 Poetry: November 08, 2017 Issue [#8594] |
  Poetry
This week: William Stafford Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid
by William Stafford
There is a country to cross you will
find in the corner of your eye, in
the quick slip of your foot--air far
down, a snap that might have caught.
And maybe for you, for me, a high, passing
voice that finds its way by being
afraid. That country is there, for us,
carried as it is crossed. What you fear
will not go away: it will take you into
yourself and bless you and keep you.
That's the world, and we all live there.
Traveling Through The Dark
by William Stafford
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River 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.
On January 17, 1914 in Hutchinson Kansas, Rudy Mayher and Earl Ingersoll Stafford welcomed their first son William into the world. Stafford was the oldest son three children. During the Depression Stafford's family moved around a lot. His father took jobs wherever he could find them. Stafford started working early in life to help his father support his siblings. He delivered papers and worked in the beet fields.
In 1933 Stafford graduated high school and enrolled in Garden City junior college. After graduating from the junior college Stafford went on to study at the University of Wisconsin. He only finished two semesters there before returning home to try and finish his masters. Before Stafford was able to obtain his degree he was drafted. As a registered pacifist, Stafford stay in the United States, working in camps. In 1944 while stationed in California he met and married Dorothy Frantz, a minister's daughter.
After the war ended Stafford started teaching. He taught at a high school for a bit before working with the Church World Service. He then went back to school to finish his masters at the University of Kansas. His thesis became his first book of prose, “Down in My Heart” was published in 1947. Stafford then moved to Oregon to teach at Lewis and Clark College. He taught at the University until he retired in 1980.
Stafford collection of poems, “Traveling Through the Dark,” was published in 1962, winning the National Book Award in 1963. Stafford often traveled reading his work across the country. During this time he wrote and published sixty-five more volumes of poetry which included ”Eleven Untitled Poems,” published in 1968, ”Poems for Tennessee” published in 1971 ”North by West,” in 1975, ”The Quiet of the Land,” in 1979 to name a few. In 1970, he was the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress.
William Stafford wrote and published his poetry up until his death. He died at his home in Lake Oswego, Oregon, on August 28, 1993.
Remembering Mountain Men
by William Stafford
I put my foot in cold water
and hold it there: early mornings
they had to wade through broken ice
to find the traps in the deep channel
with their hands, drag up the chains and
the drowned beaver. The slow current
of the life below tugs at me all day.
When I dream at night, they save a place for me,
no matter how small, somewhere by the fire.
Thinking For Berky
by William Stafford
In the late night listening from bed
I have joined the ambulance or the patrol
screaming toward some drama, the kind of end
that Berky must have some day, if she isn't dead.
The wildest of all, her father and mother cruel,
farming out there beyond the old stone quarry
where highschool lovers parked their lurching cars,
Berky learned to love in that dark school.
Early her face was turned away from home
toward any hardworking place; but still her soul,
with terrible things to do, was alive, looking out
for the rescue that--surely, some day--would have to come.
Windiest nights, Berky, I have thought for you,
and no matter how lucky I've been I've touched wood.
There are things not solved in our town though tomorrow came:
there are things time passing can never make come true.
We live in an occupied country, misunderstood;
justice will take us millions of intricate moves.
Sirens wil hunt down Berky, you survivors in your beds
listening through the night, so far and good.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
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#2138085 by Not Available. |
Bambi was all alone
Where had his mother gone?
He was wide-eyed and fearful
Very frightened and tearful.
Left to wander all alone
No more will he act the clown.
The search went on for the missing doe
Through the wind and rain, frost and snow.
Bambi still walked the path alone
Where leaves from the trees were being blown.
Suddenly a big strong buck did appear
Scaring the timid little brown deer.
An owl was hooting, you're not alone
But then with a sigh and a heavy groan.
Bambi found out were his mother had gone
She was shot by a man, just after dawn.
Honorable mention:
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#2137337 by Not Available. |
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