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Exhaust the little moment / Soon it dies.
Gwendolyn Brooks
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Gwendolyn Brooks
Age: 83 †
Born: 1917
Born: June 7
Died: 2000
Died: December 3
Novelist
Poet
Teacher
Writer
Topeka
Kansas
Gwendolyn Elizabeth Brooks
Soon
Passion
Dies
Moment
Moments
Littles
Little
Exhaust
Identical
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Art is a refining and evocative translation of the materials of the world.
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As you get older, you find that often the wheat, disentangling itself from the chaff, comes out to meet you.
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My last defense / Is the present tense.
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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.
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Reading is important - read between the lines. Don't swallow everything.
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I like the concentration, the crush I like working with language, as others like working with clay, or notes.
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It frightens me to realize that, if I had died before the age of fifty, I would have died a 'Negro' fraction.
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I am an ordinary human being who is impelled to write poetry. ... I still do feel that a poet has a duty to words, and that words can do wonderful things, and it's too bad to just let them lie there without doing anything with and for them.
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Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies. And be it gash or gold it will not come again in this identical guise.
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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.
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Very early in life I became fascinated with the wonders language can achieve. And I began playing with words.
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The forties and fifties were years of high poet-incense the language-flowers were thickly sweet. Those flowers whined and begged white folks to pick them, to find them lovable. Then the '60s: Independent fire!
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This is the urgency: Live! and have your blooming in the noise of the whirlwind.
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Live not for Battles Won. Live not for The-End-of-the-Song. Live in the along.
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Each body has its art.
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When you love a man, he becomes more than a body. His physical limbs expand, and his outline recedes, vanishes. He is rich and sweet and right. He is part of the world, the atmosphere, the blue sky and the blue water.
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She was learning to love moments. To love moments for themselves.
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What I'm fighting for now in my work... for an expression relevant to all manner of blacks, poems I could take into a tavern, into the street, into the halls of a housing project.
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at a certain moment in social proceedings, I am on FIRE to leave: I have a leaving-FIT.
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Art hurts. Art urges voyages - and it is easier to stay at home.
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