What, What Am I To Do With

The Forties And Fifties Were Years Of High Poet-incense; The Language-flowers Were Thickly Sweet. Those Flowers Whined And Begged White Folks To Pick Them, To Find Them Lovable. Then The '60s: Independent Fire!

There Can Be No Whiter Whiteness Than This One: An Insurance Man's Shirt On Its Morning Run.

I Swear To Keep The Dead Upon My Mind, / Disdain For All Time To Be Overglad.

Poetry Is Life Distilled.

I Don't Want People Running Around Saying Gwen Brooks's Work Is Intellectual. That Makes People Think Instantly About Obscurity. It Shouldn't Have To Mean That, But It Often Seems To.