A Ritual to Read to Each Other -- William Stafford

Guest poem sent in by Chip Adams

(Poem #1580) A Ritual to Read to Each Other If you don't know the kind of person I am and I don't know the kind of person you are a pattern that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star. For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dyke. And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail, but if one wanders the circus won't find the park, I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty to know what occurs but not recognize the fact. And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy, a remote important region in all who talk: though we could fool each other, we should consider-- lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark. For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep; the signals we give--yes, no, or maybe-- should be clear: the darkness around us is deep. -- William Stafford

This a poem that pretty clearly speaks for itself, at least in its plea that
we listen very carefully to each other and take the time to be clear in what
we communicate.  I find that as a schoolteacher my biggest task is simply to
listen to my students--to listen hard and long; they need this more than
almost anything.  (One student's observation: "Our lives have been molded by
neglect.") And as a husband, a father, and a citizen, I think that the
message is crucially important.

And the rhyme scheme of the poem is cool.

- Chip Adams

[Links]

About William Stafford:
http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/s_z/stafford/about.htm
parent page: http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/s_z/stafford/stafford.htm

Biography: [broken link] http://www.unl.edu/plains/events/resource/staffordbio.html

The Discovery of Daily Experience -- William Stafford

Guest poem sent in by Jade

(Poem #1283) The Discovery of Daily Experience It is a whisper. You turn somewhere, hall, street, some great even: the stars or the lights hold; your next step waits you and the firm world waits- but there is a whisper. You always live so, a being that receives, or partly receives, or fails to receive each moment's touch. You see the people around you- the honors they bear- a crutch, a cane, eye patch, or the subtler ones, that fixed look, a turn aside, or even the brave bearing: all declare our kind, who serve on the human front and earn whatever disguise will take them home. (I saw Frank last week with his crutch de guerre.) When the world is like this- and it is- whispers, honors or penalties disguised- no wonder art thrives like a pulse wherever civilized people, or any people, live long enough in a place to build, and remember, and anticipate; for we are such beings as interact elaborately with what surrounds us. The limited actual world we successively overcome by fictions and by the mind's inventions that cannot be quite arbitrary (and hence do reflect the actual), but can escape the actual (and hence may become art). -- William Stafford

I was reading 'Writing the Australian Crawl', a book William Stafford had
written on the subject of writing poetry, when this poem (among many others)
caught my eye.

As he says in the book "This attitude toward the immediate experience of the
world may indicate why in planning to consider writing I reminded myself to be
alert, to be aware of the nowness of things- the feel of the day, the
temperature, the kind of room, the people, what they said" (47.)  He is
discussing the concept of art in this chapter and in this poem.  Every little
object or attitude that someone can become art.  An artist must be keen to the
details of their surroundings, and I believe that Stafford encompasses that
theme well in this poem.

Jade

Links:

 Here's a biography and bibliography:
   http://www.lclark.edu/~krs/archive.html

Atavism -- William Stafford

Guest poem submitted by Joyce Heon:

(Poem #1057) Atavism 1 Sometimes in the open you look up where birds go by, or just nothing, and wait. A dim feeling comes you were like this once, there was air, and quiet; it was by a lake, or maybe a river you were alert as an otter and were suddenly born like the evening star into wide still worlds like this one you have found again, for a moment, in the open. 2 Something is being told in the woods: aisles of shadow lead away; a branch waves; a pencil of sunlight slowly travels its path. A withheld presence almost speaks, but then retreats, rustles a patch of brush. You can feel the centuries ripple generations of wandering, discovering, being lost and found, eating, dying, being born. A walk through the forest strokes your fur, the fur you no longer have. And your gaze down a forest aisle is a strange, long plunge, dark eyes looking for home. For delicious minutes you can feel your whiskers wider than your mind, away out over everything. -- William Stafford

No matter how often I read this poem, I feel the fur I no longer have lift,
something creeps my skin, more primeval than thought.  The space of it
recreates my youthful forays onto forest paths, where light becomes defined
by the upright tree and angle of the sun, where it comes like jaguar spots
to the skin.  Every trip into the forest makes you more than yourself and so
much less.

Archibald MacLeish advises that a poem lies less in what is said than what
is not, what is communally recognized, but is just shy of being put in
words, possibly cannot be put in words.  It is more feeling than thought,
something that fits in between lines and images, and that is eternally true.
Atavism takes you from the common experience into the uncommon, the
recognition that we have a long history of forest and field, clearing and
thicket, that beneath our skin lies the caution of hunter and hunted.  It
speaks to where we live and die.  If you pause, you sense that you are just
about to come upon the most revealing truth of your life, some secret,
perhaps there in that shadow.

Stafford leaves you in that moment of expectation, unlike Mary Oliver, whose
fox leaps from hiding like flame across your mind.  She paints the image,
the experience, and resolves it with photo-realism.  For all the fire, the
mystery is smothered.  You are left having seen a fox.  But Stafford only
suggests what you might have seen, and thereby reveals some places within
you that you didn't know.

William Stafford is one of my favorite accessible poets.  How can you not
admire a man who on the day he died in fragile hand wrote a poem so
incredibly affecting as "Are you Mr. William Stafford?" without the least
trace of soppy self-pity?  You read it with the certainty that he faced
dying with his whiskers way out over everything.

Joyce.

[Links]

http://www.graywolfpress.org/mainpages/poem.html has the text of "Are You
Mr. William Stafford?", along with a facsimile of the (dying) poet's
handwritten draft of the poem.

[broken link] http://www.linkstoliterature.com/stafford.htm is a comprehensive Stafford
linkery.

Minstrels poems/poets mentioned in the commentary:
Poem #188, Ars Poetica  -- Archibald MacLeish
Poem #457, The End of the World  -- Archibald MacLeish
Poem #426, Wild Geese  -- Mary Oliver