The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni Read online

  Cultural Awareness

  as we all probably realize

  on some level

  people are basically selfish

  and perhaps in some cases

  a little more than thoughtless

  mostly i would suppose

  because of the nature of life

  under this and most other

  systems

  but someone came by

  and brought to my attention

  how ridiculously mean

  i was being

  most people

  he assured me

  have followed the teachings

  of the honorable maulana elijah el shabbaz

  and do not have anything at all

  to do with pork

  and here he found

  when visiting me

  that i didn’t have

  zig-zag papers

  for a kosher

  substitute

  For Saundra

  i wanted to write

  a poem

  that rhymes

  but revolution doesn’t lend

  itself to be-bopping

  then my neighbor

  who thinks i hate

  asked—do you ever write

  tree poems—i like trees

  so i thought

  i’ll write a beautiful green tree poem

  peeked from my window

  to check the image

  noticed the school yard was covered

  with asphalt

  no green—no trees grow

  in manhattan

  then, well, i thought the sky

  i’ll do a big blue sky poem

  but all the clouds have winged

  low since no-Dick was elected

  so i thought again

  and it occurred to me

  maybe i shouldn’t write

  at all

  but clean my gun

  and check my kerosene supply

  perhaps these are not poetic

  times

  at all

  Balances

  in life

  one is always

  balancing

  like we juggle our mothers

  against our fathers

  or one teacher

  against another

  (only to balance our grade average)

  3 grains salt

  to one ounce truth

  our sweet black essence

  or the funky honkies down the street

  and lately i’ve begun wondering

  if you’re trying to tell me something

  we used to talk all night

  and do things alone together

  and i’ve begun

  (as a reaction to a feeling)

  to balance

  the pleasure of loneliness

  against the pain

  of loving you

  For a Poet I Know

  if you sang songs i could make a request

  does the same hold true of poems

  i’d like a poem about me

  i’m black and exist and for real

  i’d like a poem about your uncle

  who got out of his bed to let us screw

  yeah and maybe a poem

  about how i tried

  to talk to you one night

  and you suggested i read my own poems

  what were you really thinking

  i’d like to hear a poem about your wig

  everybody’s got a wig

  aretha’s is on her head

  james brown’s is humphrey

  mine is columbia

  yours is the college you teach at

  or the people who sent you there

  i want a poem telling how tired you are

  of fucking women

  and relating to your hospital

  experiences

  or maybe a poem about who you’d like

  to lay beside and dream with

  and a real long poem on what you dream about

  i really need a rare book poem

  and what they mean to you

  and a new book poem about what you read

  and a joe goncalves poem about a hardworking brother

  and a carolyn rodgers poem about a beautiful sister

  and a father poem for hoyt fuller

  and a jet poem because we’ve never been in it

  and a scared poem about me taking your clothes off

  then offering an excuse

  and a man poem about how you reached your Blackness

  or perhaps an alcoholic poem about your mother

  and a climbing poem about how you reached the heights

  and a you poem mostly

  cause your other poems

  don’t tell me who you are

  and i

  having felt and tasted you know

  what you should know and relate to

  that you should write and are capable of writing

  a tall lean explosive poem

  not just a quiet half white hating poem

  about a black poem

  called a black poet

  that i know and would like to love

  again

  For Teresa

  and when i was all alone

  facing my adolescence

  looking forward

  to cleaning house

  and reading books

  and maybe learning bridge

  so that i could fit

  into acceptable society

  acceptably

  you came along

  and loved me

  for being black and bitchy

  hateful and scared

  and you came along

  and cared that i got

  all the things necessary

  to adulthood

  and even made sure

  i wouldn’t hate

  my mother

  or father

  and you even understood

  that i should love

  peppe

  but not too much

  and give to gary

  but not all of me

  and keep on moving

  ’til i found me

  and now you’re sick

  and have been hurt

  for some time

  and i’ve felt guilty

  and impotent

  for not being able

  to give yourself

  to you

  as you gave

  yourself

  to me

  My Poem

  i am 25 years old

  black female poet

  wrote a poem asking

  nigger can you kill

  if they kill me

  it won’t stop

  the revolution

  i have been robbed

  it looked like they knew

  that i was to be hit

  they took my tv

  my two rings

  my piece of african print

  and my two guns

  if they take my life

  it won’t stop

  the revolution

  my phone is tapped

  my mail is opened

  they’ve caused me to turn

  on all my old friends

  and all my new lovers

  if i hate all black

  people

  and all negroes

  it won’t stop

  the revolution

  i’m afraid to tell

  my roommate where i’m going

  and scared to tell

  people if i’m coming

  if i sit here

  for the rest

  of my life

  it won’t stop

  the revolution

  if i never write

  another poem

  or short story

  if i flunk out

  of grad school

  if my car is reclaimed

  and my record player

  won’t play

  and if i never see

&
nbsp; a peaceful day

  or do a meaningful

  black thing

  it won’t stop

  the revolution

  the revolution

  is in the streets

  and if i stay on

  the 5th floor

  it will go on

  if i never do

  anything

  it will go on

  Black Judgements

  (Of bullshit niggerish ways)

  You

  with your bullshit niggerish ways

  want to destroy me

  You want to preach

  responsible revolution

  along with progressive

  procreation

  Your desires will not be honored

  this season

  Shivering under the armour

  of your

  white protector

  fear not

  for thou art evil

  The audacity of wanting

  to be near the life

  of what you seek to kill

  Can you love

  can you hate

  is your game any damn good

  Black Judgements are upon you

  Black Judgements are upon you

  Re: Creation

  1970

  For Tommy

  to tommy who:

  eats chocolate cookies and lamb chops

  climbs stairs and cries when i change

  his diaper

  lets me hold him only on his schedule

  defined my nature

  and gave me a new name (mommy)

  which supersedes all others

  controls my life

  and makes me glad

  that he does

  Two Poems:

  From Barbados

  the mother palm had plaited her daughter’s

  hair for us

  to sit under

  while her bad little boy

  cloud wet

  in public grape trees

  stretched the moon

  across the sand shadows

  each nation sharing its natural

  gift

  to enhance a cultural

  exchange

  my use of english

  has not always been

  spoken

  as you now know

  and your english

  cast in the middle of salt and sand

  isn’t just the “little” the guide

  book tells us of

  there is something more Bajan

  to your language

  and more african to my response

  in muted conversation

  we met

  and i take with me

  your english

  gift

  For Harold Logan

  (Murdered by “persons unknown” cause he wanted to own a Black club on Broadway)

  he was just a little

  gangster with a high

  voice

  and a poetic mind that recognized

  genius and let it grow

  but someone pruned

  his life

  he didn’t lie or steal

  could give you measure

  for emotion he paid

  for what he wanted and had

  but someone stole

  his life

  the sanitation committee had a big meeting

  concerning broadway

  said the lights weren’t bright like

  they used to be

  a cleaning man came

  and removed his life

  said Broadway was getting

  too dusty

  No Reservations

  (for Art Jones)

  there are no reservations

  for the revolution

  no polite little clerk

  to send notice

  to your room

  saying you are WANTED

  on the battlefield

  there are no banners

  to wave you forward

  no blaring trumpets

  not even a blues note

  moaning wailing lone blue note

  to the yoruba drums saying

  strike now shoot

  strike now fire

  strike now run

  there will be no grand

  parade

  and a lot thrown round

  your neck

  people won’t look up and say

  “why he used to live next to me

  isn’t it nice

  it’s his turn now”

  there will be no recruitment

  station

  where you can give

  the most convenient hours

  “monday wednesday i play ball

  friday night i play cards

  any other time i’m free”

  there will be no reserve

  of energy

  no slacking off till next time

  “let’s see—i can come back

  next week

  better not wear myself out

  this time”

  there will be reservations

  only

  if we fail

  Alone

  i can be

  alone by myself

  i was

  lonely alone

  now i’m lonely

  with you

  something is wrong

  there are flies

  everywhere

  i go

  For Two Jameses (Ballantine and Snow) In iron cells

  we all start

  as a speck

  nobody notices us

  but some may hope

  we’re there

  some count days and wait

  we grow

  in a cell that spreads

  like a summer cold

  to other people

  they notice and laugh

  some are happy

  some wish to stop

  our movement

  we kick and move

  are stubborn and demanding

  completely inside

  the system

  they put us in a cell

  to make us behave

  never realizing it’s from cells

  we have escaped

  and we will be born

  from their iron cells

  new people with a new cry

  For Gwendolyn Brooks

  brooks start with cloud condensation

  allah crying

  for his lost children

  brooks babble

  from mountain tops to settle

  in collecting the earth’s essence

  pure spring fountain

  of love knowledge

  for those who find

  and dare drink

  of it

  Autumn Poems

  the heat

  you left with me

  last night

  still smolders

  the wind catches

  your scent

  and refreshes

  my senses

  i am a leaf

  falling from your tree

  upon which i was

  impaled

  Rain

  rain is

  god’s sperm falling

  in the receptive

  woman how else

  to spend

  a rainy day

  other than with you

  seeking sun and stars

  and heavenly bodies

  how else to spend

  a rainy day

  other than with you

  Poem for Lloyd

  it’s a drag

  sitting around waiting

  for death

  gotta do something before

  i die

  it’s so lonely dying

  all alone

  gotta do something

  before i die

  gotta gotta get a gun

  walking talking thinking gun

  before i die

  they’re so lonely

  funeral dirg
es

  hip black angry funeral

  dirges

  gotta gotta get a gun

  it’s so lonely

  when you die

  gotta gotta get a gun to kill

  death

  Housecleaning

  i always liked house cleaning

  even as a child

  i dug straightening

  the cabinets

  putting new paper on

  the shelves

  washing the refrigerator

  inside out

  and unfortunately this habit has

  carried over and i find

  i must remove you

  from my life

  Poem for Aretha

  cause nobody deals with Aretha—a mother with four

  children—having to hit the road

  they always say “after she comes

  home” but nobody ever says what it’s like

  to get on a plane for a three week tour

  the elation of the first couple of audiences the good

  feeling of exchange the running on the high

  you get from singing good

  and loud and long telling the world

  what’s on your mind

  then comes the eighth show on the sixth day the beginning

  to smell like the plane or bus the if-you-forget-your-tooth brush

  in-one-spot-you-can’t-brush-until-the-second-show the strangers

  pulling at you cause they love you but you having no love to give back

  and singing the same songs night after night day after day

  and if you read the gossip columns the rumors that your husband

  is only after your fame

  the wondering if your children will be glad to see you and maybe

  the not caring if they are the scheming to get out