The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni (10 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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