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Showing posts with label Poet: Carl Sandburg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poet: Carl Sandburg. Show all posts

Grass -- Carl Sandburg

Guest poem submitted by Philip Schreiner:
(Poem #1747) Grass
 Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
 Shovel them under and let me work --
 I am the grass; I cover all.

 And pile them high at Gettysburg
 And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
 Shovel them under and let me work.
 Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
 What place is this?
 Where are we now?

 I am the grass.
 Let me work.
-- Carl Sandburg
This poem really impressed me when I was young.  One of the few poems I ever
felt compelled to take to memory.  I noticed that you have a good number of
Sandburg poems (relatively speaking) on your website, so maybe this one does
not appeal to everybody [1].

Philip Schreiner.

[1] Or maybe we just never got round to running it :) -- thomas.

Offering and Rebuff -- Carl Sandburg

Guest poem sent in by Cheryl Ward
(Poem #1630) Offering and Rebuff
 I could love you
 as dry roots love rain.
 I could hold you
 as branches in the wind
 brandish petals.
 Forgive me for speaking so soon.

     Let your heart look
     on white sea spray
     and be lonely.

     Love is a fool star.

     You and a ring of stars
     may mention my name
     and then forget me.

     Love is a fool star.
-- Carl Sandburg
Carl Sandburg's poetry is read by nearly all high school freshmen, but only a
few well known poems receive much attention. His ability to capture the
vulnerability and tenderness of life, whether the subject is love or the
contrast of skyscraper and flaming sky, in just a few words infuses his
writing, from the stories of Rootabaga Country to the passion-filled poems of
Honey and Salt. I like this poem because its images so precisely reflect the
offering and fear of, or perceived, or actual rebuff that new love is so
susceptible to.

Cheryl

The Lawyers Know Too Much -- Carl Sandburg

Guest poem sent in by Salima Virani
(Poem #1393) The Lawyers Know Too Much
 The lawyers, Bob, know too much.
 They are chums of the books of old John Marshall.
 They know it all, what a dead hand wrote,
 A stiff dead hand and its knuckles crumbling,
 The bones of the fingers a thin white ash.
         The lawyers know
         a dead man's thought too well.

 In the heels of the higgling lawyers, Bob,
 Too many slippery ifs and buts and howevers,
 Too much hereinbefore provided whereas,
 Too many doors to go in and out of.

 When the lawyers are through
 What is there left, Bob?
 Can a mouse nibble at it
 And find enough to fasten a tooth in?

 Why is there always a secret singing
 When a lawyer cashes in?
 Why does a hearse horse snicker
 Hauling a lawyer away?

 The work of a bricklayer goes to the blue.
 The knack of a mason outlasts a moon.
 The hands of a plasterer hold a room together.
 The land of a farmer wishes him back again.
          Singers of songs and dreamers of plays
          Build a house no wind blows over.
 The lawyers--tell me why a hearse horse snickers
          hauling a lawyer's bones.
-- Carl Sandburg
[Comments]

After reading the last submission to Minstrels about lawyers, I could not
resist making a case in defence ;)

I'm always wary of the reaction I will get from people when I tell them that
I am a lawyer. I've gotten used to the contempt and the look of disdain that
come my way. I think I've also heard almost every lawyer joke that's out
there (and there's far too many) [I'm reminded of the lawyer who said "well,
then, the next time you're arrested, go hire a comedian!" - martin].  I've
browsed through many sites looking for poetry that (even if it does not glorify

lawyers) is (at least) not condescending towards them. I haven't had much
success.

This poem, much like a lawyer joke, highlights some of the stereotypes which
give lawyers the reputation they have. The use of archaic legalese jargon,
for instance. Attributes that lawyers are Insensitive, Cold, Callous and
Unfeeling. Perhaps, that's often the only way we can maintain objectivity
and be competent? Lawyers do know how to show compassion and love.  We also
know how to laugh and feel.  And shocking as it might sound, lawyers also
appreciate poetry. But, that is when they're not being lawyers.  However, a
competent lawyer is one that can put aside personal prejudices and feelings
(even when they are in conflict with the client)and maintain objectivity.

No one explains this dichotomy to lawyer's personality better than Mulan
Ashwin, a fellow lawyer and lover of poetry (I found this poem by him on the
web):

I am not a poet.
I am a lawyer.
Subtlety and sensitivity
are prerequisites for poets,
not so for lawyers.

I would be too scared to be
a poet; they feel too much.
Lawyers should not feel too much;
they are trained not to.

Can one train to be a poet?
To feel too much?

- Mulan Ashwin

[BIO]

Not much needs to be said about Carl Sandburg.  The EB biography of Sandburg
can be had at Poem #163

Cheers,

Salima

Elephants Are Different to Different People -- Carl Sandburg

Raj Bandyopadhyay sent in an excellent followup to his
previous poem [Poem #1179]:
(Poem #1181) Elephants Are Different to Different People
      Wilson and Pilcer and Snack stood before the zoo elephant.

      Wilson said, "What is its name? Is it from Asia or Africa? Who feeds
 it? Is it a he or a she? How old is it? Do they have twins? How much does
 it cost to feed? How much does it weigh? If it dies, how much will another
 one cost? If it dies, what will they use the bones, the fat, and the hide
 for? What use is it besides to look at?"

      Pilcer didn't have any questions; he was murmering to himself, "It's
 a house by itself, walls and windows, the ears came from tall cornfields,
 by God; the architect of those legs was a workman, by God; he stands like
 a bridge out across the deep water; the face is sad and the eyes are kind;
 I know elephants are good to babies."

      Snack looked up and down and at last said to himself, "He's a tough
 son-of-a-gun outside and I'll bet he's got a strong heart, I'll bet he's
 strong as a copper-riveted boiler inside."

      They didn't put up any arguments.
      They didn't throw anything in each other's faces.
      Three men saw the elephant three ways
      And let it go at that.
      They didn't spoil a sunny Sunday afternoon;

 "Sunday comes only once a week," they told each other.
-- Carl Sandburg
Very unorthodox poem. And the way the world should be!
Here are three men who are not blind!
Will leave to the reader to look for the metaphors.
Wish more people read this.

Raj

[Martin adds]

Brilliant poem, but here's the thing - I *had* read it, several years ago.
And I naturally did make the connection to 'Blind Men', and like Raj,
enthusiastically showed it to several people, who also appreciated it. But -
until I was reminded of it just now - I'd since forgotten it entirely, while
I can quote most of Saxe's poem from memory. As perfect a demonstration of
the value of rhyme and rhythm as any I've seen.

martin

P.S. For another nice combination of famous poem and deserving but
relatively unknown followup, see Poem #355 and Poem #357

Soup -- Carl Sandburg

       
(Poem #834) Soup
 I saw a famous man eating soup.
 I say he was lifting a fat broth
 Into his mouth with a spoon.
 His name was in the newspapers that day
 Spelled out in tall black headlines
 And thousands of people were talking about him.

     When I saw him,
 He sat bending his head over a plate
 Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.
-- Carl Sandburg
A nice little vignette that makes a simple point, but makes it well: even
the rich and famous are like you and I [1].

Sandburg's unadorned, unpretentious style lends itself well to snippets like
this. Today's poem does not have the rollicking energy, the sweeping
syllables of "Chicago". Nor does it have the subtle beauty, the delicate
imagery of "Crucible" and "Pennsylvania". But it does not need either of
these to succeed. Instead, the impact of "Soup" is in all the little
touches, the splashes of detail, in phrases such as 'tall black headlines'
and 'bending his head over a plate'. Skilfully done.

thomas.

[1]     "The rich are different from you and me." -- F. Scott Fitzgerald.
        "Yes, they have more money." -- Ernest Hemingway.

[Links]

While Sandburg's passionate unstructured verse may have invigorated American
poetry when it was first published in the early years of this century, in
recent years it has fallen out of favour with critics due to its seeming
lack of discipline. Read http://www.poetscanvas.org/jan_feb_mar/sandburg.htm
for more on this subject.

Poems by Sandburg on the Minstrels:
Poem #5, Chicago
Poem #163, Dust
Poem #205, Crucible
Poem #235, Pennsylvania
Poem #282, Fog
Poem #679, Maybe
Poem #713, Last Answers
The second and third of these have biographies, from EB and poets.org
respectively.

Last Answers -- Carl Sandburg

       
(Poem #713) Last Answers
 I wrote a poem on the mist
 And a woman asked me what I meant by it.
 I had thought till then only of the beauty of the mist,
              how pearl and gray of it mix and reel,
 And change the drab shanties with lighted lamps at evening
              into points of mystery quivering with color.

   I answered:
 The whole world was mist once long ago and some day
              it will all go back to mist,
 Our skulls and lungs are more water than bone and tissue
 And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers
 Go running back to dust and mist.
-- Carl Sandburg
An intriguing look at the nature of poetry, and yet another answer to the
perennial question every poet has to face - what does his poetry *mean*?
I personally think MacLeish put it best - 'a poem should not mean, but be',
but of course, that's far too simple a reply to a question generations of
poets have attempted to answer in myriad ways.

Returning to the poem, one could almost retitle it 'Two ways of looking at
the mist', and the two verses exemplify very different views on poetry.
Sandburg has combined the two neatly into a thought-provoking poem that,
like many of the best such poems, simultaneously talks about poetry and
illustrates its points via a parallel series of images.

And those images, of course, are imbued with all Sandburg's talent for
beauty and vividness - compare his 'Crucible' for another exquisite example.

Links:

'Crucible', and a Sandburg biography at
 poem #205

We've also run several other poems on poetry:

 Poem #186 Patrick MacGill, 'By-the-Way'
 Poem #187 R. S. Thomas, 'Poetry for Supper'
 Poem #188 Archibald MacLeish, 'Ars Poetica'
 Poem #189 bpNichol, 'dear Captain Poetry'
 Poem #190 Nicanor Parra, 'Young Poets'
 Poem #428 Eve Merriam, 'Reply to the Question: "How can You Become a Poet?"'

-martin

Maybe -- Carl Sandburg

Guest poem sent in by Rajesh B

I am sending in this poem which i came across when i was surfing the net.
It's simplicity touched me. You will like it. Maybe.
(Poem #679) Maybe
 Maybe he believes me, maybe not.
 Maybe I can marry him, maybe not.

 Maybe the wind on the prairie,
 The wind on the sea, maybe,
 Somebody, somewhere, maybe can tell.

 I will lay my head on his shoulder
 And when he asks me I will say yes,
 Maybe.
-- Carl Sandburg
On second thoughts, on rereading the poem .. maybe(!!) i would like to say
something and what i like about it. Not an expert commentary (i am not an
expert on poems) but just what i think i love about the poem.

First, it is nice and simple.

Then, the poem beautifully highlights the uncertainties we go through when
we realise we are in love. And we could give anything to know if the other
person loves us too. We would try everything except ask him/her. And even if
we knew we would ask ourselves the question again. Sometimes we even suspect
the very feeling. Is it love or infatuation or just fatal attraction? Oh the
'maybe's associated with love .. hmm.

-rajesh

Links:

Sandburg was one of the earliest poets we ran: poem #5

And here's a biography: poem #163

Fog -- Carl Sandburg

       
(Poem #282) Fog
 The fog comes
 on little cat feet.

 It sits looking
 over harbor and city
 on silent haunches
 and then moves on.
-- Carl Sandburg
As Thomas remarked in the notes to Crucible[1], Sandburg's poetry ranges
from passionate, granitic verse to the most delicate and finely-chiselled
Imagist poems, and he displays an equal mastery of both ends of the
spectrum. Today's poem - perhaps his most famous after Chicago - belongs to
the latter category; as perfect and self-contained as a miniature, and with
a truly striking central image.

m.

Links:

A biography of Sandburg is available at poem #163

'Crucible' is at poem #205,
along with another biography

We've run a number of Sandburg poems - look up the index at
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels

Pennsylvania -- Carl Sandburg

       
(Poem #235) Pennsylvania
I have been in Pennsylvania,
In the Monongahela and Hocking Valleys.

In the blue Susquehanna
On a Saturday morning
I saw a mounted constabulary go by,
I saw boys playing marbles.
Spring and the hills laughed.

And in places
Along the Appalachian chain,
I saw steel arms handling coal and iron,
And I saw the white-cauliflower faces
Of miner's wives waiting for the men to come home from the day's work.

I made color studies in crimson and violet
Over the dust and domes of culm at sunset.
-- Carl Sandburg
'Pennsylvania' strikes a balance between the energy and exuberance of 'Chicago',
and the delicately evocative imagery of 'Crucible'. The danger in this approach,
of course, is the conflict between form and content [1] - Sandburg's subject is
(as usual) the working class, in all its rough glory. But whereas normally he
eulogizes it in Whitmanesque free verse (which works perfectly well, as the
Chicago poems testify), in 'Pennsylvania' his style is closer to the understated
elegance of the Imagists. The subtle tension thus generated is very reminiscent
of Edna St. Vincent Millay in essence, if not in detail [2].

As an aside, note how Sandburg uses the lovely rolling syllables of Native
American place names [3] to wonderful poetic effect, both in sound and in
meaning. The transition from suggestion to description is also quite striking; I
especially like the overtly Imagist use of colour in the last few lines.

thomas.

[1] Who'd have thunk it?

[2] Though I have to admit I'm not a great fan of Millay - somehow, her air of
quiet desperation just doesn't work for me.

[3] Monongahela, Susquehanna, Appalachia... and there are so many more:
Tallahassee and Rappahannock, Saskatchewan and Massachusetts, Shenandoah and
Mississippi... the only other place names which come close (in my opinion) are
Russian ones - Vladivostok, Novosibirsk and so on. More on this in my next post.

[Links]

Sandburg's most famous poem, 'Chicago', was also one of the very first poems to
be run on the Minstrels. You can read it at poem #5

The EB biography of Sandburg can be had at poem #163

My favourite Sandburg poem is 'Crucible' - just 3 sentences long, but absolutely
magical. You can read it at poem #205

And of course, all our other poems are archived at
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/

[Fascinating Facts]

The Susquehanna flows from central New York State through Pennsylvania and into
the Chesapeake Bay in north Maryland. The Monongahela flows north through
Virginia and Pennsylvania to unite with the Allegheny at Pittsburgh, there
forming the Ohio. The Appalachian range extends from Quebec (in a roughly
southwest direction) all the way to Alabama. So now you know.

[Glossary]

 - culm
Pronunciation: 'k&lm
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English
Date: 14th century
: refuse coal screenings : (syn.) SLAG
        -- from Merriam-Webster online, http://www.m-w.com/

[End Note]

The same people and places are celebrated by Bruce Springsteen in 'Youngstown',
a sympathetic and insightful portrayal of the decline of Pennsylvania's coal and
steel towns in the 70s and 80s. Beautifully done, and well worth a listen. (It
can be found on his vastly underrated 1995 album 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad').

Crucible -- Carl Sandburg

       
(Poem #205) Crucible
Hot gold runs a winding stream on the inside of a green bowl.

Yellow trickles in a fan figure, scatters a line of skirmishes, spreads a chorus
of dancing girls, performs blazing ochre evolutions, gathers the whole show into
one stream, forgets the past and rolls on.

The sea-mist green of the bowl's bottom is a dark throat of sky crossed by
quarreling forks of umber and ochre and yellow changing faces.
-- Carl Sandburg
Carl Sandburg is often thought of as a working man's poet, and it's true that
his major theme is the "attempt to find beauty in modern industrialism...
celebrating industrial and agricultural America, American geography and
landscape, and the American common people." His words are plain and unadorned;
his rhythms driving, energetic; his philosophy simple and direct. He eulogizes
workers:  "Pittsburgh, Youngstown, Gary, they make their steel with men", and
glorifies life in all its raw beauty: "Come and show me another city with lifted
head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning."

Yet to dismiss him as merely a hewer of granitic verse - passionate, yes, but
also crude and unsophisticated in the traditions of 'true' poetry - would be to
do him an injustice, for he could wield the finest of chisels with rare skill,
crafting poems of delicate strength and perfect balance. Today's vignette is one
of them: it has all the beauty (both superficial and implicit) of the very best
Imagist poems, while retaining the energy and flow that's so characteristic of
Sandburg. Lovely.

thomas.

[Biography]

Carl Sandburg was born in Galesburg, Illinois, on January 6, 1878. His parents,
August and Clara Johnson, had emigrated to America from the north of Sweden.
After encountering several August Johnsons in his job for the railroad, the
Sandburg's father renamed the family. The Sandburgs were very poor; Carl left
school at the age of thirteen to work odd jobs, from laying bricks to
dishwashing, to help support his family. At seventeen, he traveled west to
Kansas as a hobo. He then served eight months in Puerto Rico during the
Spanish-American war. While serving, Sandburg met a student at Lombard College,
the small school located in Sandburg's hometown. The young man convinced
Sandburg to enroll in Lombard after his return from the war.

Sandburg worked his way through school, where he attracted the attention of
Professor Philip Green Wright, who not only encouraged Sandburg's writing, but
paid for the publication of his first volume of poetry, a pamphlet called
Reckless Ecstasy (1904). While Sandburg attended Lombard for four years, he
never received a diploma (he would later receive honorary degrees from Lombard,
Knox College, and Northwestern University). After college, Sandburg moved to
Milwaukee, where he worked as an advertising writer and a newspaper reporter.
While there, he met and married Lillian Steichen (whom he called Paula), sister
of the photographer Edward Steichen. A Socialist sympathizer at that point in
his life, Sandburg then worked for the Social-Democrat Party in Wisconsin and
later acted as secretary to the first Socialist mayor of Milwaukee from 1910 to
1912.

The Sandburgs soon moved to Chicago, where Carl became an editorial writer for
the Chicago Daily News. Harriet Monroe had just started Poetry: A Magazine of
Verse, and began publishing Sandburg's poems, encouraging him to continue
writing in the free-verse, Whitman-like style he had cultivated in college.
Monroe liked the poems' homely speech, which distinguished Sandburg from his
predecessors. It was during this period that Sandburg was recognized as a member
of the Chicago literary renaissance, which included Ben Hecht, Theodore Dreiser,
Sherwood Anderson, and Edgar Lee Masters. He established his reputation with
Chicago Poems (1916), and then Cornhuskers (1918). Soon after the publication of
these volumes Sandburg wrote Smoke and Steel (1920), his first prolonged attempt
to find beauty in modern industrialism. With  these three volumes, Sandburg
became known for his free verse poems celebrating industrial and agricultural
America, American geography and  landscape, and the American common people.

In the twenties, he started some of his most ambitious projects, including his
study of Abraham Lincoln. From childhood, Sandburg loved and admired the legacy
of President Lincoln. For thirty years he sought out and collected material, and
gradually began the writing of the six-volume definitive biography of the former
president. The twenties also saw Sandburg's collections of American folklore,
the ballads in The American Songbag and The New American Songbag (1950), and
books for children. These later volumes contained pieces collected from brief
tours across America which Sandburg took each year, playing his banjo or guitar,
singing folk-songs, and reciting poems.

In the 1930s, Sandburg continued his celebration of America with Mary Lincoln,
Wife and Widow (1932), The People, Yes (1936), and the second part of his
Lincoln biography, Abraham Lincoln: The War Years (1939), for which he was
awarded the Pulitzer Prize. He received a second Pulitzer Prize for his Complete
Poems in 1950. His final volumes of verse were Harvest Poems,and Honey and Salt (1963). Carl Sandburg died in 1967.

    -- from the site of the American Academy of Poets, http://www.poets.org/

[Minstrels Links]

The EB biography of Sandburg can be had at poem #163

'Chicago', Sandburg's most famous poem, was also one of the very first poems to
be run on Minstrels; you can read it at poem #5

And of course, all our other poems are archived at
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/

Dust -- Carl Sandburg

       
(Poem #163) Dust
 Here is dust remembers it was a rose
 one time and lay in a woman's hair.
 Here is dust remembers it was a woman
 one time and in her hair lay a rose.
 Oh things one time dust, what else now is it
 you dream and remember of old days?
-- Carl Sandburg
A quietly understated poem, very different from Sandburg's more famous
'Chicago'. It needs very little by way of explanation, but notice how the
second 'couplet', with a slight change of word order, suddenly establishes a
progression, throwing the whole into perspective against the larger scheme of
things (tm).

Finally, and in passing, the last two lines have a vaguely foreign feel to
them - nothing I can quite pin down, but they remind me of some translated
Asian or maybe African poetry, as though Sandburg were being deliberately
imitative of the 'profoundly simple' effect many such poems possess.

m.

Biography:

 Sandburg, Carl

 b. Jan. 6, 1878, Galesburg, Ill., U.S.
 d. July 22, 1967, Flat Rock, N.C. American poet, historian, novelist,
 and folklorist.

   From the age of 11, Sandburg worked in various occupations--as a
   barbershop porter, a milk truck driver, a brickyard hand, and a
   harvester in the Kansas wheat fields. When the Spanish-American War
   broke out in 1898, he enlisted in the 6th Illinois Infantry. These
   early years he later described in his autobiography Always the Young
   Strangers (1953).

   From 1910 to 1912 he acted as an organizer for the Social Democratic
   Party and secretary to the mayor of Milwaukee. Moving to Chicago in
   1913, he became an editor of System, a business magazine, and later
   joined the staff of the Chicago Daily News.

   In 1914 a group of his Chicago Poems appeared in Poetry magazine
   (issued in book form in 1916). In his most famous poem, "Chicago," he
   depicted the city as the laughing, lusty, heedless "Hog Butcher, Tool
   Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to
   the Nation." Sandburg's poetry made an instant and favourable
   impression. In Whitmanesque free verse, he eulogized workers:
   "Pittsburgh, Youngstown, Gary, they make their steel with men" (Smoke
   and Steel, 1920).

   In Good Morning, America (1928) Sandburg seemed to have lost some of
   his faith in democracy, but from the depths of the Great Depression he
   wrote a poetic testament to the power of the people to go forward, The
   People, Yes (1936). The folk songs he sang before delighted audiences
   were issued in two collections, The American Songbag (1927) and New
   American Songbag (1950). He wrote the popular biography Abraham
   Lincoln: The Prairie Years, 2 vol. (1926), and Abraham Lincoln: The
   War Years, 4 vol. (1939; Pulitzer Prize in history, 1940).

   Another biography, Steichen the Photographer, the life of his famous
   brother-in-law, Edward Steichen, appeared in 1929. In 1948 Sandburg
   published a long novel, Remembrance Rock, which recapitulates the
   American experience from Plymouth Rock to World War II. Complete Poems
   appeared in 1950. He wrote four books for children--Rootabaga Stories
   (1922); Rootabaga Pigeons (1923); Rootabaga Country (1929); and Potato
   Face (1930).
                -- EB

Chicago -- Carl Sandburg

       
(Poem #5) Chicago
        Hog Butcher for the World,
        Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
        Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
        Stormy, husky, brawling,
        City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
        have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
        luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
        is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
        kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
        faces of women and children I have seen the marks
        of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
        sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
        and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
        so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
        job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
        little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
        as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
                Bareheaded,
                Shoveling,
                Wrecking,
                Planning,
                Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
        white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
        man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
        never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
        and under his ribs the heart of the people,
                Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
        Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
        Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
        Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
-- Carl Sandburg
from 'the chicago poems', published 1916.

this poem was submitted as an entry for a poetry competition organized
by the chicago town hall in 1910; it won first prize, and sandburg's
career as a poet had begun.

i like it for its rhythm and energy. the contrast with european poetry
of the same period is remarkable. this is a poem that breathes fire.

sandburg's poetic style is an excellent example of the vigorous american
tradition of free verse, starting with whitman and moving on through
ginsberg and dylan. forceful poems like 'chicago' were like a breath of
fresh air to pound and eliot (the architects of the poetic revolution of
the 1920s), inspiring them to break the shackles of victorian prosody
and cut through the insipidity of the georgians with their own distinct
voice.

thomas.