Carl Sandburg

I've always loved the poems of Carl Sandburg. But I never really knew much about the man. So I had a meeting cancel on me this afternoon and I took a peek at Wikipedia's entry for him only to discover what an utterly fascinating man he was.

Sandburg was born in Galesburg, Illinois to Swedish immigrants. At the age of thirteen he left school and began driving a milk wagon. He subsequently became a bricklayer and a farm laborer on the wheat plains of Kansas. After an interval spent at Lombard College in Galesburg, he became a hotel servant in Denver, then a coal-heaver in Omaha. He began his writing career as a journalist for the Chicago Daily News. Later he wrote poetry, history, biography, novels, children's literature, and film reviews. Sandburg also collected and edited books of ballads and folklore. He spent most of his life in the Midwest before moving to North Carolina.

Sandburg fought in the Spanish-American War with the 6th Illinois Infantry, and participated in the invasion of Guánica, Puerto Rico on July 25, 1898. He attended West Point for just two weeks, for failing mathematics and a grammar exam. Sandburg returned to Galesburg and entered Lombard College, but left without a degree in 1903.

He moved to Milwaukee, Wisconsin and joined the Social Democratic Party. Sandburg served as a secretary to Mayor Emil Seidel, mayor of Milwaukee from 1910 to 1912; Seidel was the first person to be elected mayor of a U.S. city on a socialist platform.

Sandburg met Lilian Steichen at the Social Democratic Party office in 1907, and they married the next year. Lilian's brother was the photographer Edward Steichen. Sandburg with his wife, whom he called Paula, raised three daughters.

Sandburg moved to Harbert, Michigan, and then suburban Chicago, Illinois. They lived in Evanston, Illinois before settling at 331 S. York Street in Elmhurst, Illinois from 1919 to 1930. Sandburg wrote three children's books in Elmhurst, Rootabaga Stories, in 1922, followed by Rootabaga Pigeons (1923), and Potato Face (1930). Sandburg also wrote Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years, a two volume biography in 1926, The American Songbag (1927), and a book of poems Good Morning, America (1928) in Elmhurst. The family moved to Michigan in 1930. The Sandburg's house at 331 S. York Street, Elmhurst was demolished and the site is now a parking lot.

He moved to a Flat Rock, North Carolina estate, Connemara, in 1945 and lived there until his death in 1967.

Sandburg supported the civil rights movement, and contributed to the NAACP.

Too cool! He lived in Milwaukee and was a Socialist! How awesome is that???

Stars

I remember putting stars on your ceiling
One afternoon. And we lay there in bed
That night looking at our very own cosmos
Twinkling in your dark bedroom

Later, we went outside and
Lay on the grass
Our backs moist with spring dew
And we looked at the stars
The real stars
And held hands
And cried
Because you were leaving
To follow your dreams
So far away
That I could not follow

You were my dream
But I wasn't yours
And because of that
I had to let go
It was as if
I never had you
In the first place

In an instant you were gone
And I lay there on the wet grass
And watched your plane fly
Overhead

And I cried and I laughed
And I wanted to be with you
But this could never be
As you followed your dreams
And left me behind

Poetry Assignment: Tattoo

Tiger

"Do you like it?"
"I guess."
"It's cool."
"Is it?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Why?"
"'Cause it's a tiger."
"It is?"
"Hell yes, it's a tiger."
"Ok, if you say so."
"What do you mean?"
"If you say it's a tiger
it's a tiger."
"Damn right it is."
"Whatever you say, Steph."
"Fuck you, Daphnie."
"Thanks, Steph."
"Aren't you getting one?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Chicken?"
"No, it's not for me."
"You're chicken."
"No, I'm not chicken."
"Yes you are. You are."
"I wasn't chicken when
we got our labias pierced."

All the while the needle
Buzzed, the ink flowed,
And the artist wiped away
The blood. The tiger,
For that's what it was,
Emerged from her shoulder.
Like Michelangelo and
His blocks of marble
Carving away what shouldn't
Be there, the tattoo
Artist revealed what was
Already hiding just
Beneath her skin.

Poetry Assignment: Phone Book

Not for the easily offended... You have been warned!

Room Service
for cb

I strolled down the hallway
with Ed's wife Sara, her eyes
askance

Together but not together
scatterings of early room
service litter the hallway
bits of old food cling
to chipped hotel china
my stomach rolled

Into the room, silent
undressed under dim
fluorescent light
that cast a pallor over
Sara's pale skin

Sara, her 110 pounds naked
bent in half before me
"Do it!"
I hit her ass with my hand,
hard. And again. And again.

"Hit me!" she screamed
"Harder, you fuck!"
hands clench ankles,
her tight body bent double,
tits dangling from her
chest, swaying gently,
her bare ass flushed
with blows already
delivered.

From the desk, I grab
a phone book in both hands
and wind up for another shot at
that perfect, round ass. The
sound of contact
paper on flesh
echos off the
dingy walls.

Anonymous paintings by
anonymous painters
gaze down impassively
while we dance
our potent ritual.
"Fucking pussy! I said HARDER!".
Smile,
swing,
contact.
"Oh God, YES! YES!
Fuck YES!"

Casting the paper weapon aside I
rammed my stiff cock into her as
far as it would go.

I catch sight of the phone book
laying open on the floor
to the restaurant section.
it's pages a subtle, erotic V

Moving rhythmically
in and out
in and out
in and out
the smell of our sex swirled
around us, cloying, intoxicating,
breathing harder
and harder
and harder

"How about Chinese?"
She moans a vague agreement.
My body shudders as I come hard
inside her.

"Kung Pao Chicken," she gasps.
"Spicy."

Poetry Assignment: Cathedral

I had a lot of trouble with this one.

Cathedral

The young monk stands in the nave
Staring up towards the ceiling so far far away
A flicker of gold and images of saints
Gaze down, indifferent, upon him
The perfumed air of the cathedral
Rich and layered with the centuries
A simple brown robe cloaks his thin frame
Plain and unadorned, stark contrast
To the ornate building where he stands.
Casting gaze downward, past the
Multi-hued rose high on the wall
to the high altar and the crucifix of gold.
Moving silently aside, he crosses himself
And kneels to pray. Quietly murmuring
His meditations cracked open by a
Shrill, harsh outburst from behind.
"Oh honey, look, he's prayin'! Take a picture!"
"You betcha', babe, that's a keeper!"
The young monk closes his eyes and
Prays for patience to endure what he's
Come to detest. God Damn Tourists.

Poetry Assignment: Salsa

Untitled

They danced in the snow
Coats cast aside
Mummy wraps
Nearly naked in
Mother's disapproval
A violent steamy salsa
Spinning and twirling
Amidst the falling flakes
Fast turning to steam
At skin's desperate contact
So hot, hot beyond measure
A passion intertwined
Snow and heat
Music spilling
From an open car
Beat and rhythm
Their eyes locked
In the heat of the dance
Cacophonous laughter
Echos in the street
When finally, finally, finally
They find each other

Poetry Assignment: Baseball

Here is a link to another baseball poem which I kind of like better than this one, but since it's from before, I couldn't use it again...


Winter Park

The empty cathedral stands silent
But for the whispers of the stands
Where sun worshipers roast like brats
In the hazy, hot summer sun.
But that day is not today, not today.

Now the ground is cold, so cold.
From beneath a cracked bench
Tucked way back in the dugout
A baseball peeks out, a shy small
Mouse on a frosty winter's day.

Forlorn but not quite forgotten little ball
Recalls the days of the sun and the grass
The swing of the bat, the joy of the sound
As contact is made. The roar of the crowd,
Silenced for now, but old ball knows it will be back.

The wind whistles through empty flagpoles,
Their banners long ago removed.
Rope and cable tap out a rhythm without rhythm.
The bleachers below slumber soundly beneath
Snow and ice, waiting, dreaming of sunshine days.

The sun hangs so low at mid-day
Shadows stretch deep into the outfield.
A snow thick and lustrous carpets
The field where birds peck and poke,
Wandering in search of old popcorn.

One day, one day the field will awaken
The sun will rise higher and brighter than now
The bleachers will fill with the sun seeking
Throng. But today, on this cold day
The park slumbers, waiting for then.

Poetry Assignment: Sleep

Today's poetry assignment was sleep. When I think sleep, I think dreams....

Sleep

Awakend from a fitful sleep
A dream on the edge of memory
Three dryads recalled
And a remembrance of
Strange happenings felt.

Lying in bed wondering
What had happened
In a place so near to hand
Yet so very far away

Closing my eyes and
Seeing their faces
Fleeting as the memory
Of a memory of a myth.

Moments stretch to years
Dreams unbidden yet
Longingly desired
Three dryads danced
Just for me, just for me.

Poetry Assignment: Gasoline

This one doesn't have a title yet (it might never). I approached the assignment of gasoline in a rather literal sense, using the car as a metaphor, in the traditional American fashion, of freedom. This one is a Road Poem of a sort.

Dusty road stretches to infinity
Route 66 blacktop, cracked and
Faded yellow lines vanish
In the distance, ahead and behind.
A blinding blue sky above
So sharp, like a straight razor,
It cuts eyes behind dark lenses.
Pavement below, rubber and road meet
Does the car move along the road,
Or the road beneath the car?
Does it matter? The rush is the same.
Wind whipped hair flying,
Laughter and freedom merge into
Ragtop dreams of speed.
Flying without fear,
Burning distilled dinosaur juice
Along a deserted trail, straight.
Last stop, gas and water,
Next stop? Beyond the edge of view
Somewhere in the distance, a place
Known but unseen, waiting for them
To arrive, below the horizon,
always just beyond the limit.

Poetry Assignment: Ice

Ice

He lay in deep contemplation of
The inky black dome overhead,
The pinprick stars, like holes
In a vast canopy devoid of warmth
He could feel his fingers and toes
For the last time as they froze
In the deep, Pleistocene cold.
His dog, black as the sky above
Crouched beside him on the snow
The gently tapping tail against him
As they lay together atop the vast
Frozen lake sprawling around him,
Receeding in the snowy, blue distance a
Treeline, so very, very far away.
He had surrendered some time before,
Indeterminate time, stolen by the cold
Any sense of progression and movement
Still as if the world itself had frozen.
He gazed to the infinitely receding sky
Contemplated the bitter distances
To the lake edge, the twinkling of cabin
Lights on the far shore he would not reach.
His only regret in this infinite
Struggle was that his dog would
Die here with him on this ice.

Rescued Haiku

Here's a bunch of Haiku I originally posted on my sister site, Accidental Incidents. They deserve a home here.

My Autobiography

The arrogance of knowing
Beams from every pore -
A fool!

I am not wise enough
To write haiku,
The pen fails

Tender autumn journey
A child nestled close;
Footsteps crunching

Mud caked sandals snuggle
on clean wooden steps,
A rain shower!

Buds on a branch
Nestled possibility;
Snowflakes gently fall

Grieving husband bows
No more his wife wants him –
Tearful lotus blossom

I slept peacefully
Once again
Beneath old willow tree

Spring moonlight
Shines on frosted clover –
Morning gently breaks

Scratch, scratch, scratch
The poet’s pen on paper
Makes me poor!

A thousand lanterns float
Gentle breeze moves
Floating blossoms east

Forever is a long time
To feel one way
Without another

Noisy mountain brook
Cuts a rocky gap –
Carp make small circles

Cold moonlit field
Winter wheat sprouts –
A rabbit!

Nut-brown leaves tumble
into an icy stream,
My face distorted.

Alone in the moonlight
A small dove lands
Snow falls on pines

Along the snowy bank
Children's footprints;
Cold grey clouds

Stony path decends
To oaken door, barred
Warm fire within

Two boys sled
By the river bank
Mother turns away

Cherry blossoms fall
From the woody branch.
A child runs to hide

Fog hugs the pines
Gentle rain falls
A small boy walks alone

Cherry blossoms fall
To nestle in the soft grass -
Another year to wait.

[The next three were written in the Milwaukee Museum of Art. For 10 points, see if you can guess which artist is described in the 2nd one.]

The gallery beckons
Level upon level of art -
What's THAT supposed to be?

Green, Red, Blue
Panels of color -
A ripe answer to koan's Mu!

Karma is a force
That has no force
Beyond what we feel.

Snow softly blankets
Brown grass and weeds -
A jonquil!

As she drifts through my mind
My zazen concentration ends -
A delightful breakdown.

A gentle inspiration
In a shy, quiet smile -
Unexpected surprise!

Cloudy, snowy day
The cold grips my heart -
Then I remember her and warm up.

Without realizing it,
She has captured my spirit
In a little rabbit snare!

Threads of karma collide
And weave a new pattern -
Life is quieter now.

The wheel of karma spins
My life goes round and round -
Spin again!

A ragged cat sleeps
In slits of summer sun -
He looks bored.

Another year

A tear stained jacket drapes his shoulders
Dark blue on light blue, rivulets run down.
A pattern of sorrow etched in satin
Friends look away from each other
Their eyes will not meet for fear of weeping
In disbelief they wander lost
Joy to Disbelief
Disbelief to Desperation
Desperation to Despair
Despair to... Nothing. Hollow. Gutted.
Another year gone another year
With nothing. Another barren
Empty, pointless year gone.

Nothing to show for all the pain, the agony
The struggle. Only then to suffer the
Agonizing bitter taste of defeat beyond measure.

The ivy covered wall stands mute
The building is quiet again, asleep
For the long, cold winter.

Sun and Moon gaze down upon grass and dirt
A place of such epic tragedy, Ilium's sands
Were not so bloody as these fragile blades.
Ground trodden by warriors of passion equal to the
Heroes of old; Achilles, Hector, Paris, Odysseus
Smiling to themselves that a people of such
Lofty aspirations, a century old, such soaring ambition
Would fall so quickly into a black lustrous oblivion.

A people in shock, dimly alive stare ahead without sight
Gazes do not cross, lover's eyes estranged from passion
A flame extinguised.

The silent frozen street's muted colors mix with rancid odors
Wafting from iron grates like prison bars embedded in
The filthy asphalt holding at bay phantoms unseen.
City dwellers slouch through the day as if sleeping or dead
Another year gone with nothing to show. Another year.

"Fucking Cubs."
"Just wait 'till next year!"



Pulled this one together at breakfast in the hotel this morning. I had the basic framework in my head by the time I finished eating. I added the Ilium stuff later since it seemed a good analogy. Modern sports are our "war" and when I think war, I think Ancient Greece. What's wrong with me?

The inspiration came from a guy I saw at breakfast. He was decked out in Cubs regalia (hat, t-shirt, satin jacket, all with some Cubs logo) and he was the saddest looking guy I've seen in a long time. I don't know whether he's still pining for the lost Cubbies, but it put me back in the mind of watching the playoffs again and what Amy and I went through watching the Breweres. He was sitting there in his Cubs stuff, it made me wonder what it would have been like to be a Cubs fan and to have made it through the whole season with the best record in baseball, then to drop 4 straight to the Dodgers. Not even win a GAME!

Even my little Brewers managed to take a game from the World Champion Philies this year. That's enough to hang your hat on during the off season, something to keep the fires banked and the coals warm until spring training. But to have had such a season as the Cubbies had and then to fall apart when it mattered, that would, in a word, suck. But Chicago, for all it's "huskiness" and "big shoulders," is an optimistic place and the streets will warm up and the Cubs will return in the spring and will again do battle with Hector, Achilles and all the others vying for that World Series Championship Ring.

Here's a excerpt from Chicago by Carl Sandburg which sums up the city quite well. You can find the entire volume of Chicago Poems online.

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
    have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
    luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
    is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
    kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
    faces of women and children I have seen the marks
    of wanton hunger.
And having answered 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.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
    job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
    little soft cities;

A tall bold slugger indeed.

Love on a Patch of Ice

A brief chuckle under his breath
As she slips on the ice he
So deftly avoided
With a move like Fred Astaire
In jeans and parka and gloves
Puffy arm plucks her
From assured catastrophe.

"Thank you!"
Soft down in clenched fists
"You saved my ass."
He looks her in the eyes
Without smiling
"It was an ass worth saving."

The Price of Recession

He came home that night
Quiet, don't wake the family
Shoes off, sliding on socks
Like when he was young
When things were simpler
And a man could provide

Slide through the kitchen
And down the hall to the cellar door
Quiet as a wraith, silent shade
No sound as he descends
The old wooden stairs

Concrete floor, cold through socks
Sapping his energy with icy fingers pulling
Down into the cold earth, cold ground
Drawing him down to rest

To the workbench he moves
His father's tools arrayed before him
Surrounded by the past, what matters most
Invisible to the future, what should have been
He bows his head in shame.

In his pocket a handwritten note and
A crumpled form letter on letterhead
"Due to the economy we are forced
To release you effective immediately"
18 years a working man, never questioned
What he was supposed to do
Never asked for more than his due
Not yet 40

The stillness of the dark is broken
Quiet night cracked open by
A single shot. The dog barks in his pen
Tearing at the fence with ragged teeth
Desperate to be free, released from this snare.

A New Picture (2004)

Cleaning out one's home directory is a little like cleaning out an attic. You never know what you'll find. This piece, for example, from 2004.

I found a new picture
 of you
 today
In a place I didn’t know I could see,
Beyond the rim of eternity
Tumbled-down twisted
Embattled and scarred
Your grey eyes
Exactly as I remembered them

Startling electric remarkable
I thought
Of how much you’d changed
So little
And the spark of
 Ignition
   and of
 Rapture
Swelled in my heart.

The ensnared wings of my desire
Frustrated and restrained
 Unable to rise
   to soar
   to escape

Daedalus’ admonition ringing in my ears
Cruel and tender bonds of fear
Soft and sharp as new silk thread
Wrapped gently (with love)
To entwine my haggared wings
In a web
 A cocoon
Of despair
 And
The bottomless ache
That knows no respite
Or relief

Captivity eludes the veil of
 Your soft smile

 I feel your brittle heart
 Straining for release
 To give birth to an explosive passion
 And the eruption of a terrible volcano
   I sit encamped on Vesuvius
   Awating your liquid fire.

I rise desperate to burn in your love
Awash in your heat
Awash in your unquenched desire
Desire matched only by my fear
And my weakness to resist the onrushing pain.
Entombed with a bittersweet longing
 For you
With only a wish to be cast adrift
In the firestorm of your heart

I found a new picture
 of you
 today
In a place I didn’t know I could see
Beyond the rim of eternity
Tumbled-down twisted
Embattled and scarred
Your grey eyes
Exactly as I remembered them

Billie and Me

Husky and sad
She fills a room
Like the smoke
Of countless cigarettes
Wet, dark night outside
Hot bandstand shadows
In a Spotlight
Eyes closed
Haunting me now
Caressing the air
With your sultry ways
I heard you and fell
A long way down