The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poem Thread, 8/1/07 Bonus (by request: William Stafford)

[BlueIris]

"For a Lost Child"

What happens is, the kind of now that sweeps
Wyoming comes down while I'm asleep. Dawn
finds our sleeping bag but you are gone.
Nowhere now, you call through every storm,
a voice that wanders without a home.

Across bridges that used to find a shore,
you pass, and along shadows of trees that fell
before you were born. You are a memory
too strong to leave this world that slips away
even as its precious time goes on.

I glimpse you often, faithful to every country
we ever found, a bright shadow the sun
forgot one day. On a map of Spain,
I find your note from a trip that year
our family traveled, "Daddy, we could meet here."

*

".38"

This metal has come to look at
your eye. Look at its eye—that
stare that can't lose.

There's no grin like a gun—
as if only its calm
could soothe your hand.

But metal is cold,
cold. In the night, in the risk,
it's a touch of the dead.

It's a cold world.

*

"Out in the Garden"

"Details, details," the mole says;
"few are as worldly as I,
but it pays to have a good coat.
It pays to have a good coat when
you are as world as I.

"And I favor my feet a little at the end
of a long day—yes, all four of them.
It pays to favor your feet a little,
at the end of a long day especially,
when you are as worldly as I am."

*

"On Quitting a Little College"

By footworn boards, by steps
that sagged years after the pride of workmen,
by things that had to do so long they now seemed right,
by ways of acting so odd they grooved the people
(and all this among fields that never quit
under a patient sky),
I taught. And then I quit.

"Let's walk home," the president said.
He faced down the street,
and on the rollers of bird flight
through the year-round air
that little town became all it had promised him.
He could not quit; he could not let go fast enough;
his duties carried him.

The bitter habit of the forlorn cause
is my addiction. I miss it now, but face
ahead and go in my own way
toward my own place.

*

"Vacation Trip"

The loudest sound in the car
was Mother being glum:

Little chiding valves
a surge of detergent oil
all that deep chaos
the relentless accurate fire
the drive shaft wild to arrive

And tugging along beside its great big balloon,
that looming piece of her mind:

"I wish I hadn't come."

*

"Objector"

In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon
to ward off complicity—the ordered life
our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife,
our chance to live depends on such a sign
while others talk and the Pentagon from the moon
is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith;
be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face
annihilation unless all citizens get in line."

I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere
other citizens more fearfully bow
in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state.
Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there
will never be slaughtered by my act." Our vows
cross: never to kill and call it fate.

*

"Freedom"

Freedom is not following a river.
Freedom is following a river, though, if you want to.
It is deciding now by what happens now.
It is knowing that luck makes a difference.

No leader is free; no follower is free—
the rest of us can often be free.
Most of the world are living by
creeds too odd, chancey, and habit-forming
to be worth arguing about by reason.

If you are oppressed, wake up about
four in the morning: most places,
you can usually be free some of the time
if you wake up before other people.

*

"Traveling Through the Dark"

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of Wilson Road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow: to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light, I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm, her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

[CaliforniaPeggy]

1. My dear BlueIris...

Thank you for these...

What a grand writer he is!

That last one, about the doe...

It broke my heart...

So poignant, and heartbreaking...

I appreciate so much your bringing us these wonderful words...

:hug:

[BlueIris]

3. No problem.

Glad he went over so well.

[BlueIris]

2. These poems, IMHO, represent the quintessential Stafford,

or, at least, they showcase what I think of as his strongest abilities as a poet. Well, except for the last two, which I just tacked on at the end because those are two of his best known poems. Curiously, they are two of my least favorite Stafford poems, especially "Traveling Through the Dark," which may be his most popular piece. (Maybe I've just read it too much, but it doesn't resonate with me much anymore).

Of the poems I've included here, I especially like ".38," and "Out in the Garden." Stafford is too often written off as a "regionalist" (a title he didn't like very much) who focused on the Pacific Northwest (he didn't really--though to say he focused on the "West" when he was writing about landscapes, the environment and Native peoples, might not be inaccurate). His writing actually embraces a relatively wide range of subject matter. Also, I think too many readers who have only read a sliver of Stafford's works get the impression that his style is "simple," and his themes "cute." Some of his poems deal with serious, horribly sad subjects. Many of them are somber. Most are insightful and simple only in the sense that they are concise and elegant. Another myth about Stafford is that he was a "humble," unpretentious man holed up in a cabin somewhere writing his short works and farming. Stafford, though he may have kept it to himself more than others, was very ambitious and something of a perfectionist. He wrote everyday and put an obvious ton of effort into the craft of his writing. A career academic, he lived in several cities including Portland, OR.

I also wanted to post poems that allude to information about Stafford that I don't think is very well known: he lost a son to suicide, he came from a fantastically dysfunctional family, (which I think shows in the tone of a lot of his poetry) and he was a conscientious objector during WWII. One Stafford poem I couldn't locate is a long one he wrote about what being a C.O. did to the rest of his life (his family didn't understand, his childhood friends, one of whom died in the war, didn't understand, and his decision was looked on by the society of his day with the worst kind of scorn).

So, that's William Stafford. It may be a while before I post anymore Stafford poems, so I wanted to put these up now for those who requested them.

[Wetzelbill]

4. very good stuff

I am about to write some poetry myself. :)

[BlueIris]

5. Awesome. Go on with your poetry-writin' self.

[Wetzelbill]

6. not really my thing

I'm good enough to probably get a few things published here and there, I'm working on some submissions, but mainly short stories and creative nonfiction is what I am best at. I love poetry though. I write crappy stuff just for fun, kind of stay sharp with the thinking and all. My more serious stuff is pretty solid though. Nothing as beautiful as a good poem. :)

[BlueIris]

7. Kick.

[wildhorses]

8. thanks for this. bookmarking for later enjoyment.

:wow: all of the sudden the lounge is poet sensory over load :wow:


:bounce: retro, look what you started :bounce:


:hug: retro and blueiris :hug:

[BlueIris]

9. Hee. "(P)oet sensory overload."