Gwendolyn Elizabeth Blakely Brooks

I'm a poet, and I've studied some of Mrs. Brooks works in college. There is much that I can and will learn from her. Rest in peace. (Acts 24:15)

Gwendolyn was a great poet and writer. She wil be missed.

I did not know that Gwendolyn Brook died. I am very sad of hearing it today. I admired her strength and dedication to the african american community. She will be missed.

Not many can radiate
her zawadi smile--
a gift from the depth
of her essence--
a smile with the corners
of her mouth
turned down

She embodied a spirit
clear to her mission
of understanding
and motivating children
She inspired them to soar
on validated self esteem
they might otherwise not have
uncovered

She battled as regally as
Nzingah and Aminah
shattering Moynihan myths
that belied a blueprint for
destruction of our families

And whether we were dim
or fully developed children
we salute her legacy
knowing she recognized
each of us...all of us
and
we loved her too

The Leaving of Gwendolyn Brooks

Conduct your blooming in the noise and whip of
the whirlwind.

Gwendolyn Brooks



It was all too fitting
That they had to dig through
A brutally thick ice-white blanket, and past
A stinging blizzard that even turned
Raised eyebrows white
To find the warmer, moist black soil
In which to properly bury
Gwendolyn Brooks.

What made it wondrous,though, were
All those blooming leaves.
…

Now we know why
The leaves wouldn't leave
On time this year.

No, they weren't lazy
Just
Waiting
All their colors spent,
Worked out,
Their greens, golds, vibrant oranges
Now all brown and tan, some even black.
They held on for dear life
Into early December.

Just hanging around
Out there
Out on a limb after limb
Precarious but prickly
Fragile but stubborn
Defying tradition, their place,
Refusing to fall on time
Making front page headlines
In the Chicago Tribune
For daring to stick around.
What is it that they want?

Gwendolyn Brooks must
Have loved those leaves
For holding on.
Now she has fallen
Moved on down and up
Passed on and into, leaving
Us
Her precisely passionate poetry
Sweetly defiant, prickly
Wise, stubbornly
Assertive, putting words
Where they hadn't belonged
Until then.

Saluting black
Beyond bleak, neglecting
Neglect, refusing
Refusal, holding
On.



So on her funeral day
A white whirlwind only she could sing
A white icy whip of a wind
Blew buckets of sticky, cottony snow
Into every crack in the city, every alley,
Every squinting eyelid.
Even boots, tight woolen caps
Large bookish eye-glasses
Could not protect
Us. Contain
The storm's furious beauty
Painting drab brownstones white
Turning alleys into frozen arctic seas

Even amid rows of now white castles
The trees dominated
Every trunk whitewashed
Every branch a Japanese painting
Every leaf an award-winning photograph.

And finally the leaves,
(Now they were Gwen's leaves
For she had led a workshop
The night before)
Joined the fury
Jumped off and into
The whirlwind
Danced circles around and through
Those clumsy, falling
Clumps of snow
Fell
Free
At
Last.

Some even jumped
Stayed
On top
Of that enormous, brutal, thick, cold, white blanket
Keeping it funky,
From being too white,
Adding punctuation,
Depth of contrast,
Fresh new meaning, like
Surprising
Words on what tried to be
A blank page.

Some audacious leaves,
Gwen's best pupils,
Jumped in the grave
With her.
She had invited them.

It was a proper burial.
More than proper.
It was her latest poem.

=====
Hank De Zutter