Sherwood Anderson

Sherwood Anderson (1876-1941) was an American writer. His poetry, often in free verse, explores themes of isolation, longing, and the spiritual desolation of small-town and industrial life. Biography ↓More ↓

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Sherwood Anderson

Chicago

I am mature, a man child, in America, in the West, in the great valley of the Mississippi. My head arises above the cornfields. I stand up among the new corn. I am a child, a confused child in a confused world. There are no clothes made that fit me. The minds of men cannot clothe me. Great projects arise within me. I have a brain and it is cunning and shrewd. I want leisure to become beautiful, but there is no leisure. Men should bathe me with prayers and with weeping, but there are no men. Now — from now — from to-day I shall do deeds of fiery meaning. Songs shall arise in my throat and hurt me. I am a little thing, a tiny little thing on the vast prairies.

Sherwood Anderson

Song to the Lost Ones

Soft thy feet on the floor of the desert, In the night — Running — Desperate and breathless. Blood on the sands of the desert drying, Drops of blood on the hot sand drying, Blood from the veins of my beloved Pouring out on the desert. Soft in the night the rustle of corn leaves Young men into the cities pouring, Blood from the veins of young men pouring into the cities.

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Song to New Song

Over my city Chicago a singer arises to sing. I greet thee, hoarse and terrible singer, half man, half bird, strong, winged one. I see you float in cold bleak winds, Your wings burned by the fires of furnaces, In all your cries so little that is beautiful, Only the fact that you have risen out of the din and roar to float and wait and point the way to song.

Back of your grim city, singer, the long flat fields. Corn that stands up in orderly rows, full of purpose. As you float and wait, uttering your hoarse cries I see new beauties in the standing corn, And dream of singers yet to come, When you and your rude kind, choked by the fury of your furnaces, Have fallen dead upon this coal heap here.

Kneeling in prayer I shall forget you not, grim singer, Black bird, black against your black smoke-laden sky, Uttering your hoarse and terrible cries, The while you do strive to catch and understand The faint and long forgotten quality of song, By never sweeter singers to be sung.

The Lover

All night she walked and dreamed on the frozen road, She the insane one, feeling not thinking. All night she walked and wanted to Kill, Wanted to love and kill. What did she want? Nobody knew. None of us knew why she wanted To kill.

We were the heavy ones, heavy and sure. The wind in the cornfields moved us not. We the Americans, worthy and sure, Worthy and sure of ourselves.

Tom killed his brother on Wednesday night, Back of the corncrib, under the hill. Then she ran to him, sobbing and calling, She who had loved and could not kill.

Unborn

Swift across the night a little cry, Against the cold white night a stain of red, The moon dips down, The dull winds blow. My unborn son is dead.

A Visit

Westward the field of the cloth of gold. It is fall — see the gold in the dust of the fields.

Lay the golden cloth upon me. It is night and I come through the streets to your window.

The dust and the words are all gone, brushed away. Let me sleep.

War

Long lanes of fire, dead cornstalks burning, Run now — head downward — plunging and crying, Hold hard the breath now, Forward we run.

Out of Nebraska, on into Kansas, now the word runs, Runs with the wind, runs with the news of war, crying and screaming. Now the word runs.

Out on low ridges, black 'gainst the night sky; Farmer boys running, factory boys running; Boys from Ohio And my Illinois.

Questions and answers, over the land, Questions that hurt, answers that hurt, Questions of courage That cannot but hurt.

Deep in the cornfields the gods come to life, Gods that have waited, gods that we knew not. Gods come to life In America now.

Biography

Sherwood Anderson (1876-1941) was an American writer known primarily for his prose, but he also produced significant poetry. His poetry collections include Mid-American Chants (1918) and A New Testament (1927). The poems are typically written in free verse and reflect his deep engagement with the American Midwest, a region that served as the backdrop for much of his work. Anderson's poetry often focuses on the inner lives of ordinary people, expressing feelings of loneliness, frustration, and a yearning for connection. His style is marked by a plainspoken, rhythmic quality that owes a debt to Walt Whitman. In the broader context of American literature, Anderson is recognized as a key figure in the shift toward modernism, and his work influenced later writers such as Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner. While his reputation rests chiefly on the short story cycle Winesburg, Ohio, his poetry remains an important part of his literary output, reflecting the same thematic concerns that define his prose.

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