Gwendolyn Brooks

of the furious
Who take Today and jerk it out of joint
have made new underpinnings and a Head.
Blacktime is time for chimeful

—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,
And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday—
When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,
Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limp...

The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden Shovel.
We real cool. We
Left school. We

Mrs. Coley’s three-flat brick
Isn’t here any more.
All done with seeing her fat little form
Burst out of the basement door;

And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
Shall we not dread him,
Shall we not fear him

Phoenix
“In Egyptian mythology, a bird
which lived for five hundred
years and then consumed itself

Kathleen Eileen
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.

Inamoratas, with an approbation,
Bestowed his title. Blessed his inclination.
He wakes, unwinds, elaborately: a cat
Tawny, reluctant, royal. He is fat

I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.
I want a peek at the back
Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows.
A girl gets sick of a rose.

“The fact that we are black
is our ultimate reality.”
—Ron Karenga
And several strengths from drowsiness campaigned

Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed at home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine-tooth comb.

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.