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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.

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
Blood
Outlines
Dream
Thumbs
Print
Page
Dust
Sketchbook
Pages
Doorknob
Poetry
Prints
Dreams
Thumb

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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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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness to sit on a rock in the forest and to ask of himself, 'Who am I, and where have I been, and where am I going?'...If one is not careful, one allows diversions to take up one's time-the stuff of life
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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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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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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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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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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 couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
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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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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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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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The people will live on.The learning and blundering people will live on.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.
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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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For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.
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