The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni (16 page)

the f.b.i. came by my house three weeks ago

one white agent one black (or i guess negro would be

more appropriate) with two three-button suits on (one to a man)

thin ties—cuffs in the bottoms—belts at their waists

they said in unison:

ms. giovanni you are getting to be quite important

people listen to what you have to say

i said nothing

we would like to have you give a different message

i said: gee are all you guys really shorter than hoover

they said:

it would be a patriotic gesture if you'd quit saying

you love rap brown and if you'd maybe give us some

leads

on what some of your friends are doing

i said: fuck you

a week later the c.i.a. came by two unisexes one blond afro

one darker one three bulges on each showing lovely bell

bottoms and boots

they said in rounds:

sister why not loosen up and turn on

fuck the system up from the inside

we can turn you on to some groovy

trips and you don't have to worry

about money or nothing        take the commune

way and a few drugs it'll be good for you

and the little one

after i finished a long loud stinky fart i said serenely

definitely though with love

fuck you

yesterday a representative from interpol stopped me in the park

tall, neat afro, striped hip huggers bulging only in the right

place

i really dig you, he said, i want to do something for you

and you alone

i asked what he would like to do        for me

need a trip around the world a car bigger apartment

are you lonely i mean we need to get you comfortable

cause a lot of people listen to you and you

need to be comfortable to put forth a positive image

and digging the scene i said listen i would sell

out but i need to make it worth my while you understand

you just name it and i'll give it to you, he assured me

well, i pondered, i want aretha franklin and her piano

reduced to fit next to my electric

typewriter on my desk and i'll do anything you want

he lowered his long black eyelashes and smiled a whimsical smile

fuck you, nikki, he said

it wouldn't have been

so bad if there had

been a white rock group singing

“steal away” from the side lines

(at least that would have made it

honest)

it is not too late/is too/is not/yah yah/so yo mama/is not

“Sir would you keep your remarks

succinct” said straight face

to people who were used to talking hours and never

sucking cint

“come with me—i mean come to me—that is i got rhythm

—i mean

i can orchestrate and harmonize and ooo wee can i do a

militant

shuffle”

“well i'm from small plains oklahoma and i want

to know about the sewer problem

just how should black people approach them”

“would whoever answers please

just be brief      we have important calls

from all over the country!”

“i want the integrationists to go on

record      just where do you stand

on sewers?!!!??!*?

chorus

oh jesus was a lovely cat

he taught us how to pray

and every night we get on our knees

and this is what we say:

oh i hate the white man

i love the white man

and it's just a natural fact

that one way or other if you stick around

he'll get on your back

and what about naomi?

for the answers to these and other important questions

like: do we have any Black leaders

stay tuned to (music please———)

the sets were turned off

the white men stood up scratched themselves

and said well we're good for another

four hundred years or so

the Black youngsters turned off

their sets got down

on their knees and prayed

oh Lord please

don't take the honkie

away

i'm leaving at five

she said why

are niggers always

late

a circle he replied is

a sunbeam that saw

itself and fell

in love

niggers would be

late for their own

damned funerals

it's the early bird

he whispered in her

ear that catches the worm

but no one ever said why

the worm gets up

how we gonna get this

country moving when we can't

get together

on such simple shit

sometimes he said brushing

her afro back with his rough hands

you scrub clothes to remove

a spot and sometimes you soak

them first

you not even listening to me

you're not listening to me

they looked at each other

for a moment

and another thing

she began

we stood there waiting

on the corners

in the bars

on the stoops

in the pews

by the cadillacs

for buses

wanting for love

watching to see if hope would come by

we stood there hearing

the sound of police sirens

and fire engines

the explosions

and babies crying

the gas escaping

and the roaches breeding

the garbage cans falling

and the stairways creaking

we listened

to the books opening

and hearts shutting

the hands rubbing

the bodies sweating

we were seeing the revolution screeeeeeeeeeeching

to a halt

trying to find a clever way

to be empty

i only want to

be there to kiss you

as you want to be kissed

when you need to be kissed

where i want to kiss you

cause it's my house

and i plan to live in it

i really need to hug you

when i want to hug you

as you like to hug me

does this sound like a silly poem

i mean it's my house

and i want to fry pork chops

and bake sweet potatoes

and call them yams

cause i run the kitchen

and i can stand the heat

i spent all winter in

carpet stores gathering

patches so i could make

a quilt

does this really sound

like a silly poem

i mean i want to keep you

warm

and my windows might be dirty

but it's my house

and if i can't see out sometimes

they can't see in either

english isn't a good language

to express emotion through

mostly i imagine because people

try to speak english instead

of trying to speak through it

i don't know maybe it is

a silly poem

i'm saying it's my house

and i'll make fudge and call

it love and touch my lips

to the chocolate warmth

and smile at old men and call

that revolution cause what's real

is really real

and i still like men in tight

pants cause everybody has some

thing to give and more

important needs something to take

and this is my house and you make me

happy

so this is your poem

the women gather

because it is not unusual

to seek comfort in our hours of stress

a man must be buried

it is not unusual

that the old bury the young

though it is an abomination

it is not strange

that the unwise and the ungentle

carry the banner of humaneness

though it is a castration of the spirit

it no longer shatters the intellect

that those who make war

call themselves diplomats

we are no longer surprised

that the unfaithful pray loudest

every sunday in every church

and sometimes in rooms facing east

though it is a sin and a shame

so how do we judge a man

most of us love from our need to love not

because we find someone deserving

most of us forgive because we have trespassed not

because we are magnanimous

most of us comfort because we need comforting

our ancient rituals demand that we give

what we hope to receive

and how do we judge a man

we learn to greet when meeting

to cry when parting

and to soften our words at times of stress

the women gather

with cloth and ointment

their busy hands bowing to laws that decree

willows shall stand swaying but unbroken

against even the determined wind of death

we judge a man by his dreams

not alone his deeds

we judge a man by his intent

not alone his shortcomings

we judge a man because it is not unusual

to know him through those who love him

the women gather strangers

to each other because

they have loved a man

it is not unusual to sift

through ashes

and find an unburnt picture

like my mother and her grandmother before

i paddle around the house

in soft-soled shoes

chasing ghosts from corners

with incense

they are such a disturbance my ghosts

they break my bric-a-brac and make

me forget to turn my heating stove

the children say you must come to live

with us      all my life i told them i've lived

with you       now i shall live with myself

the grandchildren say it's disgraceful

you in this dark house with the curtains

pulled        snuff dripping from your chin

would they be happier if i smoked        cigarettes

i was very exquisite once        very small and well courted

some would say a beauty when my hair was plaited

and i was bustled up

my children wanted my life

and now they want my death

but i shall pad around my house

in my purple soft-soled shoes

i'm very happy now

it's not so very neat, you know, but it's my

life

if she wore her dresses

the same length as mine

people would gossip viciously

about her morals

if i slept         head barely touching

the string of freshwater fake pearls

mouth slightly open         eyebrows knitted

almost into a frown

people would accuse me of running around

too much

suddenly her eyes springing away

from her sleep intensely

scope the pulpit and fall

on me

i wonder did she dream

while baking cold-water cornbread

of being a great reporter churning

all the facts together and creating

the truth

did she think        while patching the torn pants

and mending the socks of her men         of standing

arms outstretched before a great world

body offering her solution for peace

what did she feel wringing the neck

of Sunday's chicken breaking the beans

of her stifled life

she sits each sunday black

dress falling below her knees which have drifted

apart defining a void

in the temple of her life in the church of her god

strong and staunch and hopeful

that we never change

places

in the december of my springs

i long for the days

i shall somehow have

free from children and dinners

and people i have grown stale with

this time i think i'll face love

with my heart instead of my glands

rather than hands clutching to satiate

my fingers will stroke to satisfy

i think it might be good

to decide rather than to need

that pitter-patter rhythm of rain

sliding on city streets is as satisfying

to me as this quiet has become

and like the raindrop i accede to my nature

perhaps there will be no

difference between the foolishness of age

and the foolishness of youth

some say we are responsible

for those we love

others know we are responsible

for those who love us

so i sit waiting

for a fresh thought

to stir the atmosphere

i'm glad i'm not iron

else i would be burned

by now