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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.

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
Frogs
Belly
Golden
Moon
Poetry
Lost
Sliver
Frog

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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 enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.
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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
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Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.
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There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.
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What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
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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.
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a women is like a tea bag.it's only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
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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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I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
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Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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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.
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There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.
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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
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