Who Influenced Gwendolyn Brooks?

Two poets that influenced Gwendolyn Brooks were Langston Hughes and James Weldon Johnson.

Langston Hughes was an African American poet who, like Brooks, wrote about the social issues faced by African Americans. Hughes mainly focused on Harlem, where he called home, and the ongoing Harlem Renaissance. One of his most famous poems is The Negro Speaks of Rivers. It deals with the issues of slavery and its aftereffects in the black community. Like many of Brooks' poems, it is extremely powerful and emotionally moving.

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow
        of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went
        down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn
        all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

James Weldon Johnson was also an African American poet who focused on the social issues of African Americans during the time period. He used his poetry as a means of advancing the rights for African Americans and was heavily involved with the NAACP (National Associated for the Advancement of Colored People). His poem Fifty Years (1863-1913) deals with the Emancipation Proclamation and its after effects:  

   Fifty Years (1863-1913)

 O brothers mine, to-day we stand Where half a century sweeps our ken, Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand, Struck off our bonds and made us men.  Just fifty years - a winter's day - As runs the history of a race; Yet, as we look back o'er the way, How distant seems our starting place!  Look farther back! Three centuries! To where a naked, shivering score, Snatched from their haunts across the seas, Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore.  This land is ours by right of birth, This land is ours by right of toil; We helped to turn its virgin earth, Our sweat is in its fruitful soil.  Where once the tangled forest stood, - Where flourished once rank weed and thorn, - Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, The cotton white, the yellow corn.  To gain these fruits that have been earned, To hold these fields that have been won, Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun.  That Banner which is now the type Of victory on field and flood - Remember, its first crimson stripe Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood.  And never yet has come the cry - When that fair flag has been assailed - For men to do, for men to die, That we have faltered or have failed.   We've helped to bear it, rent and torn, Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze Held in our hands, it has been borne And planted far across the seas.  And never yet, - O haughty Land, Let us, at least, for this be praised - Has one black, treason-guided hand Ever against that flag been raised.  Then should we speak but servile words, Or shall we hang our heads in shame? Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, And fear our heritage to claim?  No! stand erect and without fear, And for our foes let this suffice - We've bought a rightful sonship here, And we have more than paid the price.  And yet, my brothers, well I know The tethered feet, the pinioned wings, The spirit bowed beneath the blow, The heart grown faint from wounds and stings;  The staggering force of brutish might, That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed; The long, vain waiting through the night To hear some voice for justice raised.  Full well I know the hour when hope Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope With hands uplifted in despair.  Courage! Look out, beyond, and see The far horizon's beckoning span! Faith in your God-known destiny! We are a part of some great plan.  Because the tongues of Garrison And Phillips now are cold in death, Think you their work can be undone? Or quenched the fires lit by their breath?   Think you that John Brown's spirit stops? That Lovejoy was but idly slain? Or do you think those precious drops From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain?  That for which millions prayed and sighed, That for which tens of thousands fought, For which so many freely died, God cannot let it come to naught.