I thought I liked Sandburg. I read Maybe
many years ago and it seemed funny, witty and different. And short, by all means. (Not in this volume)
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,
At times, reading Chicago Poems
feels like reading prose; not the short and witty stuff I expected. The city gets mythical proportions with its factories where people work for 6 dollars a week, the skyscrapers, the bridges, the subway, the cripples, the girl who's killed by the fire a.s.o. I cannot understand poets' fascination for the country, the land, the city, whatever. Thankfully, not all the poems are devoted to Chicago. Take At A Window
, for instance
GIVE me hunger,
O you gods that sit and give
The world its orders.
Give me hunger, pain and want,
Shut me out with shame and failure
From your doors of gold and fame,
Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!
But leave me a little love,
A voice to speak to me in the day end,
A hand to touch me in the dark room
Breaking the long loneliness.
In the dusk of day-shapes
Blurring the sunset,
One little wandering, western star
Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.
Let me go to the window,
Watch there the day-shapes of dusk
And wait and know the coming
Of a little love.
I was thinking of reading Plath's poetry before moving on to her journals, but now, I don't know, I might just skip it.