And if sun comes / How shall we greet him? / Shall we not dread him, / Shall we not fear him / After so lengthy a / Session with shade?
There are no magics or elves / Or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must / Wizard a track through our own screaming weed.
To be in love Is to touch things with a lighter hand. In yourself you stretch, you are well.
Exhaust the little moment / Soon it dies.
Very early in life I became fascinated with the wonders language can achieve. And I began playing with words.
I tell poets that when a line just floats into your head, don't pay attention 'cause it probably has floated into somebody else's head.
As you get older, you find that often the wheat, disentangling itself from the chaff, comes out to meet you.
I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker. It has always been hard for me to say exactly what I mean in speech But if I have written a clumsiness, I may erase it.
When I start writing a poem, I don't think about models or about what anybody else in the world has done.
I don't like the idea of the black race being diluted out of existence. I like the idea of all of us being here.
I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker.
I think it must be lonely to be God. Nobody loves a master. No.
It frightens me to realize that, if I had died before the age of fifty, I would have died a 'Negro' fraction.
Do not be afraid of no, Who has so far, so very far to go.
I shall create! If not a note, a hole./If not an overture, a desecration.
beware the easy griefs / that fool and fuel nothing.
Life must be aromatic. There must be scent, somehow there must be some.
The music is in minors.
With melted opals for my milk, Pearl-leaf for my cracker.
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.
I who have gone the gamut from an almost angry rejection of my dark skin by some of my brainwashed brothers and sisters to a surprised queenhood in the new Black sunam qualified to enter at least the kindergarten of new consciousness now... I have hopes for myself.
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.
Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.
She was afraid to suggest to him that to most people, nothing "happens." That most people merely live from day to day until they die. That, after he had been dead a year, doubtless fewer than five people would think of him oftener than once a year. That there might even come a year when no one on earth would think of him at all.
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