Read

&

Ruminate

Make Up

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

Read

&

Ruminate

Choices

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

Read

&

Ruminate

Life Cycles

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

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

Read

&

Ruminate

How Do You Write 

A Poem?

how do you write a poem

about someone so close

to you that when you say ahhhhh

they say chuuuu

what can they ask you to put

on paper that isn’t already written

on your face

and does the paper make it

any more real

that without them

life would be not

impossible but certainly

more difficult

and why would someone need

a poem to say when i come

home if you’re not there

i search the air

for your scent

would i search any less

if i told the world

i don’t care at all

and love is so complete

that touch or not we blend

to each other the things

that matter aren’t all about

baaaanging (i can be baaaanged all

day long) but finding a spot

where i can be free

of all the physical

and emotional bullshit

and simply sit with a cup

of coffee and say to you

“i’m tired” don’t you know

those are my love words

and say to you “how was your

day” doesn’t that show

i care or say to you “we lost

a friend” and not want to share

that loss with strangers

don’t you already know

what i feel and if

you don’t maybe

i should check my feelings

I feel this poem, the pain. The baddest poetry written was in the 60s and 70s. By the late 70s some poets changed their style of poetry. They moved away from writing Black Revolutionary poetry. Was it a change of an era, ideologies, or the infiltration of a Party? They do not poet like this anymore.

Yeah...But...

i don’t want you to think

that i don’t know the pain

when you say sister diana don’t sing

like she used to

cause i heard dionne making way for just like me

and i remembered the expectation

and the little surprises her albums

used to bring

the little love notes that told someone

what i felt and the ultimate surprise

when she didn’t sing for me and my love

no more and the pain was deep

cause the pleasure had been so complete

and i can dig when you say sing

like you used to but maybe we can

remember

we don’t poet like that

no more either

Bad

Beautiful

A Black woman’s rendition of Genesis

Ego Tripping 

(there may be a reason why)

I was born in the congo

I walked to the fertile crescent and built

the sphinx

I designed a pyramid so tough that a star

that only glows every one hundred years falls

into the center giving divine perfect light

I am bad

I sat on the throne

drinking nectar with allah

I got hot and sent an ice age to europe

to cool my thirst

My oldest daughter is nefertiti

the tears from my birth pains

created the nile

I am a beautiful woman

I gazed on the forest and burned

our the sahara desert

with a packet of goat’s meat

and a change of clothes

I crossed it in two hours

I am a gazelle so swift

so swift you can’t catch me

For a birthday present when he was three

I gave my son hannibal an elephant

He gave me rome for mother’s day

My strength flows ever on

My son noah built new/ark and

I stood proudly at the helm

as we sailed on a soft summer day

I turned myself into myself and was

jesus

men intone my loving name

All praises All praises

I am the one who would save

I sowed diamonds in my back yard

My bowels deliver uranium

the filings from my fingernails are

semi-precious jewels

On a trip north

I caught a cold and blew

My nose giving oil to the arab world

I am so hip even my errors are correct

I sailed west to reach east and had to round off

the earth as I went

The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid

across three continents

I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal

I cannot be comprehended

except by my permission

I mean...I...can fly

like a bird in the sky...

From Nikki Giovanni’s “Re: Creation.” Her last volume of Black Revolutionary Poetry.

Kidnap  Poem

ever been kidnapped

by a poet

if i were a poet

i’d kidnap you

put you in my phrases and meter

you to jones beach

or maybe coney island

or maybe just to my house

lyric you in lilacs

dash you in the rain

blend into the beach

to complement my see

play the lyre for you

ode you with my love song

anything to win you

wrap you in the red Black green

show you off to mama

yeah if i were a poet i’d kid

nap you

From Nikki Giovanni’s third volume of poems “Re: Creation,” published by Broadside Press in 1970.

Broadside Press was one of the biggest Black publishing companies in the late 1960s and early 1970s. A Major publisher of the poetry of BAM (Black Arts Movement).

No Reservations 

(for Art Jones)

there are no reservations

for the revolution

no polite little clerk

to send notice

to your room

saying you are WANTED

on the battlefield

there are no banners

to wave you forward

no blaring trumpets

not even a blues note

moaning wailing lone blue note

to the yoruba drums saying

strike now shoot

strike now fire

strike now run

there will be no grand

parade

and a lot thrown around

your neck

people won’t look up and say

“why he used to live next to me

isn’t it nice

it’s his turn now”

there will be no recruitment

station

where you can give

the most convenient hours

“monday wednesday i play ball

friday night i play cards

any other time i’m free”

there will be no reserve

of energy

no slacking off till next time

“let’s see—i can come back

next week

better not wear myself out

this time”

there will be reservations

only

if we fail

From the volume of poetry entitled “Black Judgement.” Published the same year as “Black Talk Black Feeling,” and distributed by one of the largest Black Publication during that time. The renowned Broadside Press.

Black Judgements

(Of bullshit niggerish ways)

You

with you bullshit niggerish ways

want to destroy me

You want to preach

responsible revolution

along with progressive

procreation

Your desires will not be honored

this season

Shivering under the armour

of your

white protector

fear not

for thou art evil

The audacity of wanting

to be near the life

of what you seek to kill

Can you love

can you hate

is your game any damn good

Black Judgements are upon you

Black Judgements are upon you