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Gwendolyn Brooks
Poet / Writer
We real cool.
We Left school.
We Lurk late.
We Strike straight.
We Sing sin.
We Thin gin.
We Jazz June.
We Die soon
We are things of dry hours
and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray.
"Dream" mate, a giddy sound,
not strong Like "rent",
"feeding a wife",
"satisfying a man".
But could a dream sent up
through onion fumes
Its white and violet,
fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday's garbage ripening
in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down
these rooms,
Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?
We wonder.
But not well! not for a minute!
Since Number Five is out of
the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water,
hope to get in it.
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.
I want to go in the back yard now
And maybe down the alley,
To where the charity children play.
I want a good time today.
They do some wonderful things.
They have some wonderful fun.
My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine
How they don’t have to go in at quarter to nine.
My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae
Will grow up to be a bad woman.
That George’ll be taken to Jail soon or late
(On account of last winter he sold our back gate).
But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.
And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,
And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace
And strut down the streets with paint on my face.
.
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
.
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 too 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.
We Real Cool
Kitchenette Building
A Song in the Front Yard
An Independent Man
To be in Love
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