Quote

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

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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
Two
Beat
Around
Beats
Thought
Number
Time
Poetry
Thoughts
Numbers
Lasts
Interweaving
Last
Tightened

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If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, Come and find me, come and find me.
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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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The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
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If [America] forgets where she came from, if the people lose sight of what brought them along, if she listens to the deniers and mockers, then will begin the rot and dissolution.
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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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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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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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I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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The simple dignity of a child drinking a bowl of milk embodies the fascination of an ancient rite.
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I had been keeping an off eye on the advertising field, thinking I might become an idea man and a copywriter.
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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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Yesterday is done. Tomorrow never comes. Today is here. If you don't know what to do, sit still and listen. You may hear something. Nobody knows.
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Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.
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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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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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