“Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.” – Carl Sandburg
Sandburg – born in January 1878 – said he never set out to win any prizes for his writing and, in fact, wanted to “write my own way,” even though that often was at odds with what his contemporaries were doing. All that did, of course, was win him most of the major prizes, including three Pulitzers – the only poet to ever win that many.
At his death in 1967, President Lyndon B. Johnson observed, “Carl Sandburg was more than the voice of America, more than the poet of its strength and genius. He was America.” Arguably, Sandburg’s best-known poem may be Chicago – City of the Big Shoulders – but I’ve always liked the whimsical Fog, this Saturday’s Poem selection.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.