Riot
Author: Gwendolyn Brooks
Published: 1994
Contents
Poetry
A riot is the language of the unheard.
—Martin Luther King, Jr.
John Cabot, out of Wilma, once a Wycliffe,
all whitebluerose below his golden hair,
wrapped richly in right linen and right wool,
almost forgot his Jaguar and Lake Bluff;
almost forgot Grandtully (which is The
Best Thing That Ever Happened To Scotch); almost
forgot the sculpture at the Richard Gray
and Distelheim; the kidney pie at Maxim’s,
the Grenadine de Boeuf at Maison Henri.
Because the “Negroes” were coming down the street.
Because the Poor were sweaty and unpretty
(not like Two Dainty Negroes in Winnetka)
and they were coming toward him in rough ranks.
In seas. In windsweep. They were black and loud.
And not detainable. And not discreet.
Gross. Gross. “Que tu es grossier!” John Cabot
itched instantly beneath the nourished white
that told his story of glory to the World.
“Don’t let It touch me! the blackness! Lord!” he
whispered to any handy angel in the sky.
But, in a thrilling announcement, on It drove
and breathed on him: and touched him. In that breath
the fume of pig foot, chitterling and cheap chili,
malign, mocked John. And, in terrific touch, old
averted doubt jerked forward decently,
cried, “Cabot! John! You are a desperate man,
and the desperate die expensively today.”
John Cabot went down in the smoke and fire
and broken glass and blood, and he cried “Lord!
Forgive these nigguhs that know not what they do.”
THE THIRD SERMON ON THE WARPLAND
Phoenix
“In Egyptian mythology, a bird
which lived for five hundred
years and then consumed itself
in fire, rising renewed from the ashes.”
—webster
The earth is a beautiful place.
Watermirrors and things to be reflected.
Goldenrod across the little lagoon.
The Black Philosopher says
“Our chains are in the keep of the Keeper
in a labeled cabinet
on the second shelf by the cookies,
sonatas, the arabesques. . . .
There’s a rattle, sometimes.
You do not hear it who mind only
cookies and crunch them.
You do not hear the remarkable music—‘A
Death Song For You Before You Die.’
If you could hear it
you would make music too.
The blackblues.”
West Madison Street.
In “Jessie’s Kitchen”
nobody’s eating Jessie’s Perfect Food.
Crazy flowers
cry up across the sky, spreading
and hissing This is
it.
The young men run.
They will not steal Bing Crosby but will steal
Melvin Van Peebles who made Lillie
a thing of Zampoughi a thing of red wiggles and trebles
(and I know there are twenty wire stalks sticking out of her
head
as her underfed haunches jerk jazz.)
A clean riot is not one in which little rioters
long-stomped, long-straddled, BEANLESS
but knowing no Why
go steal in hell
a radio, sit to hear James Brown
and Mingus, Young-Holt, Coleman, John on V.O.N.
and sun themselves in Sin.
However, what
is going on
is going on.
Fire.
That is their way of lighting candles in the darkness.
A White Philosopher said
‘It is better to light one candle than curse the darkness.’
These candles curse—
inverting the deeps of the darkness.
GUARD HERE, GUNS LOADED.
The young men run.
The children in ritual chatter
scatter upon
their Own and old geography.
The Law comes sirening across the town.
A woman is dead.
Motherwoman.
She lies among the boxes
(that held the haughty hats, the Polish sausages)
in newish, thorough, firm virginity
as rich as fudge is if you’ve had five pieces.
Not again shall she
partake of steak
on Christmas mornings, nor of nighttime
chicken and wine at Val Gray Ward’s
nor say
of Mr. Beetley, Exit Jones, Junk Smith
nor neat New-baby Williams (man-to-many)
“He treat me right.”
That was a gut gal.
“We’ll do an us!” yells Yancey, a twittering twelve.
“Instead of your deathintheafternoon,
kill ’em, bull!
kill ’em, bull!”
The Black Philosopher blares
“I tell you, exhaustive black integrity
would assure a blackless Amrica. . . .”
Nine die, Sun-Times will tell
and will tell too
in small black-bordered oblongs “Rumor? check it
at 744-4111.”
A Poem to Peanut.
“Coooooool!” purrs Peanut. Peanut is
Richard—a Ranger and a gentleman.
A Signature. A Herald. And a Span.
This Peanut will not let his men explode.
And Rico will not.
Neither will Sengali.
Nor Bop nor Jeff, Geronimo nor Lover.
These merely peer and purr,
and pass the Passion over.
The Disciples stir
and thousandfold confer
with ranging Rangermen;
mutual in their “Yeah!—
this AIN’T all upinheah!”
“But WHY do These People offend themselves?” say they
who say also “It’s time.
It’s time to help
These People.”
Lies are told and legends made.
Phoenix rises unafraid.
The Black Philosopher will remember:
“There they came to life and exulted,
the hurt mute.
Then is was over.
The dust, as they say, settled.”
AN ASPECT OF LOVE, ALIVE IN THE ICE AND FIRE
LaBohem Brown
In a package of minutes there is this We.
How beautiful.
Merry foreigners in our morning,
we laugh, we touch each other,
are responsible props and posts.
A physical light is in the room.
Because the world is at the window
we cannot wonder very long.
You rise. Although
genial, you are in yourself again.
I observe
your direct and respectable stride.
You are direct and self-accepting as a lion
in Afrikan velvet. You are level, lean,
remote.
There is a moment in Camaraderie
when interruption is not to be understood.
I cannot bear an interruption.
This is the shining joy;
the time of not-to-end.
On the street we smile.
We go
in different directions
down the imperturbable street.
(Gwendolyn Brooks, 1994)[1]
Summary
The poem itself is divided into three parts: "Riot," "The Third Sermon on the Warpland," and "An Aspect of Love, Alice in the Ice and Fire." The first part tells the tale of one "John Cabot," "all whitebluerose below his golden hair." The riot repels him, coming to kill him. At the end, he appears to die: "John Cabot went down in the smoke and fire/
and broken glass and blood." This is a history of revision, and perhaps people would even say aspirational. Though Eleven people died in the riots, they were all black. The following sermon is, perhaps, subtitled "Phoenix" (the typography requires interpretation). "With the pastoral lyrics, it opens: "The earth is a beautiful place. / Watermirrors and stuff to be seen. / Goldenrod around the tiny lagoon." But this section's strength is how it uses collage." In this short novel, this poem, the longest, juxtaposes various thoughts about riots from figures such as a child, newspaper reports, "Black Philosopher," among others, "White Philosopher," And then the poem ends with a love poem that is resolved in a final "we" with a lover invoking a beloved: "We go / in different directions / down the imperturbable street." This is a great poem. This is a great poem. That's what people think they should claim. For those who like it, it is creative and experimental. For those who like that, it is' political'. And for those who like that, it is built with a deliberate aesthetic.
Author
Gwendolyn Brooks is one of American poetry's most highly known, influential, and widely read 20th-century poets. With the distinction of becoming the first Black author to receive the Pulitzer Prize, she was a much-honored poet, also in her lifetime. She was also a poetry consultant to the Library of Congress, the first Black woman to hold that position, and a State of Illinois poet laureate. Many of Brooks' works, especially those from the 1960s, show political awareness.
Racism Issue
Riot begins with the "A riot is the language of the unheard.-MLK" in Gwendolyn Brooks' poem. The quotation justifies what Brooks feels and she believes that violence is the solution to what blacks want. This quote was given in response to the race riots that were going on in the U.S. By describing a man who drives fancy cars, wears fine linen, and often drinks the finest liquor and eats expensive foods, she then begins the poem. This is to be a greedy person later on. "He says in the poem, "Gross. Gross. Que tu es grossier." Then he says, "Don't let blackness affect me! Lord!" This points out that he's racist against blacks and he's a very corrupt man. He cries " Lord! Forgive these nigguhs that know not what they do." Then John Cabot was thrown into the fire to burn to death, he still didn't know he was at fault even though staring death into his eyes, and even with the riots. Brooks is of the view that money is power and power corrupts. Since he was lucky in life, he did not see what was happening.
Reference
- Brooks, Gwendolyn. 1994. Riot. Poetry Foundation.
- Hampton, Darrius. Analysis of Gwendelyn Brooks' Riot.
- Bernes, Jasper. Clover, Joshua, and Spahr, Juliana. 2014. Gwendolyn Brooks's 'Riot' and the opt out. Kelly Writers House.
- ↑ Brooks, Gwendolyn. "Riot". Poetry Foundations, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51835/riot. Accessed 26 December 2020.