One day several years ago, I wasin a bookstore. I just happened to be in the poetry section flipping throughTupac’s book, “The Rose that grew from the Concrete”, when I heard an enticingfemale voice that seemed to be speaking to me from the shelf behind. “Psst,” itbeckoned me. “Check me out, brother.” When I looked around, I didn’t seeanybody, but I noticed a book of poetry entitled “Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day”by Nikki Giovanni. That name sounds familiar, I thought.
Immediately, I picked it up,found a seat, and started reading it. I must admit, at that time, I didn’tunderstand what poetry was. I had never experienced poetry. I had never allowedpoetry to speak through me. For me, at that time, poetry was Shakespeare. Poetrywas
Wordsworth. Basically, at that time, poetry was something Icouldn’t relate to. My only experience with the poetry scene was when I watched
Love Jones. I had noidea that poetry was a part of my history and culture. Looking back, it’s hardto believe I was that limited in my thinking.
As I read the thoughts containedwithin the pages of that book, the written word spoke to me for the first time.I saw words doing things that I had never seen them do before. I saw wordsarmed with rifles plotting revolution. I saw words wearing dashikis with fistpicks poking out of afros raising their fist screaming “Power to the people!”
I saw sensuous words making loveto one another. I saw words forming lines doing the electric slide across thepage. I saw pregnant words giving birth to ideas. I saw angry words, reflectivewords, sexy words, strong words, and honest words coming together to makebeautiful poetry. I realized, then, that I didn’t know what poet try was until I discovered Nikki Giovanni.
I remember one night at anopen-mic reading, the question of the week (If you’ve ever been to the Mocharoom or Café Reggae, you know what this is) was “Who is your favorite poet?” Afew people said Tupac, but most of the young poets said Kanye West was their favorite.There was no mention of Gil Scott Heron. There was no mention of Amiri Baraka.
There was no mention of The LastPoets. There was no mention of Nikki
Giovanni. There was no mentionof the foundation at all. I just laughed to myself. I was once like them, Ithought. I didn’t know real poetry at one time either.
