[still] researching to see if there has ever been any public discourse/criticism of ntozake’s work with robert mapplethorpe. 

…even more interested to read/hear
why
she choose
to work with him. 

                        (for june jordan)

use of the word
                      i
is totally unjustifiable so
we have no way of distinguishin
i from whatever we are unless
somethin else is going on that
mistakes the dynamic of us
for mine or the treasure of
ours for theirs,
we talkin abt sharin or isn’t
one all encompassin ego enough to
satisfy you/ us is all we got ‘n
won’t one i ever ever succeed in
vanquishin we/ the strength
and beauty of whatever we is
will singularly outdo an i/
effortlessly with grace
      an i is clumsiness/ narrow
      sight and sniffin round like
      a hound for where we are/ cuz i
      is lonely and lonely is different
      from the space we allow each other
      for ours/ lonely is close and dark
      and i
have known a solo self
in languishin funny house long
enough to know that
we is the answer

ntozake shange
’nappy edges’
p. 138

Pearl Primus dancing “Hard Time Blues” 
(c) 1943

she swayed from the barre     taut     in control
her legs hurt mercilessly      she even laughed
while he took notes
                               ’i wanna love you   like i dance
                                       when i hurt    i’m gettin’ better’
the poet signed his name to lines eclipsin reality
he cdnt catch his breath    the language waz
overpowerin
                    ‘i can love what i understand
                          when i dont understand     i worship’
he put his pencil in his pocket & sat
          in the middle of a whimsical circle
the dancer pliéed       she contracted     she sweat
& grew confident in her struggle
to surpass form   transcend calves ankles hips merely
accoutrements    like a music stand

dance is of the spirit       the body       her sacrifice
to dance
              & she pranced before the poet
    leaped
    chaséed   before the poet               she struck
the air waz an impudent love            &       the dancer
was righteous chosen to conquer space

she panted     she sweat     & her leotard smelled of heat
& woman                 & she laughed
while the poet fondled his own cheek
she slid round him    her body   swirled like a cobra-wind
& she located the poet’s soul    in space
                                    he lost his spirit    in the rush
of her darin        & she screamed
                              ‘i wanna love you like i dance
                                wild & delicate   reachin for what i do not know
                                   i wanna love you all round yr body
                                     in-out-of-it    no grounds no floor

                                   i wanna love you where i can dance’
& she caressed the air like an ocean fern
            blazin in the pits of ancient sunflowers
    carryin the poet’s soul in the blush of her cheeks
his heart lingerin    in her sweat 

ntozake shange
”nappy edges”
pp. 108-109 

i haveta turn my television down sometimes cuz
i cant stand to have white people/ shout at me/
sometimes i turn it off
cuz i cant look at em in my bedroom either/
being so white
that’s why i like/ greens/
they cdnt even smell you/ wdnt know what you taste like
without sneakin/ got no
idea you shd be tingled wit hot sauce & showered wit vinegar
yr pot liquor spread on hot rolls

i gotta turn the tv off cuz the white people
keep playing games/ & followin presidents on vacation at the war
there’s too much of a odor problem on the tv too/ which
brings me back to greens

i remember my grandma at the market pickin turnips
collards kale & mustards/ to mix-em up/ drop a ½ a strick a lean
in there wit some ham hock & oh my whatta life/
i lived in her kitchen/ wit greens i cd recollect
yes the very root of myself
        the dirt & lil bugs i looked for in the fresh collards/
        turnin each leaf way so slow/ under the spicket/ watchin
        lil mounds of dirt fall down the drain
i done a good job
grandma tol me/ got them greens just ready for the pot
& you know/ wdnt no white man on the tv/
talkin loud n formal make no sense of the miracle
a good pot a greens on a friday nite cd make to me
that’s the only reason i turn em off the tv
cant stand they gossipin abt the news/ sides they dont
never like the criminals & enemies i like anyway
that’s why i like GREENS/ i know how to cook em
& i sure can dream gd/ soppin up the pot liquor
& them peppers/

ntozake shange
’A Daughter’s Geography’
pp. 59-60 

“…we assume a musical solo is a personal statement/ we
think the poet is speakin for the world. there’s
something wrong there, a writer’s first commitment is
to the piece, itself. how the words fall & leap/ or if
they dawdle & sit down fannin themselves. writers are
dealin with language/ not politics. that comes later. so
much later. to think abt the politics of a poem/ before
we think abt the poem/ is to put what is correct before
the moment. if the moment waz not correct/ it still
waz. we dont castigate ornette coleman of ‘lonely
woman’/ nor do we chastise the del-vikings for singing
abt love all the time. we accept what they gave us/ cuz
that’s what they had & it waz good. when i take my
voice into a poem or a story/ I am trying desperately 
to give you that. i am not trying to give you a history
of my family/ the struggle of black people all over the
world or the fight goin on upstairs tween susie & matt.
i am givin you a moment/ like something that isnt
coming back/ something particularly itself/ like an
alto solo in decemeber in nashville in 1937.

 as we demand to be heard/ we want you to hear us. we
come to you the way leroi jenkins comes or cecil taylor/
or b. b. king.  we come to you alone/ in the theater/ in
the story/ & the poem. like with billie holiday or betty
carter/ we shd give you a moment that cannot be
re-created/ a specificity that cannot be confused. our
language shd let you know who’s talkin, what we’re
talkin abt & how we cant stop sayin this to you. some
urgency accompanies the text. something important
is going on. we are speakin. reachin for yr person/ we
cannot hold it/ we don’t wanna sell it/ we give you
ourselves/ if you listen.”

- ntozake shange
excerpt from “takin a solo/ a poetic possibility/ a poetic imperative”
found in “nappy edges“ 
pp. 11- 12 

…he made it a point
to point out   (to me)
that i was loved. not only by him
but by so many others.

that in my life - i didn’t lack love or care or nourishment. in any capacity.

he used to worry that he was the only person feeding into me.
the only person caring for me.        in any capacity.

[he knew]

(and because, at a point, i had a propensity for being tragic and dramatic (hush!) - i own that i was responsible for that.)

in “fairness” to my growth + development: i was blind.

(“…we as people take sight for granted.”)

…lacked the ability to comprehend any of this. at least in that particular time in our relationship. 

i had [have?] a tendency to be distant
and removed. i had [have?] a tendency to lose sight 
of what is going on around me
because there was [is?] always so much
going on inside me (and around me).  

[“still”:]

he loved me. he allowed me space to love myself. 
i allowed me to love him.

[peace to ntozake, fonny, and tish.]

all of this allowed me to be secure in the knowledge and understanding that: 

…people love me. that people care for me. 

that i matter. 

he always provided space for me to remember that. to own that.
to love that.

so i could [continue to] love. 

you are sucha fool/ i haveta love you
you decide to give me a poem/ intent on it/ actually
you pull/ kiss me from 125th to 72nd street/ on
the east side/ no less
you are sucha fool/ you gonna give me/ the poet/
the poem
insistin on proletarian images/ we buy okra/
3 lbs for $1/ & a pair of 98¢ shoes
we kiss
we wrestle
you make sure at east 110th street/ we have cognac
no beer all day
you are sucha fool/ you fall over my day like
a wash of azure

you take my tongue outta my mouth/
make me say foolish things
you take my tongue outta my mouth/ lay it on yr skin
like the dew between my legs
on this the first day of silver ballons
& lil girl’s braids undone
friendly savage skulls on bikes/ wish me good-day
you speak spanish like a german & ask puerto rican
marketmen on lexington if they are foreigners

oh you are sucha fool/ i cant help but love you
maybe it was something in the air
our memories
our first walk
our first…
yes/ alla that
where you poured wine down my throat in rooms
poets i dreamed abt seduced sound & made history/
you make me feel like a cheetah
a gazelle/ something fast & beautiful
you make me remember my animal sounds/
so while i am an antelope
ocelot & serpent speaking in tongues
my body loosens for/ you

you decide to give me the poem
you wet yr fingers/ lay it to my lips
that i might write some more abt you/
how you come into me
the way the blues jumps outta b.b. king/ how
david murray assaults a moon & takes her home/
like dyanne harvey invades the wind

oh you/ you are sucha fool/
you want me to write some more abt you
how you come into me like a rollercoaster in a
dip that swings
leaving me shattered/ glistening/ rich/ screeching
& fully clothed 

you set me up to fall into yr dreams
like the sub-saharan animal i am/ in all this heat
wanting to be still
to be still with you
in the shadows
all those bulidings
all those people/ celebrating/ sunlight & love/ you
you are sucha fool/ you spend all day piling up images
locations/ morsels of daydreams/ to give me a poem

just smile/ i’ll get it 

ntozake shange
”A Daugter’s Geography”
pp. 28 - 30 

by all rites i shd be writin
right to left/ upside down
or backwards/
speech/ shd run garbled & dyslexic thru my
brain/ til i hear yr voice
clearly/ again/

in some other/ life were you a mandala?
are you “OM”?
is shakti-pat/ yr regular metabolic status/
under ordinary circumstances?
oh/ there I go again
admirin myself/ unwittingly/
invitin some terribly/ lush mot palabra son syllable/
to flail
abt my bangs & lashes
so moist/ you smile/ i remember/ this is arrogance
& it’s over

this/ chastening with honey
is nothing/ like the Passion of Christ/
which brought us Lent & we give up meat/
quit our lust/ for blood & bonbons/
Mohammed’s trials brought Ramadan/ & we may only
quench our thirst for life from dawn to dusk/
& Buddah/ neath the bo tree/ spread joy abt our
ankles
so long as we rid ourselves of resentment &
impatience/ now Krishna/ is another kind of story/
but goatherds & goatherdesses/ sheperds &
sheperdesses/
all come with chastening.
you may/ sheer this wool/ wet it
braid it til you can wrap it round/ two or three
parallel/ cosmic strings/
just don’t/ disrupt the ritual
the leap from maya to nirvana/ overwhelms
unwitting/ arrogance
& je ne sais que ton insouciance/ we
can’t handle passion/ with the detness
we associate with civil servants/ in Ibadan or
Bogata/
i am so lucky
this is the essence of life/ you
present yrself/ with the warmth of the Goddess/
the ferocity of Yahweh/ the glee of Shiva/ the
cunning of Coyote/ the de-groovi-licious breath of
Obatala/ like
there was some difference between yr voice/ this
honey/ fallin off
my body/ & wild hummingbirds from the rain forest
appear
by the A train/ imaginin you some/ tropical flower
pollen
hoverin over Manhattan/ like the Muslin brother’s
incense/
maybe/ if i burn you up/ i’d calm down
the endorphin crazed
birds/ cd go back to the Amazon/             think abt it/
fire/ is a great rite of passage/                 the pollen &
the honey & the
flyin birds by my cheek/ oh oh/ i understand/
this is the fall from the Garden.

ntozake shange
”The Love Space Demands: A Continuing Saga”
pp. 20 - 21