Many Muses
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LIPS half-willing in a doorway.
Lips half-singing at a window.
Eyes half-dreaming in the walls.
Feet half-dancing in a kitchen.
I don’t recall when I first read those lines. I do recall my reaction to them. This was written by Carl Sandburg? Carl Sandburg, the quintessential Midwestern poet. Sandburg, the Lincoln historian. Sandburg, the folklorist. Lips half-willing in a doorway. Sandburg?
Sandburg, yes. This is Sandburg the sensualist. A poet of reckless ecstasy. If ever two words belonged together, if ever two words clasped themselves to one another in meaning and in sound, those are the ones. Reckless ecstasy…the sound of lips half-singing at a window.
Sandburg was forty years old when he wrote those words. Forty years old and married, a father of three. Forty years old with his most creative years still ahead of him. Forty years old with eyes half-dreaming in the walls, eyes that would always see some woman’s feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Lips half-singing at a window.
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