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Best Famous Gwendolyn Brooks Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Gwendolyn Brooks poems. This is a select list of the best famous Gwendolyn Brooks poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Gwendolyn Brooks poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Gwendolyn Brooks poems.

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by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

The Good Man

 The good man.
He is still enhancer, renouncer.
In the time of detachment, in the time of the vivid heather and affectionate evil, in the time of oral grave grave legalities of hate - all real walks our prime registered reproach and seal.
Our successful moral.
The good man.
Watches our bogus roses, our rank wreath, our love's unreliable cement, the gray jubilees of our demondom.
Coherent Counsel! Good man.
Require of us our terribly excluded blue.
Constrain, repair a ripped, revolted land.
Put hand in hand land over.
Reprove the abler droughts and manias of the day and a felicity entreat.
Love.
Complete your pledges, reinforce your aides, renew stance, testament.


by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

To Be In Love

 To be in love 
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.
A sky is blue.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
He is not there but You know you are tasting together The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes Because your pulse must not say What must not be said.
When he Shuts a door- Is not there_ Your arms are water.
And you are free With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth To touch, to whisper on.
Oh when to declare Is certain Death! Oh when to apprize Is to mesmerize, To see fall down, the Column of Gold, Into the commonest ash.


by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

We Real Cool

 We real cool.
We Left School.
We Lurk late.
We Strike straight.
We Sing sin.
We Thin gin.
We Jazz June.
We Die soon.


More great poems below...

by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

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.


by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

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


by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

To Be In Love

 To be in love 
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.
A sky is blue.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
He is not there but You know you are tasting together The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes Because your pulse must not say What must not be said.
When he Shuts a door- Is not there_ Your arms are water.
And you are free With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth To touch, to whisper on.
Oh when to declare Is certain Death! Oh when to apprize Is to mesmerize, To see fall down, the Column of Gold, Into the commonest ash.


by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

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.


by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

One Wants A Teller In A Time Like This

 One wants a teller in a time like this

One's not a man, one's not a woman grown
To bear enormous business all alone.
One cannot walk this winding street with pride Straight-shouldered, tranquil-eyed, Knowing one knows for sure the way back home.
One wonders if one has a home.
One is not certain if or why or how.
One wants a Teller now: Put on your rubbers and you won't catch a cold Here's hell, there's heaven.
Go to Sunday School Be patient, time brings all good things--(and cool Stong balm to calm the burning at the brain?) Behold, Love's true, and triumphs; and God's actual.


by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

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.
"


by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

The Mother

 Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh, Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.
I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children.
I have contracted.
I have eased My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized Your luck And your lives from your unfinished reach, If I stole your births and your names, Your straight baby tears and your games, Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches, and your deaths, If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths, Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
Though why should I whine, Whine that the crime was other than mine?-- Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead, You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid, Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said? You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.
Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you All.


by Gwendolyn Brooks | |

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.