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CHICAGO POEMS, by CARL SANDBURG.

Digitized by Cardinalis Etext Press, C.E.K.
Posted to Wiretap in June 1993, as chicago.txt.

This text is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN.




                          CHICAGO POEMS

                               By

                          CARL SANDBURG

                            NEW YORK
                     HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY



                         COPYRIGHT, 1916
                               BY
                     HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY



                               To
                         MY WIFE AND PAL
                    LILLIAN STEICHEN SANDBURG



                         PREFATORY NOTE

     Some of these writings were first printed in Poetry: A
Magazine of Verse, Chicago. Permission to reprint is by courtesy of
that publication. The writer wishes to thank Harriet Monroe and
Alice Corbin Henderson, editors of Poetry, and William Marion
Reedy, editor of Reedy's Mirror, St. Louis, whose services have
heightened what values of human address herein hold good.



                            CONTENTS

CHICAGO POEMS

Chicago. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sketch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Masses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Harbor . . . . . . . . . . . . .
They Will Say. . . . . . . . . . . .
Mill-Doors . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Halsted Street Car . . . . . . . . .
Clark Street Bridge. . . . . . . . .
Passers-by . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Walking Man of Rodin . . . . . .
Subway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Shovel Man . . . . . . . . . . .
A Teamster's Farewell. . . . . . . .
Fish Crier . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Picnic Boat. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Happiness. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Muckers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Blacklisted. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Graceland. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Child of the Romans. . . . . . . . .
The Right to Grief . . . . . . . . .
Mag. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Onion Days . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Population Drifts. . . . . . . . . .
Cripple. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A Fence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Anna Imroth. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Working Girls. . . . . . . . . . . .
Mamie. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Personality. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Cumulatives. . . . . . . . . . . . .
To Certain Journeymen. . . . . . . .
Chamfort . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Limited. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Has-Been . . . . . . . . . . . .
In a Back Alley. . . . . . . . . . .
A Coin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dynamiter. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ice Handler. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Jack . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Fellow Citizens. . . . . . . . . . .
Nigger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Two Neighbors. . . . . . . . . . . .
Style. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
To Beachey--1912 . . . . . . . . . .
Under a Hat Rim. . . . . . . . . . .
In a Breath. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Bath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Bronzes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dunes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
On the Way . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ready to Kill. . . . . . . . . . . .
To a Contemporary Bunkshooter. . . .
Skyscraper . . . . . . . . . . . . .

HANDFULS

Fog. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Pool . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Jan Kubelik. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Choose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Crimson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Whitelight . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Flux . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Kin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
White Shoulders. . . . . . . . . . .
Losses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Troths . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

WAR POEMS (1914-1915)

Killers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Among the Red Guns . . . . . . . . .
Iron . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Murmurings in a Field Hospital . . .
Statistics . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Fight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Buttons. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And They Obey. . . . . . . . . . . .
Jaws . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Salvage. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Wars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

THE ROAD AND THE END

The Road and the End . . . . . . . .
Choices. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Graves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Aztec Mask . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Momus. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Answer . . . . . . . . . . . . .
To a Dead Man. . . . . . . . . . . .
Under. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A Sphinx . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Who Am I?. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Our Prayer of Thanks . . . . . . . .

FOGS AND FIRES

At a Window. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Under the Harvest Moon . . . . . . .
The Great Hunt . . . . . . . . . . .
Monotone . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Joy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Shirt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Aztec. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Two. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Back Yard. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
On the Breakwater. . . . . . . . . .
Mask . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Pearl Fog. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I Sang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Follies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
June . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Nocturne in a Deserted Brickyard . .
Hydrangeas . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Theme in Yellow. . . . . . . . . . .
Between Two Hills. . . . . . . . . .
Last Answers . . . . . . . . . . . .
Window . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Young Sea. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Bones. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Pals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Child. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Poppies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Child Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Margaret . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

SHADOWS

Poems Done on a Late Night Car. . . .
It Is Much. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Trafficker. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Harrison Street Court . . . . . . . .
Soiled Dove . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Jungheimer's. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Gone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

OTHER DAYS (1900-1910)

Dreams in the Dusk. . . . . . . . . .
Docks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
All Day Long. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Waiting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
From the Shore. . . . . . . . . . . .
Uplands in May. . . . . . . . . . . .
A Dream Girl. . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Plowboy . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Broadway. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Old Woman . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Noon Hour . . . . . . . . . . . .
'Boes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Under a Telephone Pole. . . . . . . .
I Am the People, the Mob. . . . . . .
Government. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Languages . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Letters to Dead Imagists. . . . . . .
Sheep . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Red Son . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Mist. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Junk Man. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Silver Nails. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Gypsy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



                          CHICAGO POEMS



                             CHICAGO

     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:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
     have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
     luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
     is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
     kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
     faces of women and children I have seen the marks
     of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
     sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
     and say to them:
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;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
     as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
          Bareheaded,
          Shoveling,
          Wrecking,
          Planning,
          Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
     white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
     man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
     never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
     and under his ribs the heart of the people,
               Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
     Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
     Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
     Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.



                             SKETCH

THE shadows of the ships
Rock on the crest
In the low blue lustre
Of the tardy and the soft inrolling tide.

A long brown bar at the dip of the sky
Puts an arm of sand in the span of salt.

The lucid and endless wrinkles
Draw in, lapse and withdraw.
Wavelets crumble and white spent bubbles
Wash on the floor of the beach.

          Rocking on the crest
          In the low blue lustre
          Are the shadows of the ships.



                             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.



                              LOST

DESOLATE and lone
All night long on the lake
Where fog trails and mist creeps,
The whistle of a boat
Calls and cries unendingly,
Like some lost child
In tears and trouble
Hunting the harbor's breast
And the harbor's eyes.



                           THE HARBOR

PASSING through huddled and ugly walls
By doorways where women
Looked from their hunger-deep eyes,
Haunted with shadows of hunger-hands,
Out from the huddled and ugly walls,
I came sudden, 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.



                          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.



                           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.



                       HALSTED STREET CAR

          COME you, cartoonists,
          Hang on a strap with me here
          At seven o'clock in the morning
          On a Halsted street car.

               Take your pencils
               And draw these faces.

Try with your pencils for these crooked faces,
That pig-sticker in one corner--his mouth--
That overall factory girl--her loose cheeks.

               Find for your pencils
               A way to mark your memory
               Of tired empty faces.

               After their night's sleep,
               In the moist dawn
               And cool daybreak,
               Faces
               Tired of wishes,
               Empty of dreams.



                       CLARK STREET BRIDGE

DUST of the feet
And dust of the wheels,
Wagons and people going,
All day feet and wheels.

Now. . .
 . . Only stars and mist
A lonely policeman,
Two cabaret dancers,
Stars and mist again,
No more feet or wheels,
No more dust and wagons.

     Voices of dollars
     And drops of blood
     . . . . .
     Voices of broken hearts,
     . . Voices singing, singing,
     . . Silver voices, singing,
     Softer than the stars,
     Softer than the mist.



                           PASSERS-BY

PASSERS-BY,
Out of your many faces
Flash memories to me
Now at the day end
Away from the sidewalks
Where your shoe soles traveled
And your voices rose and blent
To form the city's afternoon roar
Hindering an old silence.

Passers-by,
I remember lean ones among you,
Throats in the clutch of a hope,
Lips written over with strivings,
Mouths that kiss only for love.
Records of great wishes slept with,
     Held long
And prayed and toiled for. .

     Yes,
Written on
Your mouths
And your throats
I read them
When you passed by.



                    THE WALKING MAN OF RODIN

LEGS hold a torso away from the earth.
And a regular high poem of legs is here.
Powers of bone and cord raise a belly and lungs
Out of ooze and over the loam where eyes look and ears hear
And arms have a chance to hammer and shoot and run motors.
     You make us
     Proud of our legs, old man.

And you left off the head here,
The skull found always crumbling neighbor of the ankles.



                             SUBWAY

DOWN between the walls of shadow
Where the iron laws insist,
     The hunger voices mock.

The worn wayfaring men
With the hunched and humble shoulders,
     Throw their laughter into toil.



                         THE SHOVEL MAN

     ON the street
Slung on his shoulder is a handle half way across,
Tied in a big knot on the scoop of cast iron
Are the overalls faded from sun and rain in the ditches;
Spatter of dry clay sticking yellow on his left sleeve
          And a flimsy shirt open at the throat,
          I know him for a shovel man,
          A dago working for a dollar six bits a day
And a dark-eyed woman in the old country dreams of
     him for one of the world's ready men with a pair
     of fresh lips and a kiss better than all the wild
     grapes that ever grew in Tuscany.



                      A TEAMSTER'S FAREWELL

                 Sobs En Route to a Penitentiary

GOOD-BY now to the streets and the clash of wheels and
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