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Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.

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
Wish
Wishes
Cipher
Silver
Ciphers
Fish
Packed
Fishes
Bullet
Flying
Mystic
Keys
Hollow
Poetry
Bullets
Five
Feds

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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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Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
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Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
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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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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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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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Tell me if the lovers are losers... tell me if any get more than the lovers.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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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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We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.
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There is no song to your singing.
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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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Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
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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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I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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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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A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
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All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
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