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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

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
Poetry
Dark
Migration
Duck
Ducks
Wild
Sky

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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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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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Be careful with your words, once they are said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.
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A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
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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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I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
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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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You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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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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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
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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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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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Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.
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And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
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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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Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
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