Simple Virtues: Carl Sandburg: Awesome Poet

My son Tay Tay is taking a poetry class at the
university this semester.
He is concerned.
He is not a poetry man.
I explained to him that there are poets who
are not 'flowery',
but are masculine and
honest. ; )
Here's one of my favorites,
and some of my favorite poems he wrote.

Baby Toes

There is a blue star, Janet,
Fifteen years’ ride from us,
If we ride a hundred miles an hour.

There is a white star, Janet,
Forty years’ ride from us,
If we ride a hundred miles an hour.

Shall we ride
To the blue star
Or the white star?

with his family

(wife is a Steichen, sister to the photographer...)

Autumn Movement

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper

sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,

new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,

and the old things go, not one lasts.

Plowboy

After the last red sunset glimmer,
Black on the line of a low hill rise,
Formed into moving shadows, I saw
A plowboy and two horses lined against the gray,
Plowing in the dusk the last furrow.
The turf had a gleam of brown,
And smell of soil was in the air,
And, cool and moist, a haze of April.

I shall remember you long,
Plowboy and horses against the sky in shadow.
I shall remember you and the picture
You made for me,
Turning the turf in the dusk
And haze of an April gloaming.

Men Riding Horses in the Rain

Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter's day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.

Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches--and talk about mail carriers and
messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the
Holy Grail and men called "knights" riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.

A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping
the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and
Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.