Doing something extraordinary using totally ordinary means is a magic we should all be lucky enough to master. Enter poet Gwendolyn Brooks. Poetry is dead. Sure, there’s slam poetry — and the griot, as embodied by hip-hop stylings, is close. There’s no shortage of people claiming to be poets, but that’s really like saying because we all have fists, we must all be boxers. Poetry is another sweet science, though, and one that’s sometimes so fundamentally complex that just having eyes might still not be enough to get it. That is something you’re going to need to square yourself with when considering poet Gwendolyn Brooks. Especially if at any point you find yourself perched frontside to The Anniad, her long narrative poem drawn from Annie Allen, her 1949 second book of poems. Square, because while there’s the comfortable cheap-seat read that follows the flow of a young woman’s life as she traverses her time from singledom to married motherhood, there’s also much more. Much, much more. |