Gwendolyn Brooks

Gwendolyn Brooks

1917–2000 · lived 83 years US US

Gwendolyn Brooks was a pioneering American poet whose work chronicled the lives of ordinary African Americans with vivid imagery and profound empathy. She broke significant ground as the first African American to win a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, an achievement that underscored her distinctive voice and her commitment to portraying the realities of urban Black life. Brooks's poetry often explored themes of identity, social justice, community, and the challenges and triumphs of Black existence in America, using both traditional forms and more experimental approaches to capture the rhythms and spirit of her subjects.

n. 1917-06-07, Topeka · m. 2000-12-03, Chicago

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Young Afrikans

Young Afrikans

of the furious

Who take Today and jerk it out of joint
have made new underpinnings and a Head.


Blacktime is time for chimeful
poemhood
but they decree a
jagged chiming now.


If there are flowers flowers
must come out to the road. Rowdy!—
knowing where wheels and people are,
knowing where whips and screams are,
knowing where deaths are, where the kind kills are.


As for that other kind of kindness,
if there is milk it must be mindful.
The milkofhumankindness must be mindful
as wily wines.
Must be fine fury.
Must be mega, must be main.


Taking Today (to jerk it out of joint)
the hardheroic maim the
leechlike-as-usual who use,
adhere to, carp, and harm.


And they await,
across the Changes and the spiraling dead,
our Black revival, our Black vinegar,
our hands, and our hot blood.
Read full poem
Bio

Identification and basic context

Gwendolyn Elizabeth Brooks was an American poet and educator. She is celebrated as one of the most significant American poets of the 20th century, particularly for her focus on the Black experience in urban America. Brooks was the first African American to win the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, which she received in 1950 for her collection 'Annie Allen'. Her work often explored themes of race, poverty, identity, and social justice. She wrote in both traditional poetic forms and free verse, often drawing inspiration from the everyday lives of people in her Chicago neighborhood.

Childhood and education

Born in Topeka, Kansas, Brooks moved with her family to Chicago, Illinois, at a very young age. She grew up in the Bronzeville neighborhood, a vibrant center of African American culture. Brooks began writing poetry at an early age, reportedly publishing her first poem at the age of seven. She attended Hyde Park High School and later graduated from Englewood High School. She continued her education at Wilson Junior College. Her early exposure to the rich cultural milieu of Bronzeville, as well as her keen observations of the community around her, profoundly influenced her poetic development.

Literary trajectory

Brooks's literary career began to gain national recognition in the 1940s. Her first published collection, 'A Street in Bronzeville' (1945), introduced her distinctive voice and her focus on the lives of Black Chicagoans. Her second book, 'Annie Allen' (1949), won the Pulitzer Prize, catapulting her to national prominence. Throughout her career, Brooks continued to explore the themes and characters of her community, expanding her scope and experimenting with form. She also served as a teacher and literary mentor, deeply involved in fostering literary talent, especially among young Black writers.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Brooks's major works include 'A Street in Bronzeville' (1945), 'Annie Allen' (1949), 'The Bean Eaters' (1960), 'Selected Poems' (1963), and 'In the Mecca' (1968). Her style is characterized by its accessibility, its vivid and often stark imagery, and its deep empathy for her subjects. She masterfully employed traditional poetic forms, such as sonnets and ballads, but also experimented with free verse and innovative structures to capture the vernacular rhythms and realities of urban Black life. Key themes in her work include racism, poverty, the struggles and triumphs of Black identity, family, community, and the resilience of the human spirit. Her poems often feature compelling character sketches and narrative elements, bringing the lives of her characters vividly to life.

Cultural and historical context

Brooks wrote during a period of immense social and cultural upheaval in the United States, including the Great Migration, the Civil Rights Movement, and the Black Arts Movement. Her work is deeply rooted in the African American experience and often addresses the systemic racism and economic inequalities faced by Black communities. She was a contemporary and friend of many prominent Black artists and intellectuals, and her poetry served as both a reflection of and a contribution to the broader Black cultural renaissance.

Personal life

Gwendolyn Brooks was married to Henry Lowington Blakely, Jr., and they had two children. She was a devoted mother and wife, and her family life often informed her poetry. She was also deeply committed to her community and her people, using her platform to advocate for social change and to mentor aspiring writers. Her personal experiences and observations of life in Chicago undoubtedly shaped her compassionate and insightful poetic voice.

Recognition and reception

Brooks received numerous awards and honors throughout her career, most notably the Pulitzer Prize. She was also appointed Poet Laureate of Illinois and served as a consultant in poetry to the Library of Congress. Her work has been widely anthologized and studied, and she is recognized as a foundational figure in American poetry, particularly within the canon of African American literature.

Influences and legacy

Brooks's work was influenced by poets such as Langston Hughes and the broader tradition of African American literature. Her own legacy is immense; she inspired generations of poets, particularly African American women writers, to find and articulate their own voices. Her commitment to depicting the realities of Black life with dignity and nuance has had a lasting impact on American literature and culture.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critical analysis of Brooks's work often focuses on her masterful use of language, her insightful social commentary, and her profound understanding of human nature. Her ability to balance aesthetic beauty with social relevance is a hallmark of her poetry. Scholars have examined her engagement with issues of race, class, and gender, as well as her innovative approach to poetic form.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Brooks was known for her quiet demeanor and her dedication to her craft. She was also a prolific writer of children's books. She famously donated all proceeds from her poetry readings to local charities and scholarships, demonstrating her deep commitment to her community.

Death and memory

Gwendolyn Brooks passed away in 2000. Her work continues to be widely read, studied, and celebrated, ensuring her enduring place in American literary history. Her home in Chicago is preserved as a historic landmark, and her legacy as a powerful voice for social justice and a master poet continues to inspire.

Poems

20

The Blackstone Rangers

The Blackstone Rangers

I
AS SEEN BY DISCIPLINES


There they are.
Thirty at the corner.
Black, raw, ready.
Sores in the city
that do not want to heal.


II
THE LEADERS


Jeff. Gene. Geronimo. And Bop.
They cancel, cure and curry.
Hardly the dupes of the downtown thing
the cold bonbon,
the rhinestone thing. And hardly
in a hurry.
Hardly Belafonte, King,
Black Jesus, Stokely, Malcolm X or Rap.
Bungled trophies.
Their country is a Nation on no map.


Jeff, Gene, Geronimo and Bop
in the passionate noon,
in bewitching night
are the detailed men, the copious men.
They curry, cure,
they cancel, cancelled images whose Concerts
are not divine, vivacious; the different tins
are intense last entries; pagan argument;
translations of the night.


The Blackstone bitter bureaus
(bureaucracy is footloose) edit, fuse
unfashionable damnations and descent;
and exulting, monstrous hand on monstrous hand,
construct, strangely, a monstrous pearl or grace.


III
GANG GIRLS


A Rangerette


Gang Girls are sweet exotics.



Mary Ann
uses the nutrients of her orient,
but sometimes sighs for Cities of blue and jewel
beyond her Ranger rim of Cottage Grove.
(Bowery Boys, Disciples, Whip-Birds will
dissolve no margins, stop no savory sanctities.)


Mary is
a rose in a whiskey glass.


Mary’s
Februaries shudder and are gone. Aprils
fret frankly, lilac hurries on.
Summer is a hard irregular ridge.
October looks away.
And that’s the Year!


Save for her bugle-love.
Save for the bleat of not-obese devotion.
Save for Somebody Terribly Dying, under
the philanthropy of robins. Save for her Ranger
bringing
an amount of rainbow in a string-drawn bag.
“Where did you get the diamond?” Do not ask:
but swallow, straight, the spirals of his flask
and assist him at your zipper; pet his lips
and help him clutch you.

Love’s another departure.
Will there be any arrivals, confirmations?
Will there be gleaning?


Mary, the Shakedancer’s child
from the rooming-flat, pants carefully, peers at
her laboring lover ....


Mary! Mary Ann!
Settle for sandwiches! settle for stocking caps!
for sudden blood, aborted carnival,
the props and niceties of non-loneliness—
the rhymes of Leaning.
312

Primer For Blacks

Primer For Blacks

Blackness
is a title,
is a preoccupation,
is a commitment Blacks
are to comprehend—
and in which you are
to perceive your Glory.


The conscious shout
of all that is white is
“It’s Great to be white.”
The conscious shout
of the slack in Black is
'It's Great to be white.'
Thus all that is white
has white strength and yours.


The word Black


has geographic power,


pulls everybody in:


Blacks here—


Blacks there—


Blacks wherever they may be.


And remember, you Blacks, what they told you—


remember your Education:


“one Drop—one Drop


maketh a brand new Black.”
Oh mighty Drop.

______And because they have given us kindly

so many more of our people

Blackness
stretches over the land.
Blackness—
the Black of it,
the rust-red of it,
the milk and cream of it,
the tan and yellow-tan of it,
the deep-brown middle-brown high-brown of it,
the “olive” and ochre of it—
Blackness
marches on.


The huge, the pungent object of our prime out-ride
is to Comprehend,
to salute and to Love the fact that we are Black,
which is our “ultimate Reality,”
which is the lone ground
from which our meaningful metamorphosis,
from which our prosperous staccato,
group or individual, can rise.



Self-shriveled Blacks.
Begin with gaunt and marvelous concession:
YOU are our costume and our fundamental bone.


All of you—
you COLORED ones,
you NEGRO ones,


those of you who proudly cry
“I’m half INDian”—
those of you who proudly screech
“I’VE got the blood of George WASHington in MY veins”
ALL of you—

you proper Blacks,
you half-Blacks,
you wish-I-weren’t Blacks,
Niggeroes and Niggerenes.


You.
278

Sadie and Maud

Sadie and Maud

Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine toothed comb.


She didn't leave a tangle in
Her comb found every strand.
Sadie was one of the livingest chicks
In all the land.


Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly died of shame.


When Sadie said her last so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie left as heritage
Her fine-toothed comb.)


Maud, who went to college,
Is a thin brown mouse.
She is living all alone
In this old house.
316

Of Robert Frost

Of Robert Frost

There is a little lightning in his eyes.
Iron at the mouth.
His brows ride neither too far up nor down.


He is splendid. With a place to stand.


Some glowing in the common blood.
Some specialness within.
254

My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell

My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell

I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.
280

Kitchenette Building

Kitchenette Building

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. "Dream" mate, a giddy sound, not strong
Like "rent", "feeding a wife", "satisfying a man".


But could a dream sent up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday's garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms,


Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?


We wonder. But not well! not for a minute!
Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.
300

Garbageman: The Man With The Orderly Mind

Garbageman: The Man With The Orderly Mind

What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are
sterling, whose lunge is straight?
Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never

score?

Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the
game,
Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own

roar.

Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;
Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;
Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the


shades?
Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist.
226

A Penitent Considers Another Coming of Mary

A Penitent Considers Another Coming of Mary

For Reverend Theodore Richardson

If Mary came would Mary
Forgive, as Mothers may,
And sad and second Saviour
Furnish us today?


She would not shake her head and leave
This military air,
But ratify a modern hay,
And put her Baby there.


Mary would not punish men—
If Mary came again.
290

A Sunset of the City

A Sunset of the City

Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.
My daughters and sons have put me away with marbles and dolls,
Are gone from the house.
My husband and lovers are pleasant or somewhat polite
And night is night.


It is a real chill out,
The genuine thing.
I am not deceived, I do not think it is still summer
Because sun stays and birds continue to sing.


It is summer-gone that I see, it is summer-gone.
The sweet flowers indrying and dying down,
The grasses forgetting their blaze and consenting to brown.


It is a real chill out. The fall crisp comes
I am aware there is winter to heed.
There is no warm house
That is fitted with my need.


I am cold in this cold house this house
Whose washed echoes are tremulous down lost halls.
I am a woman, and dusty, standing among new affairs.
I am a woman who hurries through her prayers.


Tin intimations of a quiet core to be my
Desert and my dear relief
Come: there shall be such islanding from grief,
And small communion with the master shore.
Twang they. And I incline this ear to tin,
Consult a dual dilemma. Whether to dry
In humming pallor or to leap and die.


Somebody muffed it?? Somebody wanted to joke.
262

She did not scream.

She did not scream.
She stood there.
But a hatred for him burst into glorious flower,
And its perfume enclasped them--big,
Bigger than all magnolias.


The last bleak news of the ballad.
The rest of the rugged music.
The last quatrain.
262

Quotes

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