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willoughby's avatar

My grandfather, a Presbyterian minister and amateur historian, was born in 1870, barely five years after Lincoln had been assassinated. Grandfather was a great Lincoln buff his whole, long life--he believed Lincoln to have been the greatest American of all. He read the Sandburg biography with true delight, and more than once told his daughter, my mother, that Sandburg had captured the "real" Lincoln.

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Terry Moran's avatar

Your grandfather was right!

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mimisabel's avatar

I agree. I'm re-reading Sandburg's Lincoln right now. I've read many Lincoln biographies. Many written more recently have the benefit of more research materials that were not available to Sandburg. But his prose is poetic and moving. He makes Lincoln real to me.

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John Joss's avatar

Profoundly moving.

Eternal truths, for us all.

Many thanks, Terry.

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Wendy Shelley's avatar

First, I’ll have to get a book of Sandberg‘s poems; I can’t do this on my Kindle. “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?“ Terry, I’m SO glad you are rid of ABC. They lost, but WE have won. Thank you for your Sunday poem.

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DALLAS BAXTER's avatar

Yes, while I was reading your commentary, I thought, 'this man is happy." It comes through is everything you say. Thank you for bringing so much of you into our lives. We are better for it. And now to try to get through all 6 volumes!

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Doris White's avatar

William Carlos Williams wrote:

“It is difficult/to get the news from poems/yet men die miserably every day/for lack/of what is found there,”

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dB's avatar

Beautiful, Terry. So glad you are on Substack.

dB

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Sharon Gibson's avatar

I appreciate your Sunday poem post.

Thought I would share one of mine. I wrote this when I was thinking of all the hate that maga world has caused to bubble forth back home. I grew up mostly is the rural south and the Great Plains.

WAITING TO GO BACK

I push back the calendar,

a sign to myself

the drive can wait

another week.

I still get the tightening

in my chest -

that feeling of broken glass

in my throat,

when I know I will again drive crossing borders -

state to state,

county to county,

red clay hills to

black gumbo river bottoms.

The air is different there.

It smells of the past.

Though nothing good ever stays put.

The town is skeletal now

like a leaf, that’s lost its life,

only the dried veins

reveal its past vitality.

I can close my eyes

and count - moving myself through the journey

knowing each

bump in the road,

each curve and bridge.

I can re-form the past,

voices and faces

have a habit of not fading

– they hang – hovering -

refusing to dissolve.

Bones do not become dust

they haunt the living -

like wind rattled chimes

echoing lost hallelujahs.

I pull the calendar forward

across the desk – my hand

writes five more dates

taken up by trivia –

postponing the inevitable.

(By Sharon Easterbrook Gibson)

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Catherine Burns's avatar

What a lovely poem! You are gifted.

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Sharon Gibson's avatar

Thank you.

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Karen Simmons's avatar

This is wonderful. Thank you for sharing.

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Sharon Gibson's avatar

Thank you, it sometimes uncomfortable to share our deepest thoughts, but in the current climate we must all speak our truths. Peace.

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poonam pari's avatar

Terry thank you for this!! Happy Sunday to all!

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Karen Spears's avatar

"The people know the salt of the sea and the strength of the winds lashing the corners of the earth..." Yes, we common folks know what it costs to heat the house in winter and how many more years we must work before stopping, which roads to avoid in fog, and why kids need to do chores... I love the optimism of this poem!

Btw, last week I referenced the wrong song by The Script, that Irish band. It's Hall of Fame-- a song that celebrates and exhorts ordinary people to be extraordinary.

Thank you, Terry, for offering up your own brand of inspiration!

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ReeserTheShadow's avatar

This was a nice selection. Thank you for giving us the background on this poet.

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Erin W's avatar

Thank you! Poetry has saved me many times.

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Helene's avatar

You are a welcome surprise at Substack, Terry. Thank you for sharing your unique heart, soul, and voice.

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Doris White's avatar

His poems "Buttons," "A Fence," and "Grass" are also strong.

Thank you for this poetry.

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Lizajean's avatar

It is time to march…

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Penny Howard's avatar

This was such an uplifting post; I've just read Aaron Parnas' Sunday good news & now your wonderful words & the Sunday poem. It's so great to feel joy at the end of a Substack posting instead of the heart pounding dread.

Thank you so much.

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TJ's avatar

The People, Yes

By Carl Sandberg

Lincoln?

He was a mystery in smoke and flags

Saying yes to the smoke, yes to the flags,

Yes to the paradoxes of democracy,

Yes to the hopes of government

Of the people by the people for the people,

No to debauchery of the public mind,

No to personal malice nursed and fed,

Yes to the Constitution when a help,

No to the Constitution when a hindrance

Yes to man as a struggler amid illusions,

Each man fated to answer for himself:

Which of the faiths and illusions of mankind

Must I choose for my own sustaining light

To bring me beyond the present wilderness?

       Lincoln? Was he a poet?

       And did he write verses?

“I have not willingly planted a thorn

       in any man’s bosom.”

I shall do nothing through malice: what

       I deal with is too vast for malice.”

Death was in the air.

So was birth.

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Catherine Burns's avatar

You put it perfectly..... This comment will stick with me... "Trump sold a fake populism" . Yes he sold a fake populism and that illusion will collide with reality. It's starting to happen already... But I fear it will take many more collisions before the illusion crumbles. I pray that I am wrong in this capacity and reality guts the illusion in short capacity.

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