Over at Ex, I was a little more playful with the title given the fact that Sandburg was pretty much a socialist. I've been reading a little Sandburg this winter. Chicago Poems and War Poems.
Here's the post:
Last fall, a botanist friend of mine returned from a survey of Connemara, Carl Sandburg's Flat Rock farm, and reported the grounds and surrounding area a rich habitat and well worth conserving.
The historic value of the place to the people of North Carolina and to the preservation of Sandburg's legacy has long been known.
Last week, Heath Shuler took some pride in announcing on his blog that his first bill aims to add to the grounds and enhance the stature and support of Connemara in the U.S. parks system. His bill, the Carl Sandburg Home National Historic Site Boundary Revision Act of 2007, would allow through purchase and donation the acquisition of another 115 acres in the area and pay for the building of a visitor center.
From Shuler's Cit-Times blog wherein the congressman uses the term viewshed:
The bill authorizes the Secretary of the Interior to acquire up to 115 acres of land contiguous to the current Sandburg Home Historic Site to protect viewsheds and make sure that site maintains its integrity and retains the qualities that make it so special.
The Home, the land it sits on, and the literary works it represents are a significant part of our heritage in Western North Carolina. I am glad that my first piece of legislation in Congress works to honor and protect that heritage. I personally can remember visiting the Sandburg Home when I was in school and the feelings of wonder and awe it inspired. I want to make sure future generations of students and visitors can share those same feelings of peace and wonder.
Also of note: Filmaker Paul Bonesteel has been blogging his efforts to make a film about Sandburg.
From Sandburg's War Poems:
MURMURINGS IN A FIELD HOSPITAL
[They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two
days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.]
COME to me only with playthings now. . .
A picture of a singing woman with blue eyes
Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers. . .
Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling stories
Of days that never happened anywhere in the world. . .No more iron cold and real to handle,
Shaped for a drive straight ahead.
Bring me only beautiful useless things.
Only old home things touched at sunset in the quiet. . .
And at the window one day in summer
Yellow of the new crock of butter
Stood against the red of new climbing roses. . .
And the world was all playthings.