(This should be on your bookshelf if it isn’t already. Find it here.)
we all start/as a speck/nobody notices us/but some may hope/we’re there
When I was small, I stumbled upon a poem that made me feel like I was 10 feet tall. It gave me pride in my African ancestors, pride in being Black and growing up to be the kind of Black woman the poem described. It reminded me that I am bad, and that was actually a very good thing.
diamonds are mined…oil is discovered/gold is found…but thoughts are uncovered
In middle school, I sometimes wished I was a poet. The existence of the poets I loved–Angelou, Jordan, Clifton, Brooks, Sanchez, and of course Giovanni–affirmed and baffled me. I could not, at the time, imagine a world where anyone at all cared about what I thought or felt. I obsessively longed for a world where someone cared about what I thought and felt. Religion filled some of the need. Words filled the rest, including a poem that called to “poets wrapped in loneliness”. I felt as though I’d found a member of my own tribe, someone I’d never meet but knew me just the same.
I am cotton candy on a rainy day/the unrealized dream of an idea unborn
I met Nikki Giovanni once, many years ago. It was brief, but she was generous. I did not know yet that I was a real writer too, only that I wanted to be. I was shy, tongue-tied, in awe. She was peppery, blunt and so, so smart. She shone the way that I hoped to. She looked us all in the eye and didn’t demure–she owned who she was, what she meant, and what she had written. Her brain was all the way on, but so was her heart. I was reminded that poets may be lonely, but Ms Nikki, at least, was so hip even her errors were correct. Her presence illuminated the trail her words had blazed for Black women and girls.
I went from the crowd seeking you/I went from the crowd seeking me/I went from the crowd forever
This isn’t really a review, but y’all knew it wasn’t going to be. Rest in peace and power, Ms Nikki. You meant so much to so many of us, and you are already dearly missed. We treasure the words you left us.
a poem is pure energy/horizontally contained/between the mind/of the poet and the ear of the reader
(Nikki Giovanni was born on June 7, 1943 and passed away on December 9, 2024. I am so sad she’s gone, and so grateful for all the word and thought and presence she left us with. Get some Giovanni poems on your bookshelf if you don’t already have them, fellow readers. If you buy them from my links, I’ll earn a commission, but that’s not what’s important here–Giovanni is an essential American poet, and you should read her, stat. Thanks for reading. Peace!)
Equal Opportunity Reader 