From the volume of poetry “Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day,” published in 1978. Inspired by an accident that happened on a rainy day while at the Cincinnati zoo with her nephew. The vendor didn’t want to sell cotton candy, because the rain would make it melt.

Cotton Candy On a Rainy Day

Don’t look now

I’m fading away

Into the gray of my mornings

Or the blues of every night

Is it that my nails

keep breaking

Or maybe the corn

on my second little piggy

Things keep popping out

on my face

or

of my life

It seems no matter how

I try I become more difficult

to hold

I am not an easy woman

to want

The had asked

the psychiatrists psychologists politicians and

social workers

What this decade will be

known for

There is no doubt it is

loneliness

If loneliness were a grape

the wine would be vintage

If it were a wood

the furniture would be mahogany

But since it is life it is

Cotton Candy

on a rainy day

The sweet soft essence

of possibility

Never quite maturing

I have prided myself

On being in that great tradition

Albeit circus

That the show must go on

Though in my community the vernacular is

One Monkey Don’t Stop the Show

We all line up

at some midway point

To thread our way through

the boredom and futility

Looking for the blue ribbon and gold medal

Mostly these are seen as food labels

we are consumed by people who sing

the same old song Stay:

as sweet as you are

in my corner

Or perhaps just a little bit longer

But whatever you do don’t change baby baby don’t

change

Something needs to change

Everything some say will change

I need a change

of pace face attitude and life

Though I long for my loneliness

I know I need something

Or someone

Or……

I strangle my words as easily as I do my tears

I stifle my screams as frequently as I flash my smile

it means nothing

I am cotton candy on a rainy day

the unrealized dream of an idea unborn

I share with the painters the desire

To put a three-dimensional picture

On a one-dimensional surface

What Poetry Is

Who Poets Are

From Nikki Giovanni’s volume of poetry “The Women and the Men.” Which features Nineteen new poems and many poems from “Re: Creation.” Which was published by Broadside Press.

Poetry

poetry is motion graceful

as a fawn

gentle as a teardrop

strong like the eye

finding peace in a crowded room

we poets tend to think

our words are golden

though emotion speaks too

loudly to be defined

by silence

sometimes after midnight or just before

the dawn

we sit typewriter in hand

pulling loneliness around us

forgetting our lovers or children

who are sleeping

ignoring the weary wariness

of our own logic

to compose a poem

no one understands it

it never says “love me” for poets are

beyond love

it never says “accept me” for poems seek not

acceptance but controversy

it only says “i am” and therefore

i concede that you are too

a poem is pure energy

horizontally contained

between the mind

of the poet and the ear of the reader

if it does not sing discard the ear

for poetry is song

if it does not delight discard

the heart for poetry is joy

if it does not inform than close

off the brain for it is dead

if it cannot heed the insistent message

that life is precious

which is all we poets

wrapped in our loneliness

are trying to say

From Nikki Giovanni’s fourth volume of poetry “My House.” Different from her first three published volumes. It was a departure from writing Black Revolutionary poems.

My House

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 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

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From Nikki Giovanni's fourth volume of poetry “My House,” published in 1972.

We

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

Read

&

Ruminate

Ever Want 

To Crawl

ever want to crawl

in someone’s arms

white out the world

in someone’s arms

and feel the world

of someone’s arms

it’s so hot in hell

if i don’t sweat

i’ll melt

Read

&

Ruminate

And Sometimes 

I Sit

and sometimes i sit

down at the typewriter

and i think

not of someone

cause there isn’t anyone

to think

about and i wonder

is it worth it