Bob Schwartz

Tag: poetry

The People, Yes: Where to? what next?

Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
–Carl Sandburg, The People, Yes


“The People, Yes, an epic prose-poem, is in many ways the culmination of Carl Sandburg’s work as a poet and is believed by Lilian Sandburg to be his favorite work. He crafted it over an eight-year period, fusing the American vernacular with the details of history and contemporary events….Believing that economic inequity lay at the root of all social injustice, from labor conflict to racial and civil strife, he responded to the economic and social upheavals of the 1930s with The People, Yes.”
–Carl Sandburg Home, National Parks Service

“Sandburg had a subject—and the subject was belief in man.”
–Archibald MacLeish at the Carl Sandburg Memorial


The People, Yes

107

The people will live on.
The learning and blundering people will live on.
They will be tricked and sold and again sold
And go back to the nourishing earth for rootholds,
The people so peculiar in renewal and comeback.
You can’t laugh off their capacity to take it.
The mammoth rests between his cyclonic dramas.

The people so often sleepy, weary, enigmatic,
is a vast huddle with many units saying:
“I earn my living.
I make enough to get by
and it takes all my time.
If I had more time
I could do more for myself
and maybe for others.
I could read and study
and talk things over
and find out about things.
It takes time.
I wish I had the time.”

The people is a tragic and comic two-face:
hero and hoodlum: phantom and gorilla twisting
to moan with a gargoyle mouth: “They
buy me and sell me . . . it’s a game . . .
sometime I’ll break loose . . .”
Once having marched
Over the margins of animal necessity,
Over the grim line of sheer subsistence
Then man came
To the deeper rituals of his bones,
To the lights lighter than any bones,
To the time for thinking things over,
To the dance, the song, the story,
Or the hours given over to dreaming,
Once having so marched

Between the finite limitations of the five senses
and the endless yearnings of man for the beyond
the people hold to the humdrum bidding of work and food
while reaching out when it comes their way
for lights beyond the prisms of the five senses,
for keepsakes lasting beyond any hunger or death.
This reaching is alive.
The panderers and liars have violated and smutted it.
Yet this reaching is alive yet
for lights and keepsakes.

The people know the salt of the sea
and the strength of the winds
lashing the corners of the earth.
The people take the earth
as a tomb of rest and a cradle of hope.
Who else speaks for the Family of Man?
They are in tune and step
with constellations of universal law.
The people is a polychrome,
spectrum and a prism
held in a moving monolith,
a console organ of changing themes,
a clavilux of color poems
wherein the sea offers fog
and the fog moves off in rain
and the labrador sunset shortens
to a nocturne of clear stars
serene over the shot spray
of northern lights.

The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:

This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise.
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?

In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for
keeps, the people march:
“Where to? what next?”

The People, Yes
–Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)


Wrestling with Judaism

It is one of the most famous and dramatic scenes in the Hebrew Bible.

Jacob belongs to a family on a mission. In that family saga, there are a series of rationalizations and lies. Abraham lies about his wife, saying she is his sister. Isaac lies about his wife, saying she is his sister. Jacob lies to his father Isaac, with a plan devised by his mother, saying he is his brother and stealing his brother’s blessing. Later, after this wrestling episode, Jacob’s sons will lie to him, saying their brother is dead, while in fact they have left him to be taken into slavery.

No wonder Jacob is conflicted. No wonder he finds himself wrestling with an ish, a man, or perhaps an angel or God.

The wrestling match ends in a tie. Jacob refuses to give up, even though he is injured. Hurt and pained, ultimately changed.

No wonder some of us are conflicted. No wonder some of us are wrestling with Judaism right now, injured and hurt. And ultimately changed.


Jacob Wrestles All Night with an Angel or with God

Yaakov is left alone, and a man wrestles
With him until daybreak.
When the man sees he has not won against Yaakov,

He strikes him on the hip socket,
And as he wrestles with him
Yaakov’s hip comes out of joint.

Then he says, “Let me go. Dawn is breaking.”
But Yaakov says, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.”
So he tells him, “What is your name?”

And he answers, “Yaakov.”
And he says, “You shall no longer be called Yaakov, but Yisrael,
For you have fought with God and men

And you have won.”
And Yaakov tells him, saying, “Please tell me your name.”
But he says, “Why are you after my name?”

And there he blesses him.
And Yaakov names the place Penuel, saying,
“I have seen God face to face and I am alive.”

The sun rises over them
But Yaakov is limping because of his hip.
Therefore, the children of Yisrael

Do not eat the thigh muscle of the hip
Because he (the nameless) struck Yaakov
On the socket of his hip.

Willis Barnstone, Poets of the Bible

 

An insurmountable difficulty is a sun

Une difficulté est une lumière. Une difficulté insurmontable est un soleil: ‘A difficulty is a light. An insurmountable difficulty is a sun.’
Paul Valéry

From the Introduction to The History of Philosophy by A.C. Grayling:


But the core of questions in epistemology, metaphysics, ethics, political philosophy, the ‘philosophy of’ pursuits, and the rest, remain; they are perennial and perennially urgent questions, because efforts to answer them are part of the great adventure of humanity’s effort to understand itself and its place in the universe. Some of those questions seem unanswerable – though to act on the thought that they are so is to give up far too soon. Moreover, as Paul Valéry said, Une difficulté est une lumière. Une difficulté insurmontable est un soleil: ‘A difficulty is a light. An insurmountable difficulty is a sun.’ Wonderful saying! for it teaches us that the effort to solve even the seemingly unsolvable teaches us an enormous amount – as the history of philosophy attests.


Richard Brautigan

Read this collection of three books by Richard Brautigan (Trout Fishing in America/The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster/In Watermelon Sugar). Published in 1967 and 1968, one is poetry, the other two are prose so lyrical that they might as well be.

The Poetry Foundation offers a lengthy summary of critical views about Brautigan, including:


Certainly Brautigan’s work, perhaps due in part to his association with West Coast youth movements, generated a multitude of critical comment. Robert Novak wrote in Dictionary of Literary Biography that “Brautigan is commonly seen as the bridge between the Beat Movement of the 1950s and the youth revolution of the 1960s.” A so-called guru of the sixties counterculture, Brautigan wrote of nature, life, and emotion; his unique imagination provided the unusual settings for his themes. Critics frequently compared his work to that of such writers as Thoreau, Hemingway, Barthelme, and Twain.


If you’re one who doesn’t need to hear what others think, just try these books. But you might want to know how the Brautigan story ends:


Brautigan’s critical and commercial success peaked with Trout Fishing in America and began to decline following the 1971 publication of The Abortion: An Historical Romance 1966. Brautigan’s close friend novelist Tom McGuane succinctly summarized the collapse of Brautigan’s career with the observation that “when the 1960’s ended, he was the baby thrown out with the bath water.” Brautigan continued writing throughout the 1970’s, producing such books as Sombrero Fallout and Dreaming of Babylon: A Private Eye Novel 1942, but friends of the author reported he had grown increasingly withdrawn and depressed over his fading career. He apparently committed suicide in September of 1984, but his body was not discovered until October 25th of that year.


There’s a kind of serious creative playfulness that is gravity and yet is anti-gravity. This is that.


The Galilee Hitch-Hiker
Part 1

Baudelaire was
driving a Model A
across Galilee.
He picked up a
hitch-hiker named
Jesus who had
been standing among
a school of fish,
feeding them
pieces of bread.
“Where are you
going?” asked
Jesus, getting
into the front
seat.
“Anywhere, anywhere
out of this world!”
shouted
Baudelaire.
“I’ll go with you
as far as
Golgotha,”
said Jesus.
“I have a
concession
at the carnival
there, and I
must not be
late.”

The American Hotel
Part 2

Baudelaire was sitting
in a doorway with a wino
on San Francisco’s skidrow.
The wino was a million
years old and could remember
dinosaurs.
Baudelaire and the wino
were drinking Petri Muscatel.
“One must always be drunk,”
said Baudelaire.
“I live in the American Hotel,”
said the wino. “And I can
remember dinosaurs.”
“Be you drunken ceaselessly,”
said Baudelaire.

1939
Part 3

Baudelaire used to come
to our house and watch
me grind coffee.
That was in 1939
and we lived in the slums
of Tacoma.
My mother would put
the coffee beans in the grinder.
I was a child
and would turn the handle,
pretending that it was
a hurdy-gurdy,
and Baudelaire would pretend
that he was a monkey,
hopping up and down
and holding out
a tin cup.

The Flowerburgers
Part 4

Baudelaire opened
up a hamburger stand
in San Francisco,
but he put flowers
between the buns.
People would come in
and say, “Give me a
hamburger with plenty
of onions on it.”
Baudelaire would give
them a flowerburger
instead and the people
would say, “What kind
of a hamburger stand
is this?”

The Hour of Eternity
Part 5

“The Chinese
read the time
in the eyes
of cats,”
said Baudelaire
and went into
a jewelry store
on Market Street.
He came out
a few moments
later carrying
a twenty-one
jewel Siamese
cat that he
wore on the
end of a
golden chain.

Salvador Dali
Part 6

“Are you
or aren’t you
going to eat
your soup,
you bloody old
cloud merchant?”
Jeanne Duval
shouted,
hitting Baudelaire
on the back
as he sat
daydreaming
out the window.
Baudelaire was
startled.
Then he laughed
like hell,
waving his spoon
in the air
like a wand
changing the room
into a painting
by Salvador
Dali, changing
the room
into a painting
by Van Gogh.

A Baseball Game
Part 7

Baudelaire went
to a baseball game
and bought a hot dog
and lit up a pipe
of opium.
The New York Yankees
were playing
the Detroit Tigers.
In the fourth inning
an angel committed
suicide by jumping
off a low cloud.
The angel landed
on second base,
causing the
whole infield
to crack like
a huge mirror.
The game was
called on
account of
fear.

Richard Brautigan


The Buddha on Route 66

The Buddha on Route 66

The Buddha said to Todd and Buzz
The route is wide and useful
Now a bit neglected
All things die
Even highways
Lend me your Vette
Then walk down the road
To the Blue Swallow Motel
Sleep if you must
But be sure
To wake up


This year is the centennial of Route 66. Whether that is more or less significant than the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence is something to consider. We can speculate about which of the freewheeling founders would have reveled in rolling across the continent they could only dream of in a vehicle they could only dream of.

Route 66 is a once great American highway passed over by the Interstates, but not surpassed. Some motels and other businesses catering to travelers are gone. The Blue Swallow Motel remains, and is not mere nostalgia. It is a place that allows the past to be present, not because the past is better but because it is different.

Todd and Buzz are also past, heroes of the 1960s TV show Route 66, in which they drove around the country in their Corvette, having dramatic American adventures.

The Buddha is the Buddha, never in Tucumcari, never drove a Corvette, though the route is the way.

© 2026 Bob Schwartz

A Palestinian legend for a Palestinian moment: Poet Mahmoud Darwish

We have on this earth what makes life worth living:
a tyrant’s fear of songs.
Mahmoud Darwish – On This Earth

Israeli minister confirms goal of large-scale expulsion of Palestinians from Gaza
Human rights groups and lawyers say ‘voluntary migration’ policy amounts to ethnic cleansing
The Guardian, May 29, 2026

The news this morning about “cleansing” Gaza brought me back to poet Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008), featured here a year ago.

“Mahmoud Darwish is a literary rarity: at once critically acclaimed as one of the most important poets in the Arabic language, and beloved as the voice of his people. A legend in Palestine, his lyrics are sung by fieldworkers and schoolchildren.”

From the start of this Israeli war on Gaza and its people, I have focused not just on the depraved indifference to Palestinian lives but also on the cultural decimation. Not long ago Trump threatened to end a civilization in Iran. While he hasn’t followed through yet on the threat, Israel appears to have no such compunctions in Gaza.

Mahmoud Darwish is one of the Palestinian cultural treasures. Fortunately, he is out of reach of current events. Fortunately, his poems cannot be destroyed by the most deadly weapons.

Following is just one poem. Please consider Unfortunately, It Was Paradise: Selected Poems or any of his poems, some of which are online.

Please also consider the vital message that “a tyrant’s fear of songs” does make life worth living.


On This Earth
By Mahmoud Darwish
Translated by Munir Akash and Carolyn Forché

We have on this earth what makes life worth living: April’s hesitation, the aroma of bread
at dawn, a woman’s point of view about men, the works of Aeschylus, the beginning
of love, grass on a stone, mothers living on a flute’s sigh and the invaders’ fear of memories.

We have on this earth what makes life worth living: the final days of September, a woman
keeping her apricots ripe after forty, the hour of sunlight in prison, a cloud reflecting a swarm
of creatures, the peoples’ applause for those who face death with a smile,
a tyrant’s fear of songs.

We have on this earth what makes life worth living: on this earth, the Lady of Earth,
mother of all beginnings and ends. She was called Palestine. Her name later became
Palestine. My Lady, because you are my Lady, I deserve life.


Mystic Maps

Maps

Mystic Maps

Before the journey
The maps were few,
Colorful, promising.
Destination uncertain
Roads to travel
Randomly real.
More maps
Until there was no room
To hold them
No time
To study them.
The map makers,
Had they seen these roads
Visited these towns
Or are these conjectures
Visions, fantasies
Conjured up?
Map makers or magicians
Directions or tricks,
Now I see where they took me
Where I stop and sit.
Time and joy
For the maps
And the trip.

© 2016 Bob Schwartz

Garbage Disposal of the Mind

Garbage Disposal

Garbage Disposal of the Mind

Sinkhole for waste
From things
Expensive and cheap
Raw and cooked
No longer
Useful or needed.
Very noisy

 

 

National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month.

I found that I have published 66 posts about poetry or poets. I even declared 2023 the Year of Poetry.

There I quoted Wallace Stevens:


The poet’s role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.


If there was a National Food Month, what would we say, what would we do? We could talk about food, hear about food, make food, share food and, of course, eat food.

This month, read poetry, recite poetry, write poetry, share poetry. You have a lot of options.

The proper close for this post might be to include one of my favorite poems. That is too easy and too hard. Instead, follow up with one of your favorite poems. If you don’t have any, this month is a good time to explore and discover them. They are out there, waiting just for you.

© 2026 Bob Schwartz

Poems by Cold Mountain/Han Shan (c. 9th century CE)


Han Shan (寒山, meaning “Cold Mountain”) was a legendary Tang Dynasty Chinese poet who lived sometime between the 7th-9th centuries CE. He’s one of the most beloved figures in Chinese Buddhist literature.

His historical existence is debated. He may have been a recluse living on Cold Mountain (Hanyan) near Tiantai in Zhejiang province, or a literary persona created by one or more Chan (Zen) Buddhist poets.

About 300 poems survive, written in colloquial language rather than formal literary Chinese. They blend Chan Buddhism, Daoism, and nature imagery with humor, social criticism, and spiritual insight.

Themes include mountain solitude, the foolishness of worldly pursuits, enlightenment, and the beauty of simple living. His work often ridicules conventional society and religious formalism. He embodies the archetype of the wandering, enlightened madman.

He is traditionally paired with his sidekick Shide (拾得, “Foundling”), another hermit-poet. They are depicted as eccentric, laughing sages.

He remains hugely popular in East Asia. He was brought to Western audiences by Gary Snyder’s translations.


Please read some poems by Cold Mountain. Following are three translations, all worthy, with those of Red Pine (Bill Porter) especially recommended.

The Collected Songs of Cold Mountain by Red Pine

Cold Mountain Poems: Zen Poems of Han Shan, Shih Te, and Wang Fan-chih by J. P. Seaton

The Complete Cold Mountain: Poems of the Legendary Hermit Hanshan by Kazuaki Tanahashi and Peter Levitt


The new year ends a year of sorrow
spring finds everything fresh
mountain flowers laugh with green water
cliff trees dance with blue mist
bees and butterflies seem so happy
birds and fishes look lovelier still
the joy of companionship never ends
who can sleep past dawn

Cold Mountain (Hanshan), c. 9th century
Translated by Red Pine (Bill Porter)