Read The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni Online
Authors: Nikki Giovanni
The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni (22 page)
she often wondered why people spoke
of gaining years as turning
when she celebrated her thirtieth birthday she knew
she had turned though
she hadn't gained
the rain turned on her windowsill
and it didn't gain
and he like her face gaining
wrinkles
turned indifferent
she became happier without
the big apartment
the stereo components
and the ten pounds she shed
while adjusting to the loss
of his love
her fault lay
in her honesty
it was always his sexiness
that held her not
his arms
it was his lovemaking not
his love she missed
she compacted her
life into one
tiny room with kitchen      bed and roaches
in the four corners which contained nothing
that couldn't be stolen
or left in case
she had to run
for her sanity
so she turned thirty-one
with all
the introspections that nothing
not even them was meant
not to turn
and from that understanding
she gained
knowledge
you say i'm as cold
as ice
but ice is good
for a burn
if you were a woman
you would have known that
and rubbed me
the right way
to let me cool
your passion
We are not lovers
because of the love
we make
but the love
we have
We are not friends
because of the laughs
we spend
but the tears
we save
I don't want to be near you
for the thoughts we share
but the words we never have
to speak
I will never miss you
because of what we do
but what we are
together
i haven't done anything
meaningful in so long
it's almost meaningful
to do nothing
i suppose i could fall in love
or at least in line
since i'm so discontented
but that takes effort
and i don't want to exert anything
neither my energy nor my emotions
i've always prided myself
on being a child of the sixties
and we are all finished
so that makes being
nothing
the moon shines down
on new york city
while i smile over
at you
the moon is still
against the night
and i am still
against you
surely you must sometimes wonder
won't i ever go home
surely you must sometimes say
poet please leave me alone
but my bad rhyme
and love of night
retain me here with you
and though it's so sad to admit
without you what would i do
of course you are no panacea
for my lack of friends
but if i were a hallmark card
here's where we'd begin
the moon shines down
on new york city
while i smile over
at you
if you've got the key
then i've got the door
let's do what we did
when we did it before
if you've got the time
i've got the way
let's do what we did
when we did it all day
you get the glass
i've got the wine
we'll do what we did
when we did it overtime
if you've got the dough
then i've got the heat
we can use my oven
til it's warm and sweet
i know i'm bold
coming on like this
but the good things in life
are too good to be missed
now time is money
and money is sweet
if you're busy baby
we can do it on our feet
we can do it on the floor
we can do it on the stair
we can do it on the couch
we can do it in the air
we can do it in the grass
and in case we get an itch
i can scratch it with my left hand
cause i'm really quite a witch
if we do it once a month
we can do it in time
if we do it once a week
we can do it in rhyme
if we do it every day
we can do it everyway
we can do it like we did it
when we did it
that day
The first poemâ¦ever writtenâ¦was probably carvedâ¦on a cold damp caveâ¦by a physically unendowed cave manâ¦who wanted to make a good impressionâ¦on a physically endowedâ¦cave womanâ¦But maybe notâ¦Maybe it was sheâ¦trying to gain the noticeâ¦of a hunkâ¦who was in demandâ¦Or perhapsâ¦it was simply someoneâ¦who admired the motionâ¦of a sabertooth tigerâ¦and wanting to capture the beautyâ¦picked up a sharpened rockâ¦to drawâ¦We know so very littleâ¦about the origin of the written wordâ¦let alone the languageâ¦that all conjecture deserves some considerationâ¦
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The fearsâ¦of the human raceâ¦are legionâ¦Perhaps our sizeâ¦strengthâ¦and speedâ¦coupled with our abilityâ¦to see our weaknessâ¦have made us an anxious speciesâ¦There are smaller mammalsâ¦There are more vulnerable life-formsâ¦Yet we alone can give vent to our understandingâ¦of the tenuousness of Lifeâ¦
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Nature is a patient teacherâ¦She slowly changesâ¦winter to summerâ¦by proper useâ¦of spring and fallâ¦That's kindâ¦of natureâ¦Humans fearâ¦sudden changeâ¦Hurricanesâ¦Volcanoesâ¦Earthquakesâ¦Tornadoesâ¦all are generally perceivedâ¦as aberrantâ¦Blizzardsâ¦in winterâ¦Electrical stormsâ¦in summerâ¦are a part of the seasonâ¦But changeâ¦both gradualâ¦and violentâ¦is a necessary ingredientâ¦with Lifeâ¦
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Artâ¦and by necessityâ¦artistsâ¦are on the cutting edgeâ¦of changeâ¦The very factâ¦that something has been doneâ¦over and over againâ¦is one reasonâ¦to changeâ¦Every
thingâ¦must changeâ¦If only through perceptionâ¦Honor thy Father and Motherâ¦does not changeâ¦though the understanding of long life hasâ¦Do unto others as you would have them do unto youâ¦has not changedâ¦though the application must move from the individual to the nationâ¦What goes up must come downâ¦will not changeâ¦though our rock stars and superathletes seem imperviousâ¦to the lessons of Telstarâ¦There isâ¦in realityâ¦very little that is newâ¦under the yellow sunâ¦We have only rearranged the matterâ¦and reconceptualized the thoughtâ¦Greedâ¦is a terrible thingâ¦Envyâ¦is not an acceptable emotionâ¦Jealousyâ¦is dangerous to your emotional lifeâ¦and the physical and mental well-beingâ¦of your loved oneâ¦Though people sayâ¦they cannot changeâ¦change we doâ¦in our abilitiesâ¦desiresâ¦understandingâ¦The need to forceâ¦humans to changeâ¦may be one reason we all growâ¦olderâ¦though there is no corresponding geneâ¦to make us growâ¦wiserâ¦
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In the written artsâ¦language has openedâ¦becoming more accessibleâ¦more responsiveâ¦to what people really thinkâ¦and sayâ¦We are now freeâ¦to use any profane wordâ¦or express any profound thoughtâ¦we may wishâ¦Sexualityâ¦once a great taboo in languageâ¦and actâ¦is fully exploredâ¦through fictionâ¦and nonfictionâ¦through poetryâ¦and playsâ¦Different and same genderâ¦different and same ageâ¦different and same raceâ¦religionâ¦or creedâ¦all take their placesâ¦on the bookshelvesâ¦Ideas that once allowed the State to poison Socratesâ¦Ideas that once allowed the Church to force Copernicus to recantâ¦Ideas that once encouraged McCarthy to destroy the lives of men and womenâ¦are now as acceptable as a stop-and-go lightâ¦or at least as well understoodâ¦as fluorideâ¦While there is surely muchâ¦to be doneâ¦some change has rentâ¦its waysâ¦I changedâ¦I chart the night windsâ¦glide with meâ¦I am the walrusâ¦the time has comeâ¦to speak of many thingsâ¦
It's intriguing to me that “bookmaker” is a gamblingâ¦an underworldâ¦term somehow associated with that which is both illegalâ¦and dirtyâ¦Bookmakersâ¦and those who play with themâ¦are dreamersâ¦are betting on a breakâ¦a lucky streakâ¦that something will comeâ¦their wayâsomething goodâ¦something cleanâ¦something wonderfulâ¦We who make booksâ¦we who write our dreamsâ¦confess our fearsâ¦and witness our times are not so farâ¦from the underworldâ¦are not so farâ¦from illegalityâ¦are not so far from the rootâ¦the dirtâ¦the heart of the matter.
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Writersâ¦I thinkâ¦live on that fine line between insanity and geniusâ¦Either scaling the mountainsâ¦or skirting the valleysâ¦Riding that lonely train of truthâ¦with just enough of the player in usâ¦to continue to hopeâ¦for the speciesâ¦Writers areâ¦perhapsâ¦congenital hypocritesâ¦I don't think preachersâ¦priestsâ¦rabbisâ¦and ayatollahs are hypocriticalâ¦because they have tubular visionâ¦are indeedâ¦myopicâ¦They know the answerâ¦before you ask the questionâ¦But the writerâ¦the painterâ¦the sculptorâ¦the creatorâ¦those who workâ¦with both the mindâ¦and the heart of mankindâ¦have no reasonâ¦to be hopefulâ¦We haveâ¦in factâ¦no right to write the happy endingâ¦or the love poemâ¦no reasonâ¦to sculpt Davidâ¦or paintâ¦like Charles Whiteâ¦We who have seenâ¦all sides of the coinâ¦the frontâ¦the backâ¦and the ribbed edgeâ¦know what the endingâ¦will surely beâ¦Yet we speakâ¦to and ofâ¦courageâ¦loveâ¦hopeâ¦something betterâ¦in mankindâ¦When we are perfectly honestâ¦with ourselvesâ¦we cannot justifyâ¦our faithâ¦Yet faith we do haveâ¦and continue to share.
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Bookmaking is shooting crapsâ¦with the white boysâ¦downtown on the stock exchangeâ¦is betting a dime you can winâ¦
a hundredâ¦Making books is shooting crapsâ¦with Godâ¦is wandering into a casino where you don't even know the languageâ¦let alone the rules of the gameâ¦And that's properâ¦that's as it should beâ¦If you wanted to be safeâ¦you would have walked into the Post Officeâ¦or taken a graduate degree in Educational Administrationâ¦If you want to shareâ¦a visionâ¦or tell the truthâ¦you pick upâ¦your penâ¦And take your chancesâ¦This is notâ¦after allâ¦tennisâ¦where sets can be measured by pointsâ¦or footballâ¦where games run on timeâ¦or baseballâ¦where innings structure the playâ¦It is lifeâ¦open-endedâ¦And once the play has begunâ¦the book madeâ¦timeâ¦is the only judge.
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Timeâ¦to the Black Americanâ¦has always beenâ¦a burdenâ¦from 1619 to nowâ¦we have played out our dramaâ¦before a reluctant timeâ¦We were either too lateâ¦or too earlyâ¦No people on Earthâ¦in all her historyâ¦has ever produced so many peopleâ¦so generally considered⦓ahead of their time.”â¦From the revolts in Africaâ¦to our kidnappingâ¦to the martyrs of freedom todayâ¦our people have been burdenedâ¦by someone else's senseâ¦of the appropriateâ¦There areâ¦of courseâ¦all the jokesâ¦aboutC. P. timeâ¦and there are the remindersâ¦by the keepers of our soulsâ¦that God “is never lateâ¦but He always comesâ¦on time.”â¦To be Blackâ¦in Americaâ¦is to not at all understandâ¦timeâ¦Little Linda Brown was toldâ¦her school would be desegregated⦓with all deliberate speed”â¦and twenty-five years laterâ¦this is stillâ¦untrueâ¦Dr. King was toldâ¦in Montgomeryâ¦he was pushing too hardâ¦going too fastâ¦expecting too muchâ¦I wish we had been enslavedâ¦at the same rate we are being setâ¦freeâ¦It would beâ¦an entirely different storyâ¦I wish the battleshipsâ¦had sailed down the Mississippi Riverâ¦when Emmett Till was lynchedâ¦at the same speed they sped to Cubaâ¦during the missile crisisâ¦I wish foodâ¦had been airliftedâ¦to the sharecroppers in Tennesseeâ¦when they were pushed off the landâ¦for exer
cising their right to voteâ¦at the same speedâ¦it was airliftedâ¦to West Berlinâ¦at the ending of World War IIâ¦But I'm only a colored poetâ¦and my wishesâ¦no matter which star I chooseâ¦do not come trueâ¦But I'm also a writerâ¦and I knowâ¦that the Europeans aren't the only onesâ¦who keep timeâ¦some of the time is goingâ¦to be my timeâ¦tooâ¦
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Life teaches us not to regretâ¦not to spend too much time on what might have beenâ¦It is neither emotionallyâ¦nor intellectually possibleâ¦for me to dwell on might-have-beenâ¦I have a great love of history and antiquesâ¦the past is there to instruct usâ¦I am socially retardedâ¦so I hold onâ¦to old friendsâ¦I like to be surroundedâ¦by that which is warm and familiarâ¦yet I'm sorryâ¦I never met Lorraine Hansberryâ¦I vividly understand that a writer is not the book she madeâ¦any more than a child is the print of his parentsâ¦Many of us are personally paranoidâ¦generally uncommunicativeâ¦and basically unniceâ¦just like most peopleâ¦But I think Lorraine must have been oneâ¦of those wonderful humans whoâ¦seeing both sides of the dilemmaâ¦and all sides of the coinâ¦still called “Heads”â¦when she tossedâ¦And in her gambleâ¦never came up snake eyesâ¦It's not that she wroteâ¦beautifullyâ¦and truthfullyâ¦though she didâ¦It's not just that she anticipatedâ¦our people and their reactionsâ¦though she didâ¦She alsoâ¦when reading throughâ¦and between the linesâ¦possessed that quality of courageâ¦to say what had to be saidâ¦to those who needed to hear itâ¦If writers are visionaryâ¦her ministry was successfulâ¦She made itâ¦possible for all of usâ¦to lookâ¦a littleâ¦deeper.
