First fight. Then fiddle.
We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon.
Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies. And be it gash or gold it will not come again in this identical guise.
Be yourself. Don't imitate other poets. You are as important as they are.
With melted opals for my milk, Pearl-leaf for my cracker.
I don't want people running around saying Gwen Brooks's work is intellectual. That makes people think instantly about obscurity. It shouldn't have to mean that, but it often seems to.