At fifty I had released a two-volume biography and the yank Songbag, and there has been puzzlement as to if i used to be a poet, a biographer, a wandering troubadour with a guitar, a midwest Hans Christian Andersen, or a historian of present occasions whose newspaper reporting used to be accumulated right into a publication, The Chicago Race Riots. At fifty-one I wrote America’s first biography of a photographer. At sixty-one got here a four-volume biography, bringing doctoral levels at Harvard, Yale, ny collage, Wesleyan, Lafayette, Lincoln Memorial, Syracuse, Rollins, Dartmouth—Augustana and Uppsala at Stockholm. i'm nonetheless learning verbs and the secret of the way they attach nouns. i'm extra suspicious of adjectives than at the other time in all my born days. i've got forgotten the that means of twenty or thirty of my poems written thirty or 40 years in the past. I nonetheless prefer a number of easy poems released some time past which proceed to have an allure for easy humans. i've got written via diversified tools and in a large miscellany of moods and feature seldom been afraid to go back and forth in lands and seas the place I met clean scenes and new songs. All my lifestyles i've been attempting to learn how to learn, to determine and listen to, and to put in writing. At sixty-five i started my first novel, and the 5 years missing a month I took to complete it, i used to be nonetheless touring, nonetheless a seeker. I may still prefer to imagine that as i'm going on writing there'll be sentences really alive, with verbs quivering, with nouns giving colour and echoes. it may be, within the grace of God, I shall dwell to be eighty-nine, as did Hokusai, and talking my farewell to earthly scenes, i'd paraphrase: “If God had permit me stay 5 years longer I must have been a author. ” Carl Sandburg (in entire Poems, 1950) New Poems Now They Bury Her back Poetry is useless? so that they say. sure, ya betcha, ja ja, oui oui, si si. rather so, certainly, to ensure, right, correct at the nostril, the button. And the subsequent bus is a protracted wait, don’t run any further, been taken off. Aye aye, poetry is completed for, vanished, passed on to the great beyond and long past up the flue and misplaced within the mountain snows of the newest airplane crash, searching events that allows you to assemble the continues to be and examine the particles. ok and enable ’er cross, in whenever and age anyone needs to rise up and say it back: “Ah me, tut tut, sadly and alack, woe is us or perhaps it’s simply in addition, poetry is on a slab within the morgue, anonymous, unidentified, blue holes in her again from an ice decide, a fresh activity, another ice decide homicide, as candy a gal as Lehigh Valley Nell, performed in by means of her personal associates and that’s no malarky, gangway now, supply her the gate to a loose public grave- yard”—this notwithstanding the coroner, the jurors, six males stable and precise, needs to but sift each scintilla of proof concerning the 2 blue holes and who drove the ice choose. Or she can be a cadaver we've seen qualified as lifeless from anemia and shortage of affection and so they performed a ritual carrier in a mortuary institution committed to the respect of dying and the rakeoff at the coffin they convey you off in: one grand, 1000 smackers of the coin of the world, for a casket of copper covered with mauve velvet and draped with silver silk and guar- anteed weatherproof and wormproof for the sake of a hand- ful of airborne dirt and dust, 5 palms of ashes and no-one is aware the hassle I’ve obvious, no one is aware yet Jesus.