Carl Sandburg

(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967 / Illinois)

Carl Sandburg Poems

281. Mill-Doors 1/3/2003
282. Alley Rats 4/2/2010
283. The Shovel Man 1/13/2003
284. Sketch 1/13/2003
285. Bronzes 1/3/2003
286. Maybe 1/3/2003
287. Monosyllabic 1/3/2003
288. Pool 1/13/2003
289. Statistics 1/13/2003
290. Troths 1/3/2003
291. Silver Nails 1/13/2003
292. The Year 1/3/2003
293. 'Boes 1/13/2003
294. Hell On The Wabash 1/3/2003
295. Bringers 1/3/2003
296. Under A Hat Rim 1/13/2003
297. Interior 1/3/2003
298. Subway 1/13/2003
299. Mag 1/3/2003
300. Sheep 1/13/2003
301. To A Contemporary Bunkshooter 1/13/2003
302. Population Drifts 1/13/2003
303. Blue Island Intersection 1/3/2003
304. River Roads 1/3/2003
305. Omaha 1/3/2003
306. Dynamiter 1/3/2003
307. Whitelight 1/13/2003
308. Pals 1/13/2003
309. The Mist 1/3/2003
310. Dunes 1/3/2003
311. Prayers Of Steel 1/3/2003
312. On The Breakwater 1/3/2003
313. Improved Farm Land 1/3/2003
314. Loam 1/3/2003
315. The Hangman At Home 1/3/2003
316. Margaret 1/3/2003
317. Clark Street Bridge 1/3/2003
318. Monotone 1/3/2003
319. Women Washing Their Hair 4/2/2010
320. Losses 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'...

    177 person liked.
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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

Silver Nails

A man was crucified. He came to the city a stranger,
was accused, and nailed to a cross. He lingered hanging.
Laughed at the crowd. "The nails are iron," he
said, "You are cheap. In my country when we crucify
we use silver nails. . ." So he went jeering. They
did not understand him at first. Later they talked about
him in changed voices in the saloons, bowling alleys, and
churches. It came over them every man is crucified
only once in his life and the law of humanity dictates

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