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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.

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
Sunset
Smoke
Pansies
Mathematics
Waffles
Poetry
Stacks
Fire
Sunsets
People
Sensuous
Mystic
Purple

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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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I been a wanderin' Early and late, New York City To the Golden Gate An' it looks like I'm never gonna cease my Wanderin'.
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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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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So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
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To those who had ordered them to death, one of them said: “We die because the people are asleep and you will die because the people will awaken.”
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Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings.
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A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.
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Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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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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The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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I am the people the mob the crowd the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
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I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.
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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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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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I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
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