Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BALLOON FACES, by CARL SANDBURG


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BALLOON FACES, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The balloons hang on wires in the marigold gardens
Last Line: Balloon spots on wires -- this will be about all, this will be about all.


The balloons hang on wires in the Marigold Gardens.
They pot their yellow and gold, they juggle their blue and red, they float their faces on the face
of the sky.
Balloon face eaters sit by hundreds reading the eat cards, asking, "What shall we eat?" -- and the
waiters, "Have you ordered?" they are sixty balloon faces sifting white over tuxedos.
Poets, lawyers, ad men, mason contractors, smart-alecks discussing "educated jackasses," here they
put crabs into their balloon faces.
Here sit the heavy balloon face women lifting crimson lobsters into their crimson faces, lobsters
out of the Sargossa sea bottoms.
Here sits a man cross-examining a woman, "Where were you last night? What do you with all your
money? Who's buying your shoes now, anyhow?"
So they sit eating whitefish, two balloon faces swept on God's night wind.
And all the time the balloon spots on the wires, a little mile of festoons, they play their own
silent play of film yellow and film gold, bubble blue and bubble red.
The wind crosses the town, the wind from the west side comes to the banks of marigolds boxed in the
Marigold Gardens.
Night moths fly and fix their feet in the leaves and eat and are seen by the eaters.
The jazz outfit sweats and the drums and the saxophones reach for the ears of the eaters.
The chorus brought from Broadway works at the fun and the slouch of their shoulders, the kick of
their ankles, reach for the eyes of the eaters.
These girls from Kokomo and Peoria, these hungry girls, since they are paid-for, let us look on and
listen, let us get their number.
Why do I go again to the balloons on the wires, something for nothing, kin women of the half-moon,
dream women?
And the half-moon swinging on the wind crossing the town -- these two, the half-moon and the wind
-- this will be about all, this will be about all.

Eaters, go to it: your mazuma pays for it all; it's a knockout, a classy knockout -- and payday
always comes.
The moths in the marigolds will do for me, the half-moon, the wishing wind and the little mile of
balloon spots on wires -- this will be about all, this will be about all.





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