Frank Marshall Davis presents Chicago’s skyscrapers as human ambition turned into stone and steel. Even men six feet tall seem tiny beside buildings they have “frozen” six hundred feet into the sky. At first the speaker sounds amazed, describing the towers as thin fingers brushing stars, tearing clouds, dipping into the sun, and passing the moon between them. But the tone darkens as the “masters” keep planning ever taller buildings, as if heaven could become just one more high floor reached by elevator. Then the poem imagines a jealous god bending those fingers down and crushing the dreamers in “blood and stone.” Ending with the Tower of Babel, Davis suggests even that disaster wouldn’t stop the next builders. The mood is awe mixed with warning—admiration for human daring, unease about its cost.
Chicago Skyscrapers — Summary
Here in this fat city Men seventy-two inches short Have frozen their dreams Into steel and concrete Six hundred feet tall
Thin fingers On the hard hand Of Chicago's loop Are these skyscrapers Rubbing bright sides Of rainbow stars Tearing the gray gauze Of low clouds Dipping in the sizzling pot Of a summer sun Passing the jeweled moon From tower to tower Like a sapphire ring
While below
The masters move Dreaming greater dreams Of taller buildings Turning today's longest fingers Into dwarf-like thumbs Constantly pushing Evolution in stone Until some day Heaven will be Merely another high floor Barked by a uniformed boy On an express elevator Then A cranky god Jealous of his privacy May bend the fingers downward Toppling tall dreams frozen In steel and concrete Upon the puny dreamers Grinding all into A chaos of blood and stone
But Remembering the Tower of Babel Even that would not Discourage other builders— The tireless breed who dream In iron and granite. . . .