Boy Breaking Glass
To Marc Crawford
from whom the commission
Whose broken window is a cry of art
(success, that winks aware
as elegance, as a treasonable faith)
is raw: is sonic: is old-eyed première.
Our beautiful flaw and terrible ornament.
Our barbarous and metal little man.
“I shall create! If not a note, a hole.
If not an overture, a desecration.”
Full of pepper and light
and Salt and night and cargoes.
“Don’t go down the plank
if you see there’s no extension.
Each to his grief, each to
his loneliness and fidgety revenge.
Nobody knew where I was and now I am no longer there.”
The only sanity is a cup of tea.
The music is in minors.
Each one other
is having different weather.
“It was you, it was you who threw away my name!
And this is everything I have for me.”
Who has not Congress, lobster, love, luau,
the Regency Room, the Statue of Liberty,
runs. A sloppy amalgamation.
A hymn, a snare, and an exceeding sun.
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Comments about this poem (Boy Breaking Glass by Gwendolyn Brooks )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
William Carlos Williams
(17 September 1883 – 4 March 1963)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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