The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni (21 page)

if i can't do

what i want to do

then my job is to not

do what i don't want

to do

it's not the same thing

but it's the best i can

do

if i can't have

what i want    then

my job is to want

what i've got

and be satisfied

that at least there

is something more

to want

since i can't go

where i need

to go    then i must    go

where the signs point

though always understanding

parallel movement

isn't lateral

when i can't express

what i really feel

i practice feeling

what i can express

and none of it is equal

i know

but that's why mankind

alone among the mammals

learns to cry

the eye we are told

is a camera

but the film is the heart

not the brain

and our hands joining

those that reach

develop the product

it's easy sitting in the sun

to forget that cold exists

let alone envelops

the lives of people

it's easy sitting in the sun

to forget the ice and ravages

of winter yet

there are those who would have

no other season

it's always easy when thinking

we have the best to assume

others covet it

yet surf or sea each has

its lovers and its meaning

for love

watching the red sun bleed

into the ocean

one thinks of the beauty that fire brings

if the eye is a camera and the film is the heart

then the photo assistant is god

I should write a poem

but there's almost nothing

that hasn't been said

and said and said

beautifully, ugly, blandly

excitingly

stay in school

make love not war

death to all tyrants

where have all the flowers gone

and don't they understand at kent state

the troopers will shoot…again

i could write a poem

because i love walking

in the rain

and the solace of my naked

body in a tub of warm water

cleanliness may not be next

to godliness but it sure feels

good

i wrote a poem

for my father but it was so constant

i burned it up

he hates change

and i'm baffled by sameness

i composed a ditty

about encore american and worldwide news

but the editorial board

said no one would understand it

as if people have to be tricked

into sensitivity

though of course they do

i love to drive my car

hours on end

along back country roads

i love to stop for cider and apples and acorn squash

three for a dollar

i love my CB when the truckers talk

and the hum of the diesel in my ear

i love the aloneness of the road

when I ascend descending curves

the power within my toe delights me

and i fling my spirit down the highway

i love the way i feel

when i pass the moon and i holler to the stars

i'm coming through

Beep Beep

I dreamed of you last night

standing near the Drugstore on the St.-Germain-des-Prés

You popped out of the pastry shop

wiping some exotic créme from your lips

showing off your new cigarette holder

“Got one yet?”

and your smile lit up the city of lights

Southern men cannot be generalized about

I know you all as liars and lynchers

I have accepted the myth that though you may wear a suit

beneath it the blood runs hot

and your hair      so similar to those whom Darwin said were

all our ancestors      mats against your heaving chest

It's unpatriotic not to smoke tobacco

we both agreed      at least in North Carolina

and poor Ed      who will some day be a great man

just sat there confused

without laughter what is the purpose

my ancestors once worked for yours

involuntarily

and I laugh because it is only what happened

not nearly the truth

I've seen Paris and you've seen me

and last night in my dream

we both smiled

she wanted to be a blade

of grass amid the fields

but he wouldn't agree

to be the dandelion

she wanted to be a robin singing

through the leaves

but he refused to be

her tree

she spun herself into a web

and        looking for a place to rest

turned to him

but he stood straight

declining to be her corner

she tried to be a book

but he wouldn't read

she turned herself into a bulb

but he wouldn't let her grow

she decided to become

a woman

and though he still refused

to be a man

she decided it was all

right

a flying saucer landed

in my living room

i too am an astronaut

having applied for my own space

i welcomed the visitor

i need something intelligent

to talk to       not for long

but maybe just through dinner

not being afraid

of what i don't know

i unanxiously awaited the emergence

should i call him a space man

or might not it be a woman

probably not

her menses on jupiter

no less than earth

causes excuses for exclusion

should i shake hands

and offer a glass of white wine

i always wanted to know space

people but how do we proceed

i think i should tell you

she reported as she stepped from her craft

you possibly are not seeing me

depending upon the solar year

you may only be seeing my aura

don't worry i assured her

happy it was a woman

depending upon my aura

you are most likely only seeing

my solar years

we sat down

to talk

though i do wonder

why you intrigue me

i recognize that an exceptional moth

is always drawn

to an exceptional flame

you're not at all what you appear

to be

though not so very different

I've not learned

the acceptable way of saying

you fascinate me

I've not even learned

how to say i like you

without frightening people

away

sometimes I see things

that aren't really there

like warmth and kindness

when people are mean

but sometimes i see things

like fear and want to soothe it

or fatigue and want to share it

or love and want to receive it

is that weird

you think everyone is weird

though you're not really hypocritical

you just practice not being

what you want to be

and fail to understand

how others would dare

to be otherwise

that's weird to me

flames don't flicker

forever

and moths are born to be burned

it's an unusual way

to start a friendship

but nothing lasts forever

i know i haven't grown but

i don't fit beneath the rose

bush by my grandmother's porch

i couldn't have grown so much though

i don't see why the back of the couch

doesn't hide me from my sister

the lightning that would flash

on summer days brought shouts

of you children be still       the lightning's

gonna get you

we laughed my cousins and sister and i

at the foolish old people

and their backward superstitions

though lightning struck me

in new york city

and i ran

to or from what       i'm not sure

but i was hit

and now i don't fit

beneath the rose bushes

anymore

anyway       they're gone

there are sounds

which shatter

the staleness of lives

transporting the shadows

into the dreams

raindrops falling

on leaves shatter

the dust of the city

as soap washed off

bodies shatters

the complacent dirt

she waited for him

to take away that quiet

she waited for his call

with the patience of a slave

woman quilting or a jewish mother

simmering chicken broth

there would be no other

sound than his voice

to shatter the quiet

of her heart

she waited for him

to come

we make up our faces

for lots of reasons

to go to the movies

or some junior prom

to see ice hockey

or watch the Dodgers come home again

defeated

going to the grocery store

only requires lipstick

while a bridge game

can mean a quick trip

to the hairdresser for a touch up

i clean my make up

before going to bed

alone

and if my mood is foul

i spray the sheets

with Ultra Ban

most faces are made up

before the public is faced

whether male female or child

it's always so appropriate

don'tcha know

to put a little mascara

around the eyes

we make up fantasies

to face life

we need to believe

we are good on the job

or at least in the bed

we make up lies

to impress people

who are making up lies

to impress us

and if either took all

the make up off

life would not be

worth living

we make up excuses

to say i'm sorry
that

forgive me
because

and after all didn't i tell you
why

and i make up with you

because you aren't strong

enough to reach out

to say

come home       i need you

Frogs burrow the mud

snails bury themselves

and I air my quilts

preparing for the cold

Dogs grow more hair

mothers make oatmeal

and little boys and girls

take Father John's Medicine

Bears store fat

chipmunks gather nuts

and I collect books

For the coming winter

i shall save my poems

for the winter of my dreams

i look forward to huddling

in my rocker with my life

i wonder what i'll contemplate

lovers—certainly those

i can remember

and knowing my life

you'll be there

you'll be there in the cold

like a Siamese on my knee

proud purring when you let me stroke you

you'll be there in the rain

like an umbrella over my head

sheltering me from the damp mist

you'll be there in the dark

like a lighthouse in the fog

seeing me through troubled waters

you'll be there in the sun

like coconut oil on my back

to keep me from burning

i shall save a special poem

for you to say

you always made me smile

and even though i cried sometimes

you said i will not let you

down

my rocker and i on winter's porch

will never be sad if you're gone

the winter's cold has been stored

against

you will always be

there

Scarcity in oil and gas

Can bring about a cold spell

No one cares if you conserve

As long as you can pay well

Cash is not the only tool

To purchase what we need

Dollar bills and jingling change

Are very cheap indeed

Buying power in our world

Speaks to white illusion

Understanding what I need

I've come to this conclusion

Love is in short supply

Like leaves on a winter vine

Whether it's right or whether it's wrong

I'll pay the price for mine

Spring is late and summer soon

Will come in with its heat wave

We will all need energy

Unless we have a cool cave

I don't mind the cold or heat

And I've got a reason

Love when it's spread all around

Can tackle any season