The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni Read Online Free PDF Page B

woman’s hands—black like ink
    He can make music to please his girl
    Night comes I’m tired and beat
    He can make notes, make her heart beat fast
    Night comes I want off my feet
    Maybe if I don’t pick cotton so fast
    Maybe I’d sing pretty too
    Sing to my woman with hair of gray
    Croon softly, Baby it’s you.

You Came, Too
    I came to the crowd seeking friends
    I came to the crowd seeking love
    I came to the crowd for understanding
    I found you
    I came to the crowd to weep
    I came to the crowd to laugh
    You dried my tears
    You shared my happiness
    I went from the crowd seeking you
    I went from the crowd seeking me
    I went from the crowd forever
    You came, too

Poem
    (For TW)
    For three hours (too short for me)
    I sat in your home and enjoyed
    Your own special brand of Southern
    Hospitality
    And we talked
    I had come to learn more about you
    To hear a human voice without the Top Ten in the background
    You offered me cheese and Horowitz and
    It was relaxing
    You gave me a small coke
    And some large talk about being Black
    And an individual
    You had tried to fight the fight I’m fighting
    And you understood my feelings while you
    Picked my brains and kicked my soul
    It was a pleasant evening
    When He rises and Black is king
    I won’t forget you

Poem
    (For BMC No. 1)
    I stood still and was a mushroom on the forest green
    With all the moiles conferring as to my edibility
    It stormed and there was no leaf to cover me
    I was water-logged (having absorbed all that I could)
    I dreamed I was drowning
    That no sun from Venice would dry my tears
    But a silly green cricket with a pink umbrella said
    Hello          Tell me about it
    And we talked our way through the storm
    Perhaps we could have found an inn
    Or at least a rainbow somewhere over
    But they always said
    Only one          Only one more
    And Christmas being so near
    We over identified
    Though I worship nothing (save myself)
    You were my savior—so be it
    And it was
    Perhaps not never more or ever after
    But after all—once you were mine

Our Detroit Conference
    (For Don L. Lee)
    We met in
    The Digest
    Though I had
    Never Known You
    Tall and Black
    But mostly in
    The Viet Cong
    Image
    You didn’t smile
    Until we had traded
    Green stamps
    for Brownie Points

Poem
    (For Dudley Randall)
    So I met this man
    Who was a publisher
    When he was young
    Who is a poet now
    Gentle and loving and
    Very patient
    With a Revolutionary
    Black woman
    Who drags him
    to meetings
    But never quite
    Gets around to
    saying
    I love you

Poem
    (For BMC No. 2)
    There were fields where once we walked
    Among the clover and crab grass and those
    Funny little things that look like cotton candy
    There were liquids expanding and contracting
    In which we swam with amoebas and other Afro-Americans
    The sun was no further than my hand from your hair
    Those were barefoot boy with cheeks of tan days
    And I was John Henry hammering to get in
    I was the camel with a cold nose
    Now, having the tent, I have no use for it
    I have pushed you out
    Go ’way
    Can’t you see I’m lonely

Personae Poem
    (For Sylvia Henderson)
    I am always lonely
    for things I’ve never had
    and people I’ve never been
    But I’m not really
    sad
    because you once said
    Come
    and I did
    even though I don’t like
    you

Poem
    (For PCH)
    And this silly wire
    (which some consider essential)
    Connected us
    And we came together
    So I put my arms around you to keep you
    From falling from a tree
    (there is evidence that you have climbed
    too far up and are not at all functional
    with this atmosphere or terrain)
    And if I had a spare
    I’d lend you my oxygen tent
    But you know how selfish people are
    When they have something at stake
    So we sit between a line of
    Daggers
    And if all goes well
    They will write Someday
    That you and I did it
    And we never even thought for sure
    (if thought was one of the processes we