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Review: Chicago PoemsUser Review - Mckinley - Goodreads
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Review: Chicago PoemsUser Review - Peter - Goodreads
Eloquent, elegant, compassionate, gritty and genuine. Sandburg celebrates the common man like Whitman might have, had Whitman not spent most his time celebrating himself. Read full review
accordion anod answer AZTEC beat beautiful blood blue bones breakwater broken bronze bunkshooter Caissons CARL SANDBURG Chamfort Chicago Poems child dark dead Death dollars dreams dusk dust eyes face floor Giovannitti girls glad gone good-by gray guns HALSTED STREET hands harvest moon head heart hills hold hollyhocks hydrangeas Jesus Jesus of Nazareth kill laughing laughter lips look memories million mist Momus moon morning mouth muckers never nigger night onions pass passers-by piled play poets poppies prairie prayer of thanks purple railroad rain reckless remember Robert Frost roses running sarcophagus shadows shoulders shovels silent silver singing skyscraper sleep smash smile soft songs stars straight street stuff sunset talk tell things thousand throat to-morrow toil voices walls wheels WHITELIGHT William Morris wind woman women wonder yellow young
Page 3 - HOG Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders...
Page 172 - 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? I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
Page 61 - When are you going to quit making the carpenters build emergency hospitals for women and girls driven crazy with wrecked nerves from your gibberish about Jesus— I put it to you again: Where do you get that stuff; what do you know about Jesus?
Page 4 - 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...
Page 130 - NOCTURNE iN A DESERTED BRICKYARD Stuff of the moon Runs on the lapping sand Out to the longest shadows. Under the curving willows, And round the creep of the wave line, Fluxions of yellow and dusk on the waters Make a wide dreaming pansy of an old pond in the night.
Page 66 - On the office doors from tier to tier—hundreds of names and each name standing for a face written across with a dead child, a passionate lover, a driving ambition for a million dollar business or a lobster's ease of life. Behind the signs on the doors they work and the walls tell nothing from room to room. Ten-dollar-a-week stenographers take letters from corporation officers, lawyers, efficiency engineers, and tons of letters go bundled from the building to all ends of the earth.
Page 115 - GIVE me hunger, O you gods that sit and give The world its orders. Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger! But leave me a little love, A voice to speak to me in the day end, A hand to touch me in the dark room Breaking the long loneliness.
Page 8 - I came suddenly at the city's edge, On a blue burst of lake, Long lake waves breaking under the sun On a spray-flung curve of shore ; And a fluttering storm of gulls, Masses of great gray wings And flying white bellies Veering and wheeling free in the open.
Page 85 - Held where he cannot move: Under the sun Are sixteen million men, Chosen for shining teeth, Sharp eyes, hard legs, And a running of young warm blood in their wrists. And a red juice runs on the green grass; And a red juice soaks the dark soil. And the sixteen million are killing . . . and killing and killing. I never forget them day or night: They beat on my head for memory of them; They pound on my heart and I cry back to them, To their homes and women, dreams and games. I wake in the night and...
Page 118 - Monotone The monotone of the rain is beautiful, And the sudden rise and slow relapse Of the long multitudinous rain. The sun on the hills is beautiful, Or a captured sunset sea-flung, Bannered with fire and gold. A face I know is beautiful— With fire and gold of sky and sea, And the peace of long warm rain.