Quote

Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.

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
Break
Echoes
Definite
Cadences
Length
Lengths
Wave
Cadence
Intention
Syllables
Across
Arranged
Poetry
Projection
Silence
Intentions

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
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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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I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.
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There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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The people know what the land knows.
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An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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The greatest cunning is to have none at all.
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To those who had ordered them to death, one of them said: “We die because the people are asleep and you will die because the people will awaken.”
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I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.
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People lie because they don't remember clear what they saw. People lie because they can't help making a story better than it was the way it happened.
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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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Somebody's little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.
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The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.
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I am still studying verbs and the mystery of how they connect nouns. I am more suspicious of adjectives than at any other time in all my born days.
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Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.
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