Carl Sandburg

(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967 / Illinois)

Carl Sandburg Poems

241. Localities 1/3/2003
242. Always The Mob 4/2/2010
243. Manitoba Childe Roland 1/1/2004
244. The Red Son 1/13/2003
245. The Mayor Of Gary 1/3/2003
246. Salvage 1/13/2003
247. Alix 4/2/2010
248. Adelaide Crapsey 4/2/2010
249. Cumulatives 1/3/2003
250. Hydrangeas 1/3/2003
251. Medallion 1/3/2003
252. Picnic Boat 1/3/2003
253. Work Gangs 4/2/2010
254. Baby Toes 4/2/2010
255. Shirt 1/3/2003
256. Chamfort 1/3/2003
257. Ashurnatsirpal Iii 4/2/2010
258. Noon Hour 1/13/2003
259. The Has-Been 1/3/2003
260. People Who Must 1/3/2003
261. Soiled Dove 1/13/2003
262. The Noon Hour 1/3/2003
263. Passers-By 1/3/2003
264. Jungheimer's 1/3/2003
265. To Beachey, 1912 1/13/2003
266. Muckers 1/3/2003
267. Sunset From Omaha Hotel Window 1/3/2003
268. Woman With A Past 4/2/2010
269. The Walking Man Of Rodin 1/13/2003
270. Ice Handler 1/3/2003
271. Uplands In May 1/13/2003
272. Trafficker 1/13/2003
273. Sixteen Months 1/3/2003
274. Masses 1/3/2003
275. Nocturne In A Deserted Brickyard 1/3/2003
276. Young Bullfrogs 4/2/2010
277. Onion Days 1/3/2003
278. Pennsylvania 1/3/2003
279. Style 1/13/2003
280. Mill-Doors 1/3/2003

Comments about Carl Sandburg

  • Malkisedik Yahya (9/6/2008 12:01:00 PM)

    i love sandburg's works, especially that use the wor 'moon'..wish me luck b'coz i wanna write my undergraduate thesis about the meaning of sandburg's works that use the word 'moon'...

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  • Rosa Jamali (6/1/2008 2:39:00 PM)

    I think postmodern poetry owes Sandburg, as he was the first to describe machinery life, he expanded the range of words in poetry & he tried to add some new concepts, we have to reread Sandburg to go forward...

  • A. Michael Sears (2/13/2006 8:19:00 PM)

    What can I say? Carl Sandburg is truly a master. His ability to celebrate the beauty and greatness in all things common, is unmatched. And since the publication of 'Chicago Poems' in 1916, the voice of modern poetry has never been the same.

Best Poem of Carl Sandburg

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Read the full of Fog

Noon Hour

She sits in the dust at the walls
And makes cigars,
Bending at the bench
With fingers wage-anxious,
Changing her sweat for the day's pay.

Now the noon hour has come,
And she leans with her bare arms
On the window-sill over the river,

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