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Carl Sandburg - Loam

IN the loam we sleep,
In the cool moist loam,
To the lull of years that pass
And the break of stars,
From the loam, then,
The soft warm loam,
  We rise:
To shape of rose leaf,
Of face and shoulder.
  We stand, then,
  To a whiff of life,
Lifted to the silver of the sun
Over and out of the loam
  A day.

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Added: Feb 4 2004 | Viewed: 1169 times | Comments and analysis of Loam by Carl Sandburg Comments (1)

Loam - Comments and Information

Poet: Carl Sandburg
Poem: 20. Loam
Volume: Cornhuskers
- Cornhuskers
Year: Published/Written in 1918
Poem of the Day: Apr 19 2008

Comment 1 of 1, added on April 12th, 2014 at 2:38 PM.
This is the blank ve

This is the blank verse by famous Russian poet Vladimir Mayakovsy wrtietn in 1916. If you can do something alike – you will at least be original.Lilichka!Tobacco smoke eats the air away.The room, A chapter from Kruchenykh’s InfernoRecall, By the windowThat dayI caressed you ecstatically, with fervorHere you sit now,With your heart in iron armor.In a day,You’ll scold me perhapsAnd tell me to leave.Frenzied, my trembling arm in a gloomy parlorWill hardly be able to fit the sleeve.I’ll rush outAnd hurl my body into the street, Distraught,Lashed by despair and sadnessThere’s no need for this,My darling,my sweet.Let’s part tonight and end this madness,Either way,My love isAn arduous weight,Hanging on youWherever you flee.Let me bellow out in a final complaintAll of my heartbroken misery.A laboring bull, if he had enough,Will leaveAnd find cool water to lie inBut for meThere’s no seaExcept for your love, From which even tears won’t earn me some quiet.If an elephant wants to relax, he’ll lie,Pompous, outside in the sun-baked dune,Except for you love,There’s no sunIn the skyAnd I don’t know where you are of with whom.If you thus tormented another poet,HeWould trade in his love for money and fameButNothing sounds as precious to me as the ringing sound of your darling name.I won’t drink poison,Or jump to demise,Or pull the trigger to take my own life.Except for your eyes,No blade can control me,No sharpened knife.Tomorrow you’ll forgetThat it was I who crowned you,Who burned out the blossoming soul with loveAnd days will form a whirling carnivalThat will ruffle my manuscripts and lift them above..Will the dry autumn leaves of my sentencesCause you to pause,Breathing hard?Let mePave a path with final tendernessFor your footsteps as you depart.

Axel from Dominican Republic

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