Art hurts.

Today, I’m sharing a poem called The Chicago Picasso from Gwendolyn Brooks. In 1950, she became the first Black writer to win the Pulitzer Prize. I discovered Brooks, and this poem, during my research last Summer, and I knew I had to clip it for my work on Creative Consistency.

Enjoy.

The Chicago Picasso by Gwendolyn Brooks

Does man love Art? Man visits Art, but squirms.
Art hurts. Art urges voyages--
and it is easier to stay at home,
the nice beer ready.
In commonrooms we belch, or sniff, or scratch.
Are raw.

But we must cook ourselves and style ourselves for Art, who,
is a requiring courtesan.
We squirm.
We do not hug the Mona Lisa.

We
may touch or tolerate
an astounding fountain, or a horse-and-rider.
At most, another Lion.

Observe the tall cold of a Flower
which is as innocent and as guilty,
as meaningful and as meaningless as any
other flower in the western field.