Monday, June 4, 2012

Hello again wonderful Bluebell readers!

Life finds us sitting perched on the edge of the beautiful month of June. Ah June...a time of ending/beginnings. Graduations and weddings. Spring has slipped away for the year and summer looms bright in the sky.

A perfect time to peek in to the mind of a perfectly wonderful poet!

Gwendolyn Brooks

A little about her:

She lived from 1917-2000 and wasa  highly regarded, much-honored poet, with the distinction of being the first black author to win the Pulitzer Prize. She also was poetry consultant to the Library of Congress—the first black woman to hold that position—and poet laureate of the State of Illinois.
Much of her world view was expressed in her poetry written all the way from the viewpoint of the 40s through the turbulent changes of the 60s. She gave voice to the overlooked. The homeless, the elderly, people who worked in lowly jobs. She bridged the gap of cultural diversity with beautiful words that stretch your mind to grasp their meaning.
Here is one example:
Garbageman: The Man With The Orderly Mind
What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are

sterling, whose lunge is straight?

Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never score?

Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the game,

Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own roar.

Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;

Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;

Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the shades?

Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist.
Gwendolyn Brooks

Notice the artful craft and turn of phrase that joins our powerful sense of memories past - the color of sheets, the smell and taste of the everuday- to the concept of love. This is beautifuly visible in this next poem,
when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story
by Gwendolyn Brooks
And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,
And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday —
When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,
Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon
Looking off down the long street
To nowhere,
Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation
And nothing-I-have-to-do and I'm-happy-why?
And if-Monday-never-had-to-come —
When you have forgotten that, I say,
And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell,
And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang;
And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner,
That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner
To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles
Or chicken and rice
And salad and rye bread and tea
And chocolate chip cookies —
I say, when you have forgotten that,
When you have forgotten my little presentiment
That the war would be over before they got to you;
And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed,
And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end
Bright bedclothes,
Then gently folded into each other —
When you have, I say, forgotten all that,
Then you may tell,
Then I may believe
You have forgotten me well.

 Please take the time to explore the wonderful work of this amazing poet. You will be glad you did.
Till next time, all the best to you.