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Luis Omar Salinas

Sometimes in the evening when love tunes its harp and the crickets celebrate life, I am like a troubadour in search of friends, loved ones, anyone who will share with me a bit of conversation. My loneliness arrives ghostlike and pretentious, it seeks my soul, it is ravenous and hurting … I want to find… Continue reading Luis Omar Salinas

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American Culture · American Literature · Chicago Literary Renaissance · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry · Traditionalism

Carl Sandburg

I speak of new cities and new people. I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes. I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down, a sun dropped in the west. I tell you there is nothing in the world only an ocean of to-morrows, a sky of to-morrows. — Carl Sandburg, from… Continue reading Carl Sandburg

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American Culture · American Literature · Chicago Literary Renaissance · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry · Traditionalism

Carl Sandburg

I HAVE ransacked the encyclopedias     And slid my fingers among topics and titles     Looking for you.       And the answer comes slow.     There seems to be no answer.               I shall ask the next banana peddler the who and the why of it.       Or—the iceman with his… Continue reading Carl Sandburg

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American Culture · American Literature · Chicago Literary Renaissance · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry · Traditionalism

Carl Sandburg

THE fog comes     on little cat feet.       It sits looking     over harbor and city     on silent haunches              and then moves on.     — Carl Sandburg, “Fog,” Chicago Poems. (Dover Publications; Unabridged edition May 20, 1994) Originally published 1916.

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Chicago Literary Renaissance · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry · Traditionalism

Carl Sandburg

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… Continue reading Carl Sandburg

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