The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni (20 page)

i will be bitter

when i grow old

i have seen the weakness

of our race

though i       as with many others

am reluctant

to give it name

each day i face

the world through fantasies

of past glories

who i deceive i am not

at all sure

not myself

not the whites above

surely even the children

know the sterility

of their fathers

there are both reasons

and excuses

none are lacking in

understanding the causes

a cold front meeting

a warm mass of air

causes rain also

but that reason offers

less comfort

than a simple raincoat

mankind alone

among the mammals

communicates with his species

justification for his behavior

none among us lack compassion

or understanding or even sympathy

emotion is not a response

to inaction

and undoubtedly there are those

who are so unfeeling

they cannot represent mental

or emotional health

we have seen the Germans

and the Israeli reaction

and the Palestinian response

in our own time

we know the truth

of the Africans and Indians

we know we have only begun

the horror that is waiting

south of our borders

and south of our latitude

blood perhaps should not

all ways be the answer

but perhaps it always is

my people have suffered

so much for so long

we are pitiful

in our misery

we boost our spirits

by changing our minds

rather than our condition

blacks are still rather cheap

to purchase

unemployment insurance

a grant for a program programmed to fail

enough seed money to insure bankruptcy

my people like magnificent race

horses have blinders

there is always talk

of the mighty past

but no plans

for a decent future

if no man is an island

black americans stand to prove

a people can be a peninsula

we are extended       phallic like       in an ocean

of whiteness

though that is not our problem

our extension like arms on

the body or legs on

a trunk is essential to balance

one neither walks nor stands without

extensions

one is not black without white

nor male without female

what is true of the mass is no less

true of the individual

someone said the only emotion

black men show

is rage or anger

which is only partly true

the only rage and anger

they show are to those

who would want to love them

and bear their children

and with them walk into the future

why do we

who have offered expectation

have to absorb pain

i will grow bitter

in old age

because life is not a problem

but a process

and there are no formulas

to our situation

the dinosaurs became extinct

ripened fruit falls from the bough

and i grow tired of hoping

it's only natural

that bitterness rests within

my spirit

the air is polluted

streams are poisoned

and i have seen the hollow look

of hatred in the dull

worn faces

of their fathers

she realized

she wasn't one

of life's winners

when       she wasn't sure

life to her was some dark

dirty secret that

like some unwanted child

too late for an abortion

was to be borne

alone

she had so many private habits

she would masturbate sometimes

she always picked her nose when upset

she liked to sit with silence

in the dark

sadness is not an unusual state

for the black woman

or writers

she took to sneaking drinks

a habit which displeased her

both for its effects

and taste

yet eventually sleep

would wrestle her in triumph

onto the bed

she was nervous

when he was there

and anxious

when he wasn't

life       to her

was a crude cruel joke

played on the livers

she boxed her life

like a special private seed

planting it in her emotional garden

to see what weeds

would rise

to strangle

her

There is always something

of the child

in us that wants

a strong hand to hold

through the hungry season

of growing up

when she was a child

summer lasted forever

and christmas seemed never

to come

now her bills from easter

usually are paid

by the 4th of july

in time to buy the ribs

and corn and extra bag of potatoes

for salad

the pit is cleaned

and labor day is near

time to tarpaulin

the above ground pool

thanksgiving turkey

is no sooner soup

than the children's shoes

wear thin saying

christmas is near       again

bringing the february letters asking

“did you forget

us last month”

her life looks occasionally

as if it's owed to some

machine

and the only winning point

she musters is to tear

mutilate and twist

the cards demanding information

payment

and a review of her credit worthiness

she sits sometimes

in her cubicled desk

and recalls her mother

did the same things

what we have been given

we are now expected to return

and she smiles

i haven't written a poem in so long

i may have forgotten how

unless writing a poem

is like riding a bike

or swimming upstream

or loving you

it may be a habit that once acquired

is never lost

but you say i'm foolish

of course you love me

but being loved of course

is not the same as being loved because

or being loved despite

or being loved

if you love me why

do i feel so lonely

and why do i always wake up alone

and why am i practicing

not having you to love

i never loved you that way

if being loved by you is accepting always

getting the worst

taking the least

hearing the excuse

and never being called when you say you will

then it's a habit

like smoking cigarettes

or brushing my teeth when i awake

something i do without

thinking

but something without

which i could just as well do

most habits occur

because of laziness

we overdrink

because our friends do

we overeat

because our parents think

we need more flesh

on the bones

and perhaps my worst habit

is overloving

and like most who live

to excess

i will be broken

in two

by my unwillingness

to control my feelings

but i sit writing

a poem

about my habits

which while it's not

a great poem

is mine

and some habits

like smiling at children

or giving a seat to an old person

should stay

if for no other reason

than their civilizing

influence

which is the ultimate

habit

i need

to acquire

finding myself still fascinated

by the falls and rapids

i nonetheless prefer the streams

contained within the bountiful brown shoreline

i prefer the inland waters

to the salty seas

knowing that journeys end

as they begin

the sailor and his sail

the lover and her beloved

the light of day and night's darkness

i walk the new york streets

the heat rising in waves

to singe my knees

my head is always down

for i no longer look for you

usually i am cold no matter

what the temperature

i hunch my hands in the pockets of my pants

hoping you will be home

when i get there

i know i'm on dangerous ground

i misread your smile all year

assured that you and therefore everything

was all right

i wade from the quiet

of your presence into the turbulence

of your emotions

i have now understood a calm day

does not preclude a stormy evening

con edison after all went out

why shouldn't you

and though it took longer than anyone thought

the lights did come back on

why shouldn't yours

electricity is a product of the sea

as much as the air

coming from turbulence

as much as generators

if you were a pure bolt

of fire cutting the skies

i'd touch you risking my life

not because i'm brave or strong

but because i'm fascinated

by what the outcome will be

He always had pretty legs

Even now       though he has gotten fat

His legs have kept their shape

He swam

Some men get those legs from tennis

But he swam

In a sink-or-swim mud hole somewhere

In Alabama

When he was a young man

More than half a century ago

Talent was described by how well

A thing was done     not by whom

That is considering

That Black men weren't considered

One achieved on merit

The fact that he is short

Was an idea late reaching his consciousness

He hustled the ball on the high school court

Well enough to win a college scholarship

Luckily for me

Since that's where he met my mother

I have often tried to think lately

When I first met him

I don't remember

He was a stranger

As Black or perhaps responsible fathers

Are wont to be

He worked three jobs a feat

Without precedence though not unknown

In the hills of West Virginia or the Red Clay of Georgia

What happens to a dream

When it must tunnel under

Langston says it might explode

It might also just die

Shriveling to the here and now

Confusing the dreamer til he no longer knows

Whether he is awake or asleep

Before we ourselves:

Meet the man

Lie to the bill collectors

Don't know where the mortgage payment is coming from

It's difficult to understand

A weakness

Before our mettle is tested

We easily consider ourselves strong

Before we see our children want

Not elaborate things

But a christmas bike or easter shoes

It's easy to say

what should have been done

Before we see our own possibility shrink

Back into the unclonable cell

From which dreams spring

It's easy to condemn

If the first sign of spring is the swallows

Then the first sign of maturity is the pride

We gulp when we realize

There are few choices in life

That are clear

Seldom is good pitted against evil

Or even better against best

Mostly it's bad versus worse

And while some may intone

life is not fair

“Choice” by definition implies

Equally attractive alternatives

Or mutually exclusive experiences

Boxers protect themselves from blows

with heavily greased shoulders

Football players wear helmets

Joggers have specially made shoes

to absorb the shocks

The problem with the Life game

For unprotected players

Is not what you don't have

But what you can't give

Though ultimately there is the understanding

That even nothing is something

As long as you are there

To give the nothing    personally

Black men grow inverse

To the common experience

He grew younger as his children left home

He has both time and money to buy

The toys he never had

Lawn mowers    saws    garden equipment    CB's

Steroes

Whatever is new and exciting

He smiles more often too

And his legs are still

quite exceptional

For a Grandfather