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.

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!

I’ve always thought of myself as a reporter. When people ask why I don’t stop writing, I say, ‘Look at what’s happening in this world. Every day there’s something exciting or disturbing to write about.’ With all that’s going on, how could I stop?

No man can give me any word but Wait...

Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

Words can do wonderful things. They pound, purr. They can urge, they can wheedle, whip, whine. They can sing, sass, singe. They can churn, check, channelize. They can be a “Hup two three four.” They can forge a fiery army of a hundred languid men.

I’ve always thought of myself as a reporter.

I think there are things for all of us to do as long as we’re here and we’re healthy.

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.

Be yourself. Don’t imitate other poets. You are as important as they are.