Monday, June 29, 2009 - 7:15 PM
My favourite poet~ Nikki Giovanni
Nikki Giovanni is an African American writing on behalf of the black population. Many of her poems feature the lives of African Americans and some even describe her own childhood. Her poems revolve around the motive of altering the stereotypical mindsets others have on the black population. NIkki started off in Fisk University, working in the School Writer's workshop and editing the literary magazine. She received a bachelor of arts degree and went on to organizae the first Black arts festival before moving on to graduate university. Her first two works illustrated the African amaerican identity.She is my favourite poet because of her willingness to fight against the world's misconception of the blacks despite her having no reason to do so. Secondly, she does not seem to express indignation towards the white population but chooses to communicate her ideas through a gentle and sophisticated manner, through poems.
There was this poem called Nikki-Rosa which featured Nikki's childhood. She showed great depth in moral charater in this poem. Many poeple tend to think that African Americans suffer from poverty during their childhood and are uneducated but Nikki has a different view on the matter. To Nikki, "Black Love" was the greatest wealth. This means that in fact, Nikki was never poor because ahe was surrounded by love from her family and friends.
Poems by Nikki Giovanni
Nikki-Rosa
childhood remembrances are always a drag
if you’re Black
you always remember things like living in Woodlawn
with no inside toilet
and if you become famous or something
they never talk about how happy you were to have your mother
all to yourself and
how good the water felt when you got your bath from one of those
big tubs that folk in Chicago barbecue in
and somehow when you talk about home
it never gets across how much you
understood their feelings
as the whole family attended meetings about Hollydale
and even though you remember
your biographers never understand
your father’s pain as he sells his stock
and another dream goes
and though you’re poor it isn’t poverty that
concerns you
and though they fight a lot
it isn’t your father’s drinking that makes any difference
but only that everybody is together and you
and your sister have happy birthdays and very good
Christmases
and I really hope no white person ever has cause to write about me
because they never understand that Black love is Black wealth and they’ll
probably talk about my hard childhood and never understand that
all the while I was quite happy.
Poem for Black Boys
Where are your heroes, my little Black ones
You are the Indian you so disdainfully shoot
Not the big bad sheriff on his faggoty white horse
You should play run-away-slave
Or Mau Mau
These are more in line with your history
Ask your mothers for a Rap Brown gun
Santa just may comply if you wish hard enough
Ask for CULLURD instead of Monopoly
DO NOT SIT IN DO NOT FOLLOW KING
GO DIRECTLY TO STREETS
This is a game you can win
As you sit there with your all understanding eyes
You know the truth of what I’m saying
Play Back-to-Black
Grow a natural and practice vandalism
These are useful games (some say a skill is even
Learned)
There is a new game I must tell you of
It’s called Catch the Leader Lying
(and knowing your sense of absurd
you will enjoy this)
Also a company called Revolution has just issued
A special kit for little boys
Called Burn Baby
I’m told it has full instructions on how to siphon gas
And fill a bottle
Then our old friend Hide and Seek becomes valid
Because we have much to seek and ourselves to hide
From a lecherous dog
And this poem I give is worth much more
Than any nickel bag
Or ten-cent toy
And you will understand all too soon
That you, my children of battle, are your heroes
You must invent your own games and teach us old
Ones how to play.
My first Memory
This is my first memory:
A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky
wood floor
A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center
Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply
too short
For me to sit in and read
So my first book was always big
In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presided
To the left side the card catalogue
On the right newspapers draped over what looked like
a quilt rack
Magazines face out from the wall
The welcoming smile of my librarian
The anticipation in my heart
All those books—another world—just waiting
At my fingertips.
References
-poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19505
-project.caryacademy.org/echoes/poet_Nikki_Giovanni/Samplepoemsnikkigiovanni.htm
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