We sing sin

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000)

According to interviews with Ms. Brooks, the last "we" in most of the lines is supposed to be said softly. As if the protagonists in the poem are pondering the validity of their own existence.

When I was in college back in the mid-late 80's, I was forced by an evil professor to attend a reading by Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Gwendolyn Brooks. What I knew about poetry back then is pretty much what I know now. It's an art form that has escaped me. That doesn't mean that I have, at times, been blown away by it.

That night in an auditoreum with about 250 students, many of whom probably wished they were any where else, was one of those times. I remember a friend of mine laughing at the poem above as read by Ms. Brooks. "How hard is it to come up with that?" he laughed. But he wasn't seeing it. He wasn't seeing the pain, the passion, and ultimately the futility of it all. I remember looking at this woman's face as she spoke. I remember thinking about how much it meant to her, and how much it must have meant to others.

And then the next day I forgot about Gwendolyn Brooks.

But every once in a while her words come to me while driving or watching a film or dreaming. This morning was one of those times. I awoke from a dream where I was reciting the poem to a group of students. Maybe most of them didn't pay attention either. I don't know. I woke up pretty quickly.

I wonder why some things stick with us. Maybe pondering a bit of my own existence every now and again. I dunno.

Weird Update: One of my favorite writers, Joe Posnanski, wrote about poetry on his blog a little while ago. It's the only time I can recall him ever writing about poetry. At least since I've been reading his blog. Must be something in the wind today.

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Note: Remember to play the Bug-Eyed Trivia Challenge every day. We die soon.