Synthesis

When I chose to research and complete my poetry project on the works of Gwendolyn Brooks, the only poem I knew by her was "We Real Cool." It was a poem that I read for the first time in fourth grade, and have never forgotten. Something about it stuck with me, and whether it was the subject matter, jarring enjambment, or possibly the intentionally awful grammar, the repetitive "We,"  always seemed to echo in my head every time poetry was discussed in school there on out. I think that echoing is the essence of Gwendolyn Brooks and her poetry. The power of her poetry is the kind one cannot forget.

An African American poet, much of Brooks' work focuses on issues faced by African Americans, mainly those in poor, urban communities. Her writing is so effective because she skillfully pairs different literary techniques to further communicate the troubling yet powerful subject matter. Examples of this are in "Kitchenette Building," which focuses on the disillusionment of the "American Dream." To effectively communicate her point she uses devices sensory imagery and metaphor. "The Mother," speaks of the typically unaddressed issues of abortion-- the guilt and lamentations the would have been mother faces. Like many of her poems, Brooks uses repitition in "The Mother." Another device Brooks often uses is rhyme schemes, though they are not usually regular.

Brooks poems are approachable and about the struggles of common people, which I believe is why she is so popular. Her vocabulary is not inaccessible, or her syntax unaproachable. Her poetry and intent manifest in the way that good poetry should: when reading her poems I would get a feeling, they evoked a certain emotion in me, though I was not totally sure why. After multiple reads, I was able to pick up on certain elements, her comparison of a dream to an onion, specific instances of poverty, little things that made her poems so tangible, powerful and emotional. Brooks speaks to one's subconcious before they can even recognize it.

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.

Literary Devices

See site for great definitions of literary terms mentioned and described in analysis http://www.tnellen.com/cybereng/lit_terms/

Gwendolyn Brooks on YouTube

Her Legacy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wr3suBImldk

Bad 80s Montage: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cyYPsHcwsag

We Real Cool: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3kF6MGBjzk&feature=related

Kitchenette Building

Kitchenette Building

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. Kitchenette Building by Gwendolyn Brooks deals with the idea or illusion of the American Dream. Brooks takes a more cynical viewpoint, arguing that the dream is "gray," and having a "giddy sound, not strong." She also compares it to the fight between onions and potatoes fried together, competing for flavor. In their competition for flavor, I think Brooks alludes to the idea of appearance versus reality. While the onions have a strong, showy flavor, the potatoes are the bland and gray reality. The next aroma she speaks of is "garbage ripening," again imagery that suggests a negative view, or rather the sad reality, of those who pursue the American Dream.

The Independent Man

The Independent Man

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.

This poem focuses on the objectification of women (described as a ruby) during the time of slavery. I think that the poem talks about slave women being raped by their masters, and used for their friends as well. I think that the symbolism of the cork is that it is an airy material, with lots of holes and low density implying lightness and freeness.