Poems List

the sonnet-ballad

the sonnet-ballad

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover's tallness off to war,
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won't be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.
And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes."
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
256

the rites for Cousin Vit

the rites for Cousin Vit

Carried her unprotesting out the door.
Kicked back the casket-stand. But it can't hold her,
That stuff and satin aiming to enfold her,
The lid's contrition nor the bolts before.
Oh oh. Too much. Too much. Even now, surmise,
She rises in the sunshine. There she goes,
Back to the bars she knew and the repose
In love-rooms and the things in people's eyes.
Too vital and too squeaking. Must emerge.
Even now she does the snake-hips with a hiss,
Slops the bad wine across her shantung, talks
Of pregnancy, guitars and bridgework, walks
In parks or alleys, comes haply on the verge
Of happiness, haply hysterics. Is.
290

The Lovers of the Poor

The Lovers of the Poor

arrive. The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League
Arrive in the afternoon, the late light slanting
In diluted gold bars across the boulevard brag
Of proud, seamed faces with mercy and murder hinting
Here, there, interrupting, all deep and debonair,
The pink paint on the innocence of fear;
Walk in a gingerly manner up the hall.
Cutting with knives served by their softest care,
Served by their love, so barbarously fair.
Whose mothers taught: You'd better not be cruel!
You had better not throw stones upon the wrens!
Herein they kiss and coddle and assault
Anew and dearly in the innocence
With which they baffle nature. Who are full,
Sleek, tender-clad, fit, fiftyish, a-glow, all
Sweetly abortive, hinting at fat fruit,
Judge it high time that fiftyish fingers felt
Beneath the lovelier planes of enterprise.
To resurrect. To moisten with milky chill.
To be a random hitching-post or plush.
To be, for wet eyes, random and handy hem.
Their guild is giving money to the poor.
The worthy poor. The very very worthy
And beautiful poor. Perhaps just not too swarthy?
perhaps just not too dirty nor too dim
Nor--passionate. In truth, what they could wish
Is--something less than derelict or dull.
Not staunch enough to stab, though, gaze for gaze!
God shield them sharply from the beggar-bold!
The noxious needy ones whose battle's bald
Nonetheless for being voiceless, hits one down.
But it's all so bad! and entirely too much for them.
The stench; the urine, cabbage, and dead beans,
Dead porridges of assorted dusty grains,
The old smoke, heavy diapers, and, they're told,
Something called chitterlings. The darkness. Drawn
Darkness, or dirty light. The soil that stirs.
The soil that looks the soil of centuries.
And for that matter the general oldness. Old
Wood. Old marble. Old tile. Old old old.
Not homekind Oldness! Not Lake Forest, Glencoe.
Nothing is sturdy, nothing is majestic,
There is no quiet drama, no rubbed glaze, no
Unkillable infirmity of such
A tasteful turn as lately they have left,
Glencoe, Lake Forest, and to which their cars
Must presently restore them. When they're done
With dullards and distortions of this fistic
Patience of the poor and put-upon.
They've never seen such a make-do-ness as
Newspaper rugs before! In this, this 'flat,'
Their hostess is gathering up the oozed, the rich



Rugs of the morning (tattered! the bespattered. . . .)
Readies to spread clean rugs for afternoon.
Here is a scene for you. The Ladies look,
In horror, behind a substantial citizeness
Whose trains clank out across her swollen heart.
Who, arms akimbo, almost fills a door.
All tumbling children, quilts dragged to the floor
And tortured thereover, potato peelings, soft-
Eyed kitten, hunched-up, haggard, to-be-hurt.
Their League is allotting largesse to the Lost.
But to put their clean, their pretty money, to put
Their money collected from delicate rose-fingers
Tipped with their hundred flawless rose-nails seems...
They own Spode, Lowestoft, candelabra,
Mantels, and hostess gowns, and sunburst clocks,
Turtle soup, Chippendale, red satin 'hangings,'
Aubussons and Hattie Carnegie. They Winter
In Palm Beach; cross the Water in June; attend,
When suitable, the nice Art Institute;
Buy the right books in the best bindings; saunter
On Michigan, Easter mornings, in sun or wind.
Oh Squalor! This sick four-story hulk, this fibre
With fissures everywhere! Why, what are bringings
Of loathe-love largesse? What shall peril hungers
So old old, what shall flatter the desolate?
Tin can, blocked fire escape and chitterling
And swaggering seeking youth and the puzzled wreckage
Of the middle passage, and urine and stale shames
And, again, the porridges of the underslung
And children children children. Heavens! That
Was a rat, surely, off there, in the shadows? Long
And long-tailed? Gray? The Ladies from the Ladies'
Betterment League agree it will be better
To achieve the outer air that rights and steadies,
To hie to a house that does not holler, to ring
Bells elsetime, better presently to cater
To no more Possibilities, to get
Away. Perhaps the money can be posted.
Perhaps they two may choose another Slum!
Some serious sooty half-unhappy home!--
Where loathe-love likelier may be invested.
Keeping their scented bodies in the center
Of the hall as they walk down the hysterical hall,
They allow their lovely skirts to graze no wall,
Are off at what they manage of a canter,
And, resuming all the clues of what they were,
Try to avoid inhaling the laden air.
243

The Independent Man

The Independent Man

Now who could take you off to tiny life
In one room or in two rooms or in three
And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine
You are? Not any woman. Not a wife.
You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee
Showing your leaping ruby to a friend.
Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork
Could you allow, for being made so free.

A woman would be wise to think it well
If once a week you only rang the bell.
265

The Crazy Woman

The Crazy Woman

I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.


I'll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.


And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
"That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May."


Anonymous submission.
239

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.
289

The Ballad of Rudolph Reed

The Ballad of Rudolph Reed

Rudolph Reed was oaken.
His wife was oaken too.
And his two good girls and his good little man
Oakened as they grew.


"I am not hungry for berries.
I am not hungry for bread.
But hungry hungry for a house
Where at night a man in bed


"May never hear the plaster
Stir as if in pain.
May never hear the roaches
Falling like fat rain.


"Where never wife and children need
Go blinking through the gloom.
Where every room of many rooms
Will be full of room.


"Oh my home may have its east or west
Or north or south behind it.
All I know is I shall know it,
And fight for it when I find it."


The agent's steep and steady stare
Corroded to a grin.
Why you black old, tough old hell of a man,
Move your family in!


Nary a grin grinned Rudolph Reed,
Nary a curse cursed he,
But moved in his House. With his dark little wife,
And his dark little children three.


A neighbor would look, with a yawning eye
That squeezed into a slit.
But the Rudolph Reeds and children three
Were too joyous to notice it.


For were they not firm in a home of their own
With windows everywhere
And a beautiful banistered stair
And a front yard for flowers and a back for grass?


The first night, a rock, big as two fists.
The second, a rock big as three.
But nary a curse cursed Rudolph Reed.
(Though oaken as man could be.)


The third night, a silvery ring of glass.
Patience arched to endure,



But he looked, and lo! small Mabel's blood
Was staining her gaze so pure.


Then up did rise our Roodoplh Reed
And pressed the hand of his wife,
And went to the door with a thirty-four
And a beastly butcher knife.


He ran like a mad thing into the night
And the words in his mouth were stinking.
By the time he had hurt his first white man
He was no longer thinking.


By the time he had hurt his fourth white man
Rudolph Reed was dead.
His neighbors gathered and kicked his corpse.
"Nigger--" his neighbors said.


Small Mabel whimpered all night long,
For calling herself the cause.
Her oak-eyed mother did no thing
But change the bloody gauze.
261

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.
254

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.
297

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.
237

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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.