[Congressional Record Volume 146, Number 152 (Monday, December 11, 2000)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E2167-E2168]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




              IN RECOGNITION OF THE POET, GWENDOLYN BROOKS

                                 ______
                                 

                         HON. JOHN CONYERS, JR.

                              of michigan

                    in the house of representatives

                       Monday, December 11, 2000

  Mr. CONYERS. Mr. Speaker, today I honor the great African American 
poet, Gwendolyn Brooks. She is perhaps the most honored African 
American poet ever. Her works are strong, powerful, and visual. I was 
emotionally moved over and over again by her great talent. I insert 
into the Congressional Record this tribute to her which appeared in the 
Washington Post on December 5, 2000.

              [From the Washington Post, December 5, 2000]

                    Gwendolyn Brooks, Poet Nurturer

                            (By Jabari Asim)

       Gwendolyn Brooks made me skip class. The celebrated poet, 
     who died Sunday night at the age of 83, didn't exactly twist 
     my arm. Still, I felt that the choice between attending 
     interminable lectures and bearing witness to her three-day 
     residency at my college was no choice at all.
       Once or twice during my undergraduate days in mid-'80s 
     Chicago, I'd lingered in the background at Haki Madhubuti's 
     intimate South Side bookstore, sneaking peeks at Ms. Brooks 
     while she read from her many volumes. An aspiring poet, I 
     couldn't even bring myself to ask her to sign a book for me, 
     a request freely granted to more courageous souls.
       When I heard she was coming to campus, however, I changed 
     my mind. This time I'd see her up close, I resolved. For 
     three glorious days, my other subjects were all but forgotten 
     while I soaked up the poet's wisdom. I still remember her 
     quick, saucy wit, the majestic turban she wore, the gleam of 
     maternal pride that illuminated her cheekbones when she 
     introduced her daughter, Nora. Gracious, patient and fully 
     comfortable in that charged swirl of energetic young minds, 
     she regally held forth on modern poetry, feminism, emerging 
     writers she admired. In a wide-ranging give-and-take with a 
     women's studies class, she even confessed to a fondness for 
     soap operas.
       I remember the poems she read, too. ``The Pool Players. 
     Seven at the Golden Shover,'' perhaps her best-known work, 
     acquired a surprisingly caustic edge when she pronounced its 
     short, acerbic lines.

     We real cool. We Left school. We
     Lurk late. We Strike straight. We
     Sing sin. We Thin gin. We
     Jazz June, We Die soon.

       She was nearing 70 then, and her voice was strong. The last 
     day of her residency, she read before a campus-wide audience, 
     then appeared as honored guest at an evening reception. It 
     was there, amid the brie and wine and tweed, that I summoned 
     all my moxie and introduced myself. I thrust a sheaf of 
     papers at her, poems and stories full of the angst-driven 
     pretentiousness I favored then. We talked a couple of 
     minutes. She was courteous, I was breathless, and I can't 
     recall a word that was said. Less than a week later, I found 
     a note in my mailbox.
       ``He, Thanks for the opportunity to go through this heavy 
     drama. Richly, exhausting! Have a fine, creative summer! My 
     summer will be devoted to writing--(at last!) Gwen Brooks.''
       The words themselves are a model of tact, encouraging but 
     noncommittal. No matter, though: The fact that she's read my 
     work and responded to it was indisputable evidence of my 
     growing brilliance.
       I didn't know then that as a teenager, Brooks had sent her 
     poems to Langston Hughes and James Weldon Johnson, both of 
     whom sent encouraging replies. Nor did I know--despite the 
     scenes that I witnessed at the bookstore--that Brooks made it 
     her business to encourage all young writers. Perhaps the 
     kind, prompt responses she'd received from Hughes and Johnson 
     influenced her to be generous in turn. At the time, I
       Brooks's first book, ``A Street in Bronzeville'' (1945), 
     had already won critical acclaim, so she was hardly an 
     unknown entity when her next book, ``Annie Allen,'' claimed 
     the Pulitzer in 1950. Both books were praised for the 
     author's mastery of sonnets, ballads and other traditional 
     European forms. Like Countee Cullen and Claude McKay before 
     her, she knew how to apply such forms to the African American 
     experience and infuse them with desperately needed new 
     energy.
       Subsequent books, beginning with ``In the Mecca'' (1968), 
     reflected a change in tone, a more overtly political stance 
     that was often aimed at black readers in particular. For some 
     critics, the change was reason to ignore Brooks's output; for 
     aspiring black writers of subsequent generations, the shift

[[Page E2168]]

     showed us that it was possible to adapt to changing times 
     without distorting one's own voice. At its best, Brooks's 
     work is focused and fiery regardless of form, indisputably 
     Brooksian in its well-tempered elegance. To borrow critic 
     Joanne V. Gabbin's phrase, Brooks's work ``implies a 
     literature that is both rageful and resolute in its beauty.''
       Gabbin convened a conference at James Madison University in 
     1994. She conceived the conference, titled ``Furious Flower'' 
     (from a Brooks poem, ``Second Sermon on the Warpland''), as a 
     tribute to Brooks. Poets, critics and poetry lovers from 
     around the world gathered at JMU that September; it was the 
     last time I saw Brooks in person.
       There, as the reigning eminence of African American poetry, 
     Brooks received numerous accolades and testimonies to her 
     talent and generosity. Two generations of black poets had 
     come to age since Brooks's own emergence, and she'd played a 
     hand in mentoring many of them. (Although she was then 77, 
     Brooks still had mentoring left to do. In 1996 she would 
     establish the Henry Blakely Poetry Prize in memory of her 
     late husband. The $2,000 award went to a young poet of 
     Brooks's choosing.)
       Grateful to be on hand and once again basking in the glow 
     of genius, I felt proud to be among those who had firsthand 
     familiarity with Brooks's goodness. Our wine-and-brie 
     encounter had not been our last.
       In 1993, I'd had another opportunity to benefit from her 
     kindness. While editing a literary magazine I'd co-founded, I 
     wrote to Brooks and asked her to contribute to a section 
     honoring poet Audre Lorde, who had died in 1992. As she had 
     done nearly a decade before, Brooks responded quickly. In the 
     brief, eloquent tribute she submitted, she insisted that the 
     essence of Lorde would never be lost as long as we had her 
     words. I don't think she'd mind my applying those sentiments 
     to her legacy as well. We have not lost the essence of 
     Gwendolyn Brooks. The best of her endures.

     

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