Why We Celebrate

a poet! a prize! an anniversary!

Here we are in a world nearly twenty-five years after the passing of Gwendolyn Brooks and seventy-five years removed from a national moment for the poet: the creation of Annie Allen and its historic recognition. This Pulitzer Prize–winning book of poems follows the life of a drylongso* woman who somehow manages to speak to us, and for us, all.

And yet ... 

And yet ... 

We are sadly not removed because while so much has changed, so many fundamentals remain. There is still the abuse of children—

SUDDENLY, COUNTING NOSES, MRS. SALLIE
SEES NO PEPITA. “WHERE PEPITA BE?”
—From “In the Mecca”

There is still the political, educational, and social—although untitled—apartheid—

Those people
do not like Black among the colors.
—From “The Near-Johannesburg Boy”

There is still the recognized, but not redressed, disregard for women—

Sisters,
where there is cold silence—
no hallelujahs, no hurrahs at all, no handshakes,
no neon red or blue, no smiling faces—
prevail.
—From “To Black Women” 

When you rise in another morning,
you hit the street, your incessant enemy.

See? Here you are, in the so-busy world.
You walk. You walk.
You pass The People.
No. The People pass you.
—From “An Old Black Woman, Homeless and Indistinct”

But wait! Gwendolyn Brooks was not just a watcher of woe. She was also a reporter of delight, deed, and direction. Gwendolyn Brooks was a World-Watcher. And we need world-watchers more than ever. We need the ones who see and clarify.

I want the world to be like a garden.
I love not only roses,
but dandelions, daisies and tulips,
geraniums, honeysuckle, a violet,
jonquils _____
and black orchids.
—From “I Smile When I See People Coming”

But never has he been afraid to reach.
His lesions are legion.
But reaching is his rule.
—From “Life for my child is simple, and is good.”

My people, black and black, revile the River.
Say that the River turns, and turn the River.
—From “The Sermon on the Warpland”

In this seventy-fifth anniversary edition of her Pulitzer Prize–winning book we have new, celebratory works by poets who exemplify the multiple paths of Brooks’s legacy along with essays on the meaning of Annie Allen in times-then and times-now. And, of course, we have the magnificence and meticulousness of my mother’s words. Words that still ring true:

                                                            Rise.
Let us combine. There are no magics or elves
Or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must
Wizard a track through our own screaming weed.
—From “Men of careful turns, haters of  forks in the road,”