Carl Sandburg

Carl Sandburg

1878–1967 · lived 89 years US US

Carl Sandburg was an American poet, historian, novelist, and lexicographer. He is considered one of the most important American poets of the 20th century, known for his free verse and his focus on the American working class and the landscapes of the American Midwest. His poetry often celebrated the common man and the industrial might of America, earning him a reputation as the "poet of the people." Beyond his poetry, Sandburg was also a prolific biographer, most notably of Abraham Lincoln, and a collector of folklore and songs.

n. 1878-01-06, Galesburg · m. 1967-07-22, Flat Rock

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Grass

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work
-I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and the passengers ask the conductor:

What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work.
Read full poem
Bio

Identification and basic context

Carl Sandburg was an American poet, writer, historian, novelist, and lexicographer. He is widely celebrated for his free verse poetry, which often depicted the American people, especially the working class, and the landscapes of the American Midwest. His work captured the spirit of industrial America and the lives of ordinary people. Sandburg was born in Galesburg, Illinois, and was of Swedish immigrant descent. His linguistic background and early exposure to different cultures influenced his writing style.

Childhood and education

Sandburg's childhood was marked by hard work and limited formal schooling. He left school at the age of thirteen to work and help support his family. Despite this, he was an avid reader and possessed a strong desire for self-education. He worked various jobs, including as a milkman, a railroad laborer, and a salesman, which exposed him to a wide range of American life and experiences. His early readings included works that would later influence his poetic voice, instilling in him a deep appreciation for the vernacular and the common person's experience.

Literary trajectory

Sandburg's literary career began to take shape in his early adulthood. He attended Lombard College in Galesburg, Illinois, where he began writing poetry. His early work was published in small magazines. A pivotal moment was his involvement with Alfred Stieglitz's gallery and his association with the avant-garde literary scene in Chicago. He gained national recognition with the publication of "Chicago Poems" in 1916. His work evolved through distinct phases, increasingly embracing themes of American identity, industry, and the lives of everyday people. He was also active as a journalist, contributing to various publications and anthologies.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Sandburg's major works include "Chicago Poems" (1916), "Cornhuskers" (1918), "Smoke and Steel" (1920), and "The People, Yes" (1936). His style is characterized by its use of free verse, colloquial language, and vivid imagery, often drawing from the sounds and sights of industrial America. He explored themes of the American dream, the struggle of the working class, the beauty of the common, and the vastness of the American landscape. His poetic voice is often direct, celebratory, and deeply empathetic towards ordinary individuals. Sandburg's language was accessible, reflecting the vernacular of the people he wrote about, and his poems often possessed a strong, rhythmic quality, reminiscent of American folk music. He is noted for bringing the language and spirit of the American Midwest into poetry.

Cultural and historical context

Sandburg lived and wrote during a period of immense transformation in American history, including industrialization, World War I, the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, and World War II. He was closely associated with the Chicago Renaissance, a flourishing of arts and literature in Chicago in the early 20th century. He was part of a generation of poets who sought to break away from traditional poetic forms and embrace a more modern, American idiom. His work often reflected the social and economic conditions of his time, particularly the lives of laborers and immigrants. He engaged with the political and social issues of his era, aligning himself with progressive ideals.

Personal life

Sandburg was married to photographer and artist Lilian Steichen, sister of photographer Edward Steichen. They had three daughters. His personal life, though often private, was deeply intertwined with his work, providing him with inspiration and grounding. He was known for his deep connection to the land and his simple lifestyle. He and his family lived on a farm in North Carolina for many years, where he continued to write and pursue his interests in folklore and music. His beliefs were generally progressive, and he was a strong advocate for the common person.

Recognition and reception

Sandburg received significant recognition during his lifetime, including two Pulitzer Prizes: one for his "Complete Poems" (1951) and another for his biography of Abraham Lincoln (1940). He was widely read and admired, hailed as a voice for the common American. His work continues to be studied and appreciated for its enduring portrayal of American life and its innovative use of language. While some critics noted his departure from more traditional poetic forms, his impact and popularity have solidified his place in American literature.

Influences and legacy

Sandburg was influenced by Walt Whitman's embrace of democracy and expansive verse, as well as by the realism and social consciousness of other contemporary writers. He, in turn, influenced generations of American poets with his accessible style, his championing of vernacular language, and his focus on the lives of ordinary Americans. His biography of Lincoln is considered a monumental work in American historiography. Sandburg's legacy lies in his profound connection to the American spirit and his ability to make the lives and experiences of common people the subject of celebrated poetry.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Sandburg's poetry is often interpreted as a celebration of American democracy and the resilience of its people. Critics have analyzed his use of free verse and colloquial language as a deliberate attempt to democratize poetry, making it accessible to a wider audience. His works are seen as a vital record of early 20th-century American life, capturing its industrial dynamism and its social struggles. The critical discourse often centers on his ability to balance a grounded realism with a lyrical sensibility.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Sandburg was also a dedicated folk singer and collector of American folk songs. He amassed a large collection of these songs, which he performed and compiled. He was a multifaceted figure, also known for his collection of Lincolniana. His writing habits were often described as disciplined, but he also possessed a spontaneous and improvisational spirit, much like the folk music he loved. He was known to carry notebooks and jot down observations constantly.

Death and memory

Carl Sandburg died of natural causes at the age of 89. His passing was widely mourned, and his contributions to American literature and culture were deeply acknowledged. His home in Flat Rock, North Carolina, has been preserved as the Carl Sandburg Home National Historic Site, ensuring his legacy continues to inspire future generations.

Poems

116

Pennsylvania

Pennsylvania


I have been in Pennsylvania,
In the Monongahela and Hocking Valleys.


In the blue Susquehanna
On a Saturday morning
I saw a mounted constabulary go by,
I saw boys playing marbles.
Spring and the hills laughed.


And in places
Along the Appalachian chain,
I saw steel arms handling coal and iron,
And I saw the white-cauliflower faces
Of miner's wives waiting for the men to come home from the day's work.


I made color studies in crimson and violet
Over the dust and domes of culm at sunset.
305

Our Prayer of Thanks

Our Prayer of Thanks

For the gladness here where the sun is shining at evening on the weeds at the river,
Our prayer of thanks.


For the laughter of children who tumble barefooted and bareheaded in the summer
grass,
Our prayer of thanks.


For the sunset and the stars, the women and the white arms that hold us,
Our prayer of thanks.


God,
If you are deaf and blind, if this is all lost to you,
God, if the dead in their coffins amid the silver handles on the edge of town, or the
reckless dead of war days thrown unknown in pits, if these dead are forever deaf and
blind and lost,
Our prayer of thanks.


God,
The game is all your way, the secrets and the signals and the system; and so for the
break of the game and the first play and the last.
Our prayer of thanks.
350

On the Way

On the Way

Little one, you have been buzzing in the books,
Flittering in the newspapers and drinking beer with lawyers
And amid the educated men of the clubs you have been getting an earful of speech
from trained tongues.
Take an earful from me once, go with me on a hike
Along sand stretches on the great inland sea here
And while the eastern breeze blows on us and the restless surge
Of the lake waves on the breakwater breaks with an ever fresh monotone,
Let us ask ourselves: What is truth? what do you or I know?
How much do the wisest of the world’s men know about where the massed human
procession is going?


You have heard the mob laughed at?
I ask you: Is not the mob rough as the mountains are rough?
And all things human rise from the mob and relapse and rise again as rain to the sea?
375

Old Timers

Old Timers

I am an ancient reluctant conscript.


On the soup wagons of Xerxes I was a cleaner of pans.
On the march of Miltiades' phalanx I had a haft and head;
I had a bristling gleaming spear-handle.


Red-headed Cæsar picked me for a teamster.
He said, "Go to work, you Tuscan bastard,
Rome calls for a man who can drive horses."


The units of conquest led by Charles the Twelfth,
The whirling whimsical Napoleonic columns:
They saw me one of the horseshoers.


I trimmed the feet of a white horse Bonaparte swept the night stars with.


Lincoln said, "Get into the game; your nation takes you."
And I drove a wagon and team and I had my arm shot off
At Spottsylvania Court House.


I am an ancient reluctant conscript.
413

Omaha

Omaha


Red barns and red heiffers spot the green
grass circles around Omaha--the farmers
haul tanks of cream and wagon-loads of
cheese.


Shale hogbacks across the river at Council
Bluffs--and shanties hang by an eyelash to
the hill slants back around Omaha.


A span of steel ties up the kin of Iowa and
Nebraska across the yellow, big-hoofed Missouri
River.


Omaha, the roughneck, feeds armies,
Eats and swears from a dirty face.
Omaha works to get the world a breakfast.
312

Neighbors

Neighbors


On Forty-first Street
near Eighth Avenue
a frame house wobbles.


If houses went on crutches
this house would be
one of the cripples.


A sign on the house:
Church of the Living God
And Rescue Home for Orphan Children.


From a Greek coffee house
Across the street
A cabalistic jargon
Jabbers back.
And men at tables
Spill Peloponnesian syllables
And speak of shovels for street work.
And the new embankments of the Erie Railroad
At Painted Post, Horse's Head, Salamanca.
352

Nocturne in a Deserted Brickyard

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.
349

Monosyllabic

Monosyllabic


Let me be monosyllabic to-day, O Lord.
Yesterday I loosed a snarl of words on a fool, on a child.
To-day, let me be monosyllabic . . . . a crony of old men who wash sunlight in their
fingers and enjoy slow-pacing clocks.
390

Muckers

Muckers


Twenty men stand watching the muckers.
Stabbing the sides of the ditch
Where clay gleams yellow,
Driving the blades of their shovels
Deeper and deeper for the new gas mains
Wiping sweat off their faces
With red bandanas
The muckers work on .. pausing .. to pull
Their boots out of suckholes where they slosh.


Of the twenty looking on
Ten murmer, “O, its a hell of a job,”
Ten others, “Jesus, I wish I had the job.”
408

Mill-Doors

Mill-Doors


You never come back.
I say good-by when I see you going in the doors,
The hopeless open doors that call and wait
And take you then for—how many cents a day?
How many cents for the sleepy eyes and fingers?


I say good-by because I know they tap your wrists,
In the dark, in the silence, day by day,
And all the blood of you drop by drop,
And you are old before you are young.
You never come back.
319

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