Riot

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Author: Gwendolyn Brooks

Published: 1994

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

  1. Brooks, Gwendolyn. 1994. Riot. Poetry Foundation.
  2. Hampton, Darrius. Analysis of Gwendelyn Brooks' Riot.
  3. Bernes, Jasper. Clover, Joshua, and Spahr, Juliana. 2014. Gwendolyn Brooks's 'Riot' and the opt out. Kelly Writers House.
    1. Brooks, Gwendolyn. "Riot". Poetry Foundations, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51835/riot. Accessed 26 December 2020.