Can’t Get Enough Sandburg—National Poetry Month

Carl Sandburg photo montage by Edward Steichen, 1936.

Whatever current fashion has to say, Carl Sandburg remains one of my three all-time favorite American poets and a personal inspiration.  He always set his own course rejecting the obscurism of fashionable modernism, high-flown rhetoric, or classical allusions in favor of plain, blunt speech.  

Without even dipping into a handful of poems from his first great book, Chicago Poems that have been so widely anthologized that they are familiar to folks who don’t read poetry, here is a sample of his vigorous verse which stand on their merits without further introductions.

Black Horizons

Black horizons, come up.
Black horizons, kiss me.
That is all; so many lies; killing so cheap;
babies so cheap; blood, people so cheap; and
land high, land dear; a speck of the earth
costs; a suck at the tit of Mother Dirt so
clean and strong, it costs; fences, papers,
sheriffs; fences, laws, guns; and so many
stars and so few hours to dream; such a big
song and so little a footing to stand and
sing; take a look; wars to come; red rivers
to cross.
Black horizons, come up.
Black horizons, kiss me.

—Carl Sandburg

                Sandburg as journalist in Chicago circa 1918.

Cahoots

Play it across the table.
What if we steal this city blind?
If they want any thing let ‘em nail it down.

Harness bulls, dicks, front office men,
And the high goats up on the bench,
Ain’t they all in cahoots?
Ain’t it fifty-fifty all down the line,
Petemen, dips, boosters, stick-ups and guns—
        what’s to hinder?

        Go fifty-fifty.
If they nail you call in a mouthpiece.
Fix it, you gazump, you slant-head, fix it.
        Feed ‘em. . . .

Nothin’ ever sticks to my fingers, nah, nah,
        nothin’ like that,
But there ain’t no law we got to wear mittens—
        huh—is there?
Mittens, that’s a good one—mittens!
There oughta be a law everybody wear mittens.

 —Carl Sandburg

 

Masses

 

Among the mountains I wandered and saw blue haze and
     red crag and was amazed;
On the beach where the long push under the endless tide
     maneuvers, I stood silent;
Under the stars on the prairie watching the Dipper slant
     over the horizon’s grass, I was full of thoughts.
Great men, pageants of war and labor, soldiers and workers,
     mothers lifting their children—these all I
     touched, and felt the solemn thrill of them.
And then one day I got a true look at the Poor, millions
     of the Poor, patient and toiling; more patient than
     crags, tides, and stars; innumerable, patient as the
     darkness of night—and all broken, humble ruins of nations.

—Carl Sandburg

They Will Say

 

     Of my city the worst that men will ever say is this:
You took little children away from the sun and the dew,
And the glimmers that played in the grass under the great sky,
And the reckless rain; you put them between walls
To work, broken and smothered, for bread and wages,
To eat dust in their throats and die empty-hearted
For a little handful of pay on a few Saturday nights.

—Carl Sandburg

Population Drifts 

 

New-mown hay smell and wind of the plain made her
     a woman whose ribs had the power of the hills in
     them and her hands were tough for work and there
     was passion for life in her womb.
She and her man crossed the ocean and the years that
     marked their faces saw them haggling with landlords
     and grocers while six children played on the stones
     and prowled in the garbage cans.
One child coughed its lungs away, two more have adenoids
     and can neither talk nor run like their mother,
     one is in jail, two have jobs in a box factory
And as they fold the pasteboard, they wonder what the
     wishing is and the wistful glory in them that flutters
     faintly when the glimmer of spring comes on
     the air or the green of summer turns brown:
They do not know it is the new-mown hay smell calling
     and the wind of the plain praying for them to come
     back and take hold of life again with tough hands
     and with passion.

—Carl Sandburg

Anna Imroth

Cross the hands over the breast here—so.
Straighten the legs a little more—so.
And call for the wagon to come and take her home.
Her mother will cry some and so will her sisters and
     brothers.
But all of the others got down and they are safe and
     this is the only one of the factory girls who
     wasn’t lucky in making the jump when the fire broke.
It is the hand of God and the lack of fire escapes.

—Carl Sandburg

                           Sandburg walks Chicago streets again, 1967

Fellow Citizens

I drank musty ale at the Illinois Athletic Club with
     the millionaire manufacturer of Green River butter
     one night
And his face had the shining light of an old-time Quaker,
     he spoke of a beautiful daughter, and I knew he had
     a peace and a happiness up his sleeve somewhere.
Then I heard Jim Kirch make a speech to the Advertising
     Association on the trade resources of South America.
And the way he lighted a three-for-a-nickel stogie and
     cocked it at an angle regardless of the manners of
     our best people,
I knew he had a clutch on a real happiness even though
     some of the reporters on his newspaper say he is
     the living double of Jack London’s Sea Wolf.
In the mayor’s office the mayor himself told me he was
     happy though it is a hard job to satisfy all the office-
     seekers and eat all the dinners he is asked to eat.
Down in Gilpin Place, near Hull House, was a man with
     his jaw wrapped for a bad toothache,
And he had it all over the butter millionaire, Jim Kirch
     and the mayor when it came to happiness.
He is a maker of accordions and guitars and not only
     makes them from start to finish, but plays them
     after he makes them.
And he had a guitar of mahogany with a walnut bottom
     he offered for seven dollars and a half if I wanted it,
And another just like it, only smaller, for six dollars,
     though he never mentioned the price till I asked him,
And he stated the price in a sorry way, as though the
     music and the make of an instrument count for a
     million times more than the price in money.
I thought he had a real soul and knew a lot about God.
There was light in his eyes of one who has conquered
     sorrow in so far as sorrow is conquerable or worth
     conquering.
Anyway he is the only Chicago citizen I was jealous of
     that day.
He played a dance they play in some parts of Italy
     when the harvest of grapes is over and the wine
     presses are ready for work.

—Carl Sandburg

Nigger

I am the nigger.
Singer of songs,
Dancer. . .
Softer than fluff of cotton. . .
Harder than dark earth
Roads beaten in the sun
By the bare feet of slaves. . .
Foam of teeth. . . breaking crash of laughter. . .
Red love of the blood of woman,
White love of the tumbling pickaninnies. . .
Lazy love of the banjo thrum. . .
Sweated and driven for the harvest-wage,
Loud laughter with hands like hams,
Fists toughened on the handles,
Smiling the slumber dreams of old jungles,
Crazy as the sun and dew and dripping, heaving life
     of the jungle,
Brooding and muttering with memories of shackles:
               I am the nigger.
               Look at me.
               I am the nigger.

—Carl Sandburg

              Folk singer and collector on his Swedish bell guitar.

Ready to Kill

Ten minutes now I have been looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.
This is a bronze memorial of a famous general
Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver
     on him.
I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be
     hauled away to the scrap yard.
I put it straight to you,
After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory
     hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear,
When they stack a few silhouettes
          Against the sky
          Here in the park,
And show the real huskies that are doing the work of
     the world, and feeding people instead of butchering them,
Then maybe I will stand here
And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag
     in the air,
And riding like hell on horseback
Ready to kill anybody that gets in his way,
Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men
     all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.

—Carl Sandburg

                Sandburg charmed Marilyn Monroe and vice versa. 

Prayers After a World War

Wandering oversea dreamer,
Hunting and hoarse, Oh daughter and mother,
Oh daughter of ashes and mother of blood,
Child of the hair let down, and tears,
Child of the cross in the south
And the star in the north,
Keeper of Egypt and Russia and France,
Keeper of England and Poland and Spain,
Make us a song for to-morrow.
Make us one new dream, us who forget,
Out of the storm let us have one star.

Struggle, Oh anvils, and help her.
Weave with your wool. Oh winds and skies.
Let your iron and copper help,
Oh dirt of the old dark earth.

Wandering oversea singer,
Singing of ashes and blood,
Child of the scars of fire,
Make us one new dream, us who forget.
Out of the storm let us have one star. 

—Carl Sandburg

Osawatomie

I don’t know how he came,
shambling, dark, and strong.

He stood in the city and told men:
My people are fools, my people are young and strong, my people must learn, my people are terrible workers and fighters.
Always he kept on asking: Where did that blood come from?

They said: You for the fool killer, you for the booby hatch and a necktie party.

They hauled him into jail.
They sneered at him and spit on him,
And he wrecked their jails,
Singing, ‘God damn your jails,’
And when he was most in jail
Crummy among the crazy in the dark
Then he was most of all out of jail
Shambling, dark, and strong,
Always asking: Where did that blood come from?
They laid hands on him
And the fool killers had a laugh
And the necktie party was a go, by God.
They laid hands on him and he was a goner.
They hammered him to pieces and he stood up.
They buried him and he walked out of the grave, by God,
Asking again: Where did that blood come from?

—Carl Sandburg

 

Beyond Joyce Kilmer for Arbor Day Verse—National Poetry Month 2024

Before Earth Day, Arbor Day was the primary environmental celebration and a semi-holiday in the United States.  And for a while it was a very big deal with tens of thousands of volunteers across the country planting and tending trees.  The results were breath taking.  Arbor Day is often credited with re-foresting American cities and towns. 

Old 19th Century photographs reveal that many were barren urban wastelands long denuded of foliage with buildings jammed together and coming right up to streets and crude sidewalks.  In Chicago, for instance, Daniel Burnham’s famous network of grand boulevards which radiated from the downtown core piercing the neighborhoods with trees was influenced by the Arbor Day movement.  Later the smaller boulevards—the local name for the strip of ground between the sidewalk and the street—were planted with trees, many by the CCC during the Great Depression.  Not only did all of those trees greatly improve the look of the city, but they also helped dramatically clean the air and provided much needed shade that helped cool city folk through sweltering summers.  Some sociologists even noted reduction in crime in neighborhoods with trees.

Tree planting festivals have been traced by to the Spanish village of Villanueva de la Sierra in 1805 where a local Priest organized a three day fiesta around planting hundreds of trees.  The custom spread to neighboring villages and towns.

School Children plant a tree in 1909 in Nebraska, the state where Arbor Day originated.

In America Arbor Day was founded in 1872 by Democratic politician and later Secretary of Agriculture Julius Sterling Morton at Nebraska City, Nebraska.  That first year 10,000 trees were planted in and around the community.  Anyone who has ever visited Nebraska can attest to the crying need for trees on its vast High Plains.  Morton’s son, Joy Morton, the founder of the Morton Salt Company in Chicago, shared his father’s enthusiasm and founded the Morton Arboretum in suburban Lyle centered on the grounds of his estate.

The first observance drew national attention and soon other towns were emulating it.  By 1883 the American Forestry Association officially endorsed Arbor Day and named Birdseye Northrop of Connecticut as Chairman of a committee to make the day an official national celebration.  Birdseye, who liked to travel, also introduced the idea to Japan, Australia, Canada, and back to Europe.

The Post Office celebrated the 50th anniversary of Arbor Day.

In 1907 President Theodore Roosevelt issued an Arbor Day Proclamation to the School Children of the United States.  It became an annual tradition.  Eventually Congress designated the final Friday of April for the observance and several states made it a holiday. 

In the early years the Boy Scouts troupes were heavily mobilized for tree planting and many still continue that tradition.  As observed the CCC and the WPA in conjunction with National Forest Service were employed during the Depression.

Tree plantings continue, but the spotlight seldom shines on Arbor Day anymore.

But we can celebrate with poetry, naturally.  Poets probably have been versifying about trees since the first bard plucked his lyre.  Yet most of us can only recall Joyce Kilmer’s Trees.  With apologies to Kilmer who was killed in the trenches of World War I just as his hymn to trees was becoming famous, it is a pretty bad poem filled with mixed and conflicting metaphors.  We can do better.

A Young William Carlos Williams.

Take Dr. Williams, for instance.  The great poetic innovator of Patterson, New Jersey paused to take in the barren trees of winter.  Ever creative note his charming coining of a word in the third line.

 

Winter Trees

All the complicated details

of the attiring and

the disattiring are completed!

A liquid moon

moves gently among

the long branches.

Thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold

 

—William Carlos Williams

 

H.D.--Hilda Doolittle.

Hilda Doolittle was an American poet from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania who moved to England in 1911 when she was 25 years old.  Writing as simply H.D. she became a close associate of Ezra Pound and a central figure in the avant garde imagist movement that revolutionized 20th Century poetry.  After being nearly forgotten, she was rediscovered by the women’s studies movement in academia. 

 

Pear Tree

 

Silver dust  

lifted from the earth,  

higher than my arms reach,  

you have mounted.  

O silver,

higher than my arms reach  

you front us with great mass;  

  

no flower ever opened  

so staunch a white leaf,  

no flower ever parted silver

from such rare silver;  

  

O white pear,  

your flower-tufts,  

thick on the branch,  

bring summer and ripe fruits

in their purple hearts.

 

—H.D.

 

Wendell Berry.

O.K, show of hands.  Who is surprised that farmer/activist/poet Wendell Berry, appreciates trees?

 

Woods

 

I part the out thrusting branches
and come in beneath
the blessed and the blessing trees.
Though I am silent
there is singing around me.
Though I am dark
there is vision around me.
Though I am heavy
there is flight around me.

 

—Wendell Berry

 

The tree planting janitor of Briargate School, 2004

For twenty years this poet was a school custodian in McHenry County, Illinois.  Among his many duties was occasionally planting trees on the grounds.  At least once the job got inside his head.  The result, this poem from the 2004 Skinner House collection We Build Temples in the Heart.

 

The Janitor’s Epiphany

 

In the mist of a late, cool spring,

            a common workman’s callused boot

            impelled the spade

            which sliced the velvet lawn

            and turned the Black Forest cake earth.

 

And in time he filled the hole casually,

            as if it were any other job,

            with a young tree yanked rudely

            from its old place and flung down here

            before the school.

 

Satisfied and ready to turn away,

            he stopped short and looked again—

this is a Great Thing, he thought,

and cries to heaven for ceremony,

for some note that life has happened here.

 

            Yet civic virtue stilled his lips,

                        lest his sectarian prayer rend a fragile peace,

                        and his own reason mocked an active ear

                        waiting on the supplicant’s plea

                        to do something, anything.

 

            But the rhythms of the season echoed here,

                        the shade of generations turned

                        with the spade and loam—

a Great Thing has happened

and cries out to heaven for ceremony,

for some note that life has happened here.

 

—Patrick Murfin

We will end with that counter cultural mystic Richard Brautigan who decades ago had this vision.Richard Brautigan.

 All Watched Over By Machines Of Loving Grace

I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.

I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.

I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.

—Richard Brautigan