 Poetry: May 25, 2016 Issue [#7657] |
  Poetry
This week: Carl Sandburg Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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The Mist
by Carl Sandburg
I am the mist, the impalpable mist,
Back of the thing you seek.
My arms are long,
Long as the reach of time and space.
Some toil and toil, believing,
Looking now and again on my face,
Catching a vital, olden glory.
But no one passes me,
I tangle and snare them all.
I am the cause of the Sphinx,
The voiceless, baffled, patient Sphinx.
I was at the first of things,
I will be at the last.
I am the primal mist
And no man passes me;
My long impalpable arms
Bar them all.
On January 6, 1878, Swedish immigrants August and Clara Anderson Sandburg welcomed Carl August Sandburg into their family. He was born in their three-room cottage located on 313 East Third Street, in Galesburg which is maintained by the Illinois Historic Preservation Agency to this day! Carl was born the second of seven children.
Carl Sandburg worked from the time he was a young boy. He quit school in 1891 after graduating from the eighth grade. He spent the next ten years working at a variety off odd jobs. It was his experiences working and traveling which greatly influenced his writing and political views, that and the time Carl spent time as a hobo when learned a number of folk songs that he later performed. It was seeing first-hand the difference between rich and poor, which left him with a great distrust of capitalism.
In 1898 the Spanish-American War broke out and Sandburg volunteered for service. He was ordered to Puerto Rico where he spent his days fighting the heat and all the mosquitoes. It was when he returned home later that year he enrolled in Lombard College. Sandburg's college years helped shape his writing talents and refine his political views
Sandburg was unknown to the literary world until 1914, when some of his poems appeared in the nationally circulated "Poetry" magazine. Then two years later his book "Chicago Poems" was published. This thirty-eight-year-old author found himself at the start of his career. In 1918 he published another book of poems, "Cornhuskers."
More poetry followed. Then a book "Rootabaga Stories" in 1922, which was full of children's tales. Sandburg then wrote "Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years," which was published in 1926. This was his first financially successful book. He moved to Michigan and spent the next several years finishing four additional volumes, "Abraham Lincoln: The War Years." In 1940 this series won him the Pulitzer Prize. In 1945 he moved to North Carolina. Sandburg won his second Pulitzer Prize in 1951 for his book "Complete Poems."
Sandburg died at his North Carolina home July 22, 1967. His ashes were returned to his Galesburg birthplace and buried in the small Carl Sandburg Park behind the house beneath a red granite boulder, "Remembrance Rock." Ten years later, the ashes of his wife were placed there too.
Dusty Doors
by Carl Sandburg
Child of the Aztec gods,
how long must we listen here,
how long before we go?
The dust is deep on the lintels.
The dust is dark on the doors.
If the dreams shake our bones,
what can we say or do?
Since early morning we waited.
Since early, early morning, child.
There must be dreams on the way now.
There must be a song for our bones.
The dust gets deeper and darker.
Do the doors and lintels shudder?
How long must we listen here?
How long before we go?
Young Sea
by Carl Sandburg
The sea is never still.
It pounds on the shore
Restless as a young heart,
Hunting.
The sea speaks
And only the stormy hearts
Know what it says:
It is the face
of a rough mother speaking.
The sea is young.
One storm cleans all the hoar
And loosens the age of it.
I hear it laughing, reckless.
They love the sea,
Men who ride on it
And know they will die
Under the salt of it
Let only the young come,
Says the sea.
Let them kiss my face
And hear me.
I am the last word
And I tell
Where storms and stars come from.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
What is it that make us human?
That appears to separates us
from the hawk
soaring above its nest
nestled deep in emerald woods?
What is it that make us human?
That appears to separates us
from boulders scattered across a river
damming the flow rushing water
and drifting twigs?
What is it that make us human?
That causes our eyes
to look beyond the present
into the unknown future?
What is it that make us human?
Is there something in us
that encourages us to go beyond nature
searching the universe
for the unknown?
Honorable mention:
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Good luck to all 
