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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?'

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
Moving
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Another
Lights
Light
Bridges
River
Boat
Whistles
Rivers
Fog
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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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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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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
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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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The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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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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Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
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There is no song to your singing.
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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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Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.
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The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.
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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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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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