Chasing Utopia (7 page)
Authors: Nikki Giovanni
Who would have thought
There would be / could be a button
On the wall
Where when you touch
The room lights up
Electricity didn't build
On the candle
It replaced wax
Who would want to believe
Human beings could sit
On a Hydrogen Bomb
(we call it a Space Ship)
and sail off into Space
and walk on the moon
and land a surrogate on Mars
Just to Marvel! at the unknown
And why wouldn't
We want to take what is
Known
And add what is
Wonderful
And let the poems flow
From tears of laughter
From sweat of work
From the deliciousness of tomorrow
To the knowledge of Today
Grant me that A implies B
B necessitates C
C calls for D
And eventually
You and I will get an Alphabet
Grant me that Curiosity implies Research
Research requires Reading
Reading delights the heart
And you and I will get a voice
Grant me Love implies
not desire but
Commitment
Commitment accepts Challenge
Challenge embraces Theory
And you and I will get Reason: A way to explore
                                          past actions
                                             and
                                          future dreams
Good for us
On your Mark Dressman
Get Ready!
Let's Poem!
A little calf
Dancing in the rain
Unaware of the joy
She brings me
I speed along at 70 mph
Trying to get home
The baby colt asleep
In the sweet grass
Mother patiently watching
Over him
I am packing my bags
For London
Trafalgar Square
Silver-faced mime
A war throwing kisses
Couples laughing
I wish I wish I wish
You were here
Dear Editor:
I write in defense of flowers. It seems that lately everyone wants to put flowers in competition with other good works. Someone will die and the family will say “in lieu of flowers,” which seems unfair to me. It should be “in addition to flowers . . .” Flowers and the florists who make them into beautiful sculptures are not some adjunct to our occasions. We wouldn't dream of marrying without flowers no matter how small a bouquet nor how elaborate a setting. What would February 14th be without flowers for the ones you love? And Mother's Day! Could there beat a heart so cold that there is for Mother a . . . what . . . electric skillet, “in lieu of flowers”? But florists cannot just count on one or two days a year for a business. Florists purchase flowers that a flower farmer has nourished from seed, then harvested, then transported to shops where they then fill your loving request. Florists hire people to work with and for them, keeping a small business going in these difficult times. What are we saying when we say insurance companies and predator lenders are too big to failâthat florists and other boutique businesses are too small to succeed? Why is it the minute we want to save money we cut out the arts and flowers? I know that some will say “Well, what do we do with the flowers when the event is over?” We use these wonderful gifts of nature to comfort us when we bury the departed; we use them to celebrate our special occasions; we use them to say “I love you'' to a beloved. They then can travel from our hearts to hospitals comforting the ill and injured; they can visit with the Ladies of the Red Hats to add joy to their meetings; they can be shared with an elderly neighbor on a fixed income who would welcome the extravagance. Some will surely say “But we need charitable contributions.” Indeed we do. I cheer for charity all the time. But there is a need for flowers as surely as there is a need for hummingbirds. Some things are wonderful on their own; enchantment is reason enough. I remember when my mother passed five years ago a friend who had been in Thailand learned late of her passing and sent a beautiful bird-of-paradise almost a year after the event. I confess: A note saying
A Tree Has Been Planted Somewhere
would not have been as comforting. And I could dry it and press it into the memory book as “The Last Flower.” Not “in lieu of flowers.” No. In addition. Because flowers neither reap nor sow they are perfect for mourning and rejoicing. Flowers sing a silent song that says: “I really care.” Flowers are the “Honey, I'm home” when work is put aside; “Good Night, Sweetheart” at the end of the day; the sigh at the end of a kiss. Why should we deny ourselves the beam of the moon against the quiet sky? Why should we privilege anything over the fragrance of love?
I've never “blogged” before
so this is new
territory for me I do
poet though and that
is always somewhere in
the
netherland
I think
poetry is employed
by truth I think
our job is to tell
the truth as we see it don't you
just hate a namby-pamby poem that goes
all over the place saying nothing
Poets should be strong
in our emotions
and our words that might make us
difficult to live with but I do believe
easier to love
Poet is garlic
Not for everyone
but those who take it
never get caught
by werewolves
I want to ride
On a train
I sometimes fly
In a jet plane
I love to cruise
In a big boat
I'd even float
In a green moat
Of course I could always
Bike
And for health reasons
Hike
But if I had my druthers
I'd get my exercise
In your arms
I communicate
With you
In the dark
I am a shadow
At eventide
A white piece of chalk
On a white blackboard
I am a blackberry
On a bear's purple tongue
I am a pebble in your oil tank
Flush me out
You will run smoother
But with not nearly as much fun
Bumping
Moves us all along
I fly away at morning
To await your sleep
I will sneak in
Too dark
Too quiet
Too loving
For you to say
No More
I don't want a shadow
I want you
THE LONE RANGER RIDES THE LONESOME TRAIL AGAIN
I watched
The Visitor
They
Like boys shaking salt on slugs
Chased
Deported
Misunderstood
The pain
Were indifferent to
The lives
They were destroying
They tried to convince
Me
They were protecting
Me
Those boys
Who explained
Why they were throwing
Stones at mother robin
Breaking her wing
And preventing not her flight
But her ability to feed
Her three little hatchlings
Who are condemned to death
By starvation
They laughed
In nazi-ese
They were only doing
Their jobs
What pitiful
Little gerbils
We have
Become
We live
To keep others
From living
I saw
The Visitor
Play his drum
While Sarah Palin
Field-dressed a moose
And encouraged her daughter
To have sex
With her oldest son
Sarah was
After all
Too busy at the PTA
Explaining what
abstinence
means
Oh boy
What ecstasy
I am embraced
With lies
And hypocrisy
Hug me, Baby
Do it Good
I am an American
My life
Is a fucking prison
Hi Ho, Silver
Away!!!!
Here we stand
Negotiating
That space
Between I'm in love
With you
And let's be friends
This will not turn out well
I need a guitar
Or a good drunk
Or something ugly
To find
The song
In these blues
Let's get a twelve-string
Banjo
And sing a song
For runaway slaves
If you are what you eat
I'm definitely having an exciting poem
For breakfast
Lunch will be a mean metaphor
With lots of rhythm on the side
Pounding that baked beat
To say what's on my mind
Dinner is a more sedate affair
A simile with a little sweetness
For dessert
And that should make for something
Exciting to come
Out of me
In the morning
Saturdays were tedious because there were always chores which didn't actually take that long but after lunch (which I always enjoyed with Grandmother) I had to go to the beauty parlor. As a kid I didn't mind but when I got to be 14 or 15 I had other things to prepare for. Of course, many of my friends who were boys would go swimming on summer afternoons and most of us who were girls would sit and watch. Even with swimming caps our hair would get wet and “go back” so we stood or sat on the sidelines. The crazy thing about all that was if there was a dance at The Phillis Wheatley Y you also couldn't “slow drag” because the boys would be sweaty against your face and your hair would get wet and “go back.” It goes without saying that we were not allowed to slow drag.
But having survived all that, we awakened to wonderful Sunday mornings. We attended Mt. Zion Baptist Church where grandpapa was a Deacon and Grandmother helped with Sunday School and other things. I remember she wasn't an Usher and she didn't sing in the choir, though she had a beautiful voice, nor did she play the piano or organ, though she could do both.
I wasn't actually paid for chores, since I slept and ate there, but Grandpapa would give me a quarter or sometimes a bit more for Sunday School and church. I'm a big fan of “rendering” so I didn't actually mind putting money in both times but finally my grandmother realized I had nothing left to go for ice cream with the other kids and she kind of directed me to “share” with God but not give it all. Ice cream is important, too. Peach, for her. Vanilla, for me.
Bonnie, Joanne, David, and the rest would leave Sunday School at about 10:30
A.M.
and walk down to Carter-Roberts Drug Store. Church didn't start until 11:00. Carter-Roberts had a jukebox where a quarter would get you six songs which individually would be a nickel apiece. We all chipped in. It was Nina Simone.
Live at Central Park
I think. She was singing “I Loves You, Porgy.” I already was and remain a big fan of
Porgy and Bess.
I can understand, though I disagree with, the folk who disliked
Amos 'n' Andy
. I could see it was important to see Black folk on TV and, to be fair, it was funny. Maybe not funny in the rerun called
Good Times
and certainly not funny in the sequel called
The Jeffersons
but
Amos 'n' Andy
worked for me at that time.
Porgy and Bess
even I, a kid, knew was important. It is classic. And if you loved, as did I, mythology,
Porgy and Bess
fit right in. Let me confess: I never actually believed George Gershwin wrote all that music.
I believed Gershwin spent a lot of time “uptown” to learn to translate the music that became
Rhapsody in Blue
. I grant him total control of
An American in Paris
. But
P and B
? No way. “Summertime” could be heard anywhere the Black community was giving thanks for another season. The rhythms are all gospel. Even the chants. “Strawberry Woman.” No way. And Nina Simone reclaimed it for us. She brought that southernersness but on a sophisticated level to us. We all loved her.
Our last nickels, having forgone ice cream, went to Nina. And we were satisfied.
So you can imagine the thrill I felt when I walked into Michaux's bookstore in Harlem one fall afternoon and Nina Simone was there! I didn't even try to be cool about it. I love you!!! I gushed. She was very nice about it. That Nina Simone had read my book was beyond compare. I was over the top. My mother was coming to town and I was having a party to show Mommy that I have friends and I'm all right. I invited Nina. My thought was this: Probably most people are fans so they think the star is always busy doing glamorous things so the star never gets invited to do things with ordinary folk. I gave her my address and phone number. And left.
She came. My mother was thrilled. So was everybody else. Nina was good people. I'm proud to call her my friend.
We sit like Sally Walker
In a circle trying
To spin something wonderful
On this loom hoping
Maybe a magic dwarf
Will come to show
Us where the gold is
We sit in here together
Not in a square nor
Rectangle
But the triangle between right wrong and really
Who cares
Facebook says I have friends
Friends say strange things
Avoiding my face
There is a star
Which is not me
Though it should be
On a hill
It shines on Henry Street
Where Duke Ellington played
Where Nat “King” Cole sang
Where dancers danced
The blues away:
The segregation blues
The you can't go here or come there blues
The evil blues played on a stolen banjo
The railroad blues that strummed the lines
While the Pullman Porters called
George
by some
Called
Honey
by some
Called
Daddy
by some
Called
Grandpop
swayed with the coming winds
And danced the blues away
We sit in a circle
And that story that keeps us warm
Feeds our hearts
Makes us know
This Star city is Mine
That star at that mountain shines
For me
At me on me
Doo wap doo wap
I got the Roanoke blues
And I'm feeling fine
