NIkki Giovanni was the epitome of what we Jamaicans call talawa, small but mighty. I told her that when we spoke in February. She had a reputation for berating interviewers when they strayed or said something stupid. I was nervous, but I didn’t have to be. Giovanni had a slow smile that radiated warmth, even as she said to me, apparently to reassure me: “Remember, the door is always open. If you don’t like what you hear, you can always leave. ”

Her poems emerged from the fire and anger that fueled the civil rights movement. After the assassination of Martin Luther King, she asked in her poem “Reflections” on April 4, 1968:

What can I, a poor black woman, do to destroy America?

Giovanni was African American through and through, but she reminded me of my Jamaican mother and the resilient women of her church who spoke simply and seriously.

It is clear from her poems that Giovanni had an aversion to pretensions. The form was important, but fundamentally her poetry was a platform to speak the truth. She was a straight shooter and made her case to men, black or white. In the poem “Baby West,” she called out her own ruthless father (Gus) who beat his wife. His violence gave her the impetus to leave her home:

And I knew my choice

Leave him or kill him.

It was a topic Giovanni returned to in a 1970s television debate, when she had a heated but respectful exchange with James Baldwin, who was nearly 20 years her senior. In particular, Giovanni crossed swords with Baldwin over whether rogue fathers (like hers) were also worthy candidates for compassion. Baldwin was more generous.

There was a directness and urgency in her spoken and written voice. But she was also often mischievous and funny. In “I Take Master Card,” for example, she points out to well-spoken lovers that love has a price:

I’ve heard all the stories

The point is that you don’t deserve me

Because I am so strong and beautiful and wonderful and you could

I’ll never live up to what you know I should have, but I just want to let it happen

You know:

I take Master Card

In 2010 I shared a stage with Giovanni in Washington, where I read my own work in the shadow of her surprise appearance, and only met her again at the Barbican in London earlier this year. Each time, the adoration of the audience – especially the women in the audience – was palpable. When she spoke, it seemed as if the women heard themselves. I heard myself too.

Giovanni came from a generation that spoke matter-of-factly about the certainty of death. Her poetry highlighted this willingness, perhaps most clearly in “When I Die.”

The poem begins violently:

When I die, I hope no one who ever hurt me cries

And when they cry, I hope their eyes fall out

It ends with lines that I treasure for their humility and eternal wisdom:

And if I’ve ever touched a life that knows life

that I know that touching was and still is and always will be the real thing

Revolution.