by the fifth grade.

  But it wasn’t until the discovery of Toni Morrison that we both found a book we could talk about and truly explore: Sula. Mommy found Toni on her own and asked me, excitedly, had I heard of her? I was pleased to say “I know her.” Mommy and I read and reread Sula through the years.

  As Mommy was drifting away from this world I sat on her bed and wrote poetry to ease the pain of losing her and alternately read Sula to her aloud until my tears blocked the words. We had come full circle. I’m sure my father, who didn’t get things what I would call “right” very often, got a Day Pass to Heaven and was waiting for Mommy with a cold beer and a book for them to share.

  MY DREAM

  (for Maya)

  You said: this is Nikki’s dream

  And I thought Yes

  But My Dream is to make it

  Your dream 2

  To find the poets

  Standing hand in hand

  Embracing novel

  Ideas

  We grow from such

  Dreams even

  Though we mostly

  Dream at night