Killers

Felix Valloton

The Cemetery of Chalons-Sur-Marne

Killers

I am singing to you

Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;

Hard as a man in handcuffs,

Held where he cannot move:

Under the sun

Are sixteen million men,

Chosen for shining teeth,

Sharp eyes, hard legs,

And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.

And a red juice runs on the green grass;

And a red juice soaks the dark soil.

And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing and killing.

I never forget them day or night:

They beat on my head for memory of them;

They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,

To their homes and women, dreams and games.

I wake in the night and smell the trenches,

And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines--

Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:

Some of them long sleepers for always,

Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,

Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,

Eating and drinking, toiling. . . on a long job of killing.

Sixteen million men.

~ Carl Sandburg ~

Happiness

Norman Rockwell

Freedom From Want

Happiness

I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell me what is happiness.

And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men.

They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them.

And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river

And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.

~ Carl Sandburg ~

Maybe

Edward Hopper

Summer Evening

Maybe

Maybe he believes me, maybe not.
Maybe I can marry him, maybe not.

Maybe the wind on the prairie,
The wind on the sea, maybe,
Somebody, somewhere, maybe can tell.

I will lay my head on his shoulder
And when he asks me I will say yes,
Maybe.

~ Carl Sandburg ~

And They Obey

Edvard Munch

Workers Returning Home

And They Obey

Smash down the cities.

Knock the walls to pieces.

Break the factories and cathedrals, warehouses and homes

Into loose piles of stone and lumber and black burnt wood:

You are the soldiers and we command you.

Build up the cities.

Set up the walls again.

Put together once more the factories and cathedrals, warehouses and homes

Into buildings for life and labor:

You are workmen and citizens all:

We command you.

~ Carl Sandburg ~

Dream Girl

Edvard Munch

Madonna

Dream Girl

You will come one day in a waver of love,

Tender as dew, impetuous as rain,

The tan of the sun will be on your skin,

The purr of the breeze in your murmuring speech,

You will pose with a hill-flower grace.

You will come, with your slim, expressive arms,

A poise of the head no sculptor has caught

And nuances spoken with shoulder and neck,

Your face in a pass-and-repass of moods

As many as skies in delicate change

Of cloud and blue and flimmering sun.

Yet,

You may not come, O girl of a dream,

We may but pass as the world goes by

And take from a look of eyes into eyes,

A film of hope and a memoried day.

~ Carl Sandburg ~

Joy

Henri Matisse

The Dance

Joy

Let a joy keep you.

Reach out your hands

And take it when it runs by,

As the Apache dancer

Clutches his woman.

I have seen them

Live long and laugh loud,

Sent on singing, singing,

Smashed to the heart

Under the ribs

With a terrible love.

Joy always,

Joy everywhere--

Let joy kill you!

Keep away from the little deaths.

~ Carl Sandburg ~

Little Word, Little White Bird

Alfred Gockel

Endless Love

Little Word, Little White Bird

Love is a little white bird

and the flight of it so fast

you can't see it

and you know it's there

only by the faint whirr of its wings

and the hush song coming so low to your ears

you fear it might be silence

and you listen keen

and you listen long

and you know it's more than silence

for you get the hush song so lovely

it hurts and cuts into your heart

and what you want

is to give more than you can get

and you'd like to write it

but it can't be written

and you'd like to sing it

but you don't dare try

because the little white bird sings it better than you can

so you listen

and while you listen you pray

and one day it's as though

a great slow wind had washed you clean and strong

inside and out

and another day it's as though you had gone to sleep

in an early afternoon sunfall and your sleeping heart

dumb and cold as a round polished stone,

and the little white bird's hush song

telling you nothing can harm you,

the days to come can weave in and weave out

and spin their fabrics and designs for you

and nothing can harm you

~ Carl Sandburg ~