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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.

Carl Sandburg

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Carl Sandburg
Age: 89 †
Born: 1878
Born: January 6
Died: 1967
Died: July 22
Biographer
Historian
Journalist
Musicologist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Trade Unionist
Writer
Galesburg
Illinois
Carl August Sandburg
Life
Horizons
Explanations
Fading
Swift
Horizon
Explanation
Series
Poetry

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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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The people know what the land knows.
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Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
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Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.
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Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
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Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.
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Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
Carl Sandburg
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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.
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Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.
Carl Sandburg
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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
Carl Sandburg
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Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
Carl Sandburg