Month: June 2020

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

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

Nocturne

Stuff of the moon
Runs on the lapping sand
Out to the longest shadows.
Under the curving willows,
And round the creep of the wave line,
Fluxions of yellow and dusk on the waters
Make a wide dreaming pansy of an old pond in the night.

These two short, haiku-like poems are by Carl Sandburg, shown above, who wrote everything from multi-volume biographies of his fellow Illinoisan, Abraham Lincoln, to children’s books retelling favorite American folk-tales to collections of American folk songs. Times have changed, and these things are no longer in style, although in his writing life – the first two thirds of the 20^th century – they were very popular. He won three Pulitzer Prizes, one for History in 1940, and the others for Poetry in 1919 and 1951.

Carl Sandburg was a familiar figure to anybody living in America in the first half of the 20th century, and his blond Swedish hair – later silver grey Swedish hair – parted on the side was immediately recognizable. He was originally known for his poetry, which was considered “populist,” but later moved on to historical writing and research. He devoted much of his life to the collection of and retelling of Midwestern folk stories and folk music. You could consider him the first of the singer songwriters…he often sang and accompanied himself on the guitar. And he was well known for his radio readings of his own poetry.

He also wrote children’s books. As a child, I loved Sandburg’s Rootabaga Stories, set in the Village of Liver-and-Onions and populated by interesting and bizarre characters.   The great illustrations of the first edition in 1922 (frontispiece show below) were particularly memorable. They were by Maud and Miska Petersham, she American born and he a Hungarian immigrant, who did remarkable illustrations for everything ranging from collected stories of Shakespeare to a host of children’s books such as the Rootabaga Stories.

But times change, and now Carl Sandburg is nearly forgotten. But maybe he’ll come back someday…poets often do. We read a lot of Sandburg in New York City when I was in school in the 50s and early 60s, even though he was very identified with Illinois and the Midwest. He especially loved the city of Chicago, then as now a bit of a hard place to love and incomprehensible to us New Yorkers.  His first big splash, in fact, was with the publication of his Chicago Poems in 1914, particularly the one simply entitled Chicago. This is Chicago of over 100 years ago, and while it has kept up its reputation for crime, I’m not sure it still qualifies for many of the more positive titles he gives it. But make your own decision, because here it is:

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.

This poem is usually known as “What Is so Rare as a Day in June,” but actually there is no poem by that name. The name of the poem is The Vision of Sir Launfel, a very long sorta historical poem in the tradition of Sir Walter Scott, dealing with the search for the Holy Grail. However, while the poem itself may be slightly unreadable, it is absolutely stuffed with what I think of as beautiful little mini-poems…that is, sections that can exist on their own. This little section is probably one of the best known of them.

James Russell Lowell was from the well known Lowell family of Massachusetts; they were quite the elite, very important in the world of politics and law and wealth, and the saying went that the “Lowells speak only to the Cabots (another, even more important family), and the Cabots speak only to God.” However, the family produced two poets, James Russell himself and his first cousin, Amy Lowell (who has already appeared on the Poetry Stand).

James Russell Lowell taught at Harvard and wrote poetry. He was politically active, like most New Englanders, involved in the abolition and other movements, but he never let his politics overwhelm his poetry. He remained with his eyes open to the human condition and to the world that needed telling. So even though he goes on a bit too long, by modern standards, you’ll find beautiful little gems of lines buried in there!

What Is So Rare As A Day In June
 
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten…
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it…