The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni (19 page)

it's not the crutches we decry

it's the need to move forward

though we haven't the strength

women aren't allowed to need

so they develop rituals

since we all know working hands idle

the devil

women aren't supposed to be strong

so they develop social smiles

and secret drinking problems

and female lovers whom they never touch

except in dreams

men are supposed to be strong

so they have heart attacks

and develop other women

who don't know their weaknesses

and hide their fears

behind male lovers

whom they religiously touch

each saturday morning on the basketball court

it's considered a sign of health doncha know

that they take such good care

of their bodies

i'm trying to say something about the human condition

maybe i should try again

if you broke an arm or leg

a crutch would be a sign of courage

people would sign your cast

and you could bravely explain

no it doesn't hurt—it just itches

but if you develop an itch

there are no salves to cover the area

in need of attention

and for whatever guilt may mean

we would feel guilty for trying

to assuage the discomfort

and even worse for needing the aid

i really want to say something about all of us

am i shouting         i want you to hear me

emotional falls always are

the worst

and there are no crutches

to swing back on

i am in a box

on a tight string

subject to pop

without notice

everybody says how strong

i am

only black women

and white men

are truly free

they say

it's not difficult to see

how stupid they are

i would not reject

my strength

though its source

is not choice

but responsibility

i would not reject my light

though my wrinkles are also illuminated

something within demands

action

or words

if action is not possible

i am tired

of being boxed

muhammad ali must surely be pleased

that leon spinks relieved him

most of the time

i can't breathe

i smoke too much

to cover my fears

sometimes i pick

my nose to avoid

the breath i need

i do also do the same

injustice to my poems

i write because

i have to

i have considered

my reluctance

to be a fear of death

there are all sorts of reasons

i don't want to die

responsibility to family

obligations to friends

dreams of future greatness

i close my eyes and chant

on airplanes to calm

my fleeting heart

since we are riding on air

my will is as necessary

as the pilot's abilities

to keep us afloat

i have felt that way

about other endeavors

however do we justify

our lives

the president of the united states

says Faith not deeds will determine

our salvation

that's probably why larry flynt

a stand-in for carter

is without his insides now

i have faith         of course

in the deeds i do

and see done

one really can't hate

the act but love

the actor

only jewish theater and american politics

would even contemplate

such a contradiction

however will we survive

the seventies

i seize on little things

you can tell a lot about people

by the way they comb their hair

or the way they don't look

you in the eye

am i discussing nixon

again

he went to humphrey's funeral

and opened his house

(2.50 per head)

for the public to see

can't decide if anita bryant

should marry carter or nixon

they both are so bad

they deserve her

there must be something fun

worth sharing

there is a split

between the jewish and black community

the former didn't mind

until the latter put a name to it

i live in a city

that has turned into a garbage can

there is no disagreement

about that

there is some question

concerning the dog dung in the streets

as opposed to the dog dung in the administration

ahhhh       but you will say

how awful of the poet

such insinuations she does make

nobody is perfect

i do       after all       have

this       well       reluctance

how do poets write

so many poems

my poems get decimated

in the dishes the laundry

my sister is having another crisis

the bed has to be made

there is a blizzard on the way go to the grocery store

did you go to the cleaners

then a fuse blows

a fuse always has to blow

the women soon find themselves

talking either to babies or about them

no matter how careful we are

we end up giving tips

on the latest new improved cleaner

and the lotion that will take the smell away

if you write a political poem

you're anti-semitic

if you write a domestic poem

you're foolish

if you write a happy poem

you're unserious

if you write a love poem

you're maudlin

of course the only real poem

to write

is the go to hell writing establishment poem

but the readers never know who

you're talking about which brings us back

to point one

i feel       i think       sorry for the women

they have no place to go

it's the same old story blacks

hear all the time

if it's serious a white man

would do it

when it's serious

he will

everything from writing a poem

to sweeping the streets

to cooking the food

as long as his family doesn't eat it

it's a little off center

this life we're leading

maybe i shouldn't feel sorry

for myself

but the more i understand women

the more i do

somewhere there was a piano playing

but not in the bar

where she was sitting

somewhere across the candlelights

like a ship threading its way

through the morning fog

two people were surely moving

toward completion

she knew she had feelings

that were unfulfilled

there must certainly be a revolution

somewhere

but she couldn't see it

the idea of fulfillment baffled her

most assuredly she remembered

the sheets were clean

and he was tender

it was an accident

that rush of red wine starting with her toes

that came over her ending with a sigh

she had always hated people

who had to talk and instruct

or give indiscreet encouragement

she had laughed and laughed

what a marvelous thing you have discovered

she told him

she looked to see if anyone was happy

in the bar in which she was sitting

how many aeons had it been

how many men

enough to make her secure

in her desirability

too many to allow herself to say

she loved them all

remembering the names was the hardest

though she always retained the ability

to rate them

what indeed made sex

so fascinating to everyone

at best it's a tooth in a pain

that rubbing the gums will ease

at worst it's a desire denied

like the eyes closing

to the evening's sunset

she looked and crossed her support-hosed legs

in the bar with the music just out of reach

one always remembers passion

whether fantasy or fact

that rush of pure glandular energy

what really did she feel

she straightened her gray flannel panel skirt

pulling her gray silk blouse tight against her breasts

rubbing her left arm with the square gold band

against the chill that settled on the right

she looked around at the lonely faces

in the bar without the music

what made people interested

in other people

in whom they have no interest

but yes she recalled

as the drink was served

there is an energy crisis that's why

i'm having this drink

amid a raging storm outside

there is one inside too

and spring will not lessen

its ferocity

unconsciously as black women

are wont to do

she hummed a tune and patted her foot

to the gospel beat

the tips of the black pumps were a grayish white

the ice and salt having taken

their measure

she examined her nails

noting the cuticles needed trimming

a dim reflection from the mirror on the wall

showed her the face and form of a coward

life       she justified       is not heroic

but survival

tonight through the storm

she would sit in a bar

with only the music in her head

in the morning       for sure       she would go

home

we tend to fear old age

as some sort of disorder       that can be cured

with the proper brand of aspirin

or perhaps a bit of Ben Gay for the shoulders

it does       of course       pay to advertise

one hates the idea of the first gray hair

a shortness of breath

devastating blows to the ego

indications we are doing

what comes naturally

it's almost laughable

that we detest aging

when we first become aware

we want it

little girls of four or five push

with eyes shining brightly at gram or mommy

the lie that they are seven or eight

little girls at ten worry

that a friend has gotten her monthly

and she has not

little girls of twelve

can be socially crushed

by lack of nobs on their chests

little boys of fourteen want

to think they want

a woman

the little penis that simply won't erect

is shattering to their idea of manhood

if perhaps they get a little peach fuzz

on their faces they may survive

adolescence proving there may indeed be life

after high school

the children begin to play       older

without knowing the price is       weariness

age teaches us that our virtues

are neither virtuous nor our vices

foul

age doesn't matter       really

what frightens is mortality

it dawns upon us that we can die

at some point it occurs we surely shall

it is not death we fear

but the loss of youth

not the youth of our teens

where most of the thinking took place

somewhere between the navel and the knee

but the youth of our thirties where career

decisions were going well

and we were respected for our abilities

or the youth of our forties

where our decisions proved if not right

then not wrong either

and the house       after all       is half paid

it may simply be that work

is so indelibly tied

to age that the loss

of work brings the depression

of impending death

there are so many       too many

who have never worked

and therefore for whom death

is a constant companion

as lack of marriage

lowers divorce rates

lack of life

prevents death

the unwillingness to try

is worse than any failure

in youth our ignorance gives us courage

with age our courage gives us hope

with hope we learn that man is more

than the sum of what he does

we also are what we wish we did

and age teaches us

that even that doesn't matter

i wrote a poem

for you because

you are

my little boy

i wrote a poem

for you because

you are

my darling daughter

and in this poem

i sang a song

that says

as time goes on

i am you

and you are me

and that's how life

goes on