“Every war has two losers”. These are the words that first attracted me to the poetry of William Stafford. Here was a poet with the conviction to claim Conscientious Objector status during World War II. Could I have done that, I asked myself? The Vietnam war, sure, but World War II? As I read more of his poetry, I fell in love with the accessibility of the language, as if he were talking to a neighbor, but being profound at the same time. Next to Ferlinghetti, I have more Stafford poetry on my shelf than any other poet. It is hard to pick one or two to share, but here are two of my favorites. “The Dream of Now” is the first poem that I took the time to memorize. I mean why start with the Iliad when this one is only a dozen lines? But they speak to me, especially at this time of the year when I can feel spring coming north.
And “A Ritual to Read to Each Other” is a poem for all seasons, and grows more important every year it seems to me, So many lines to let sink in:
maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact,
and
For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
Until next week, be awake people.
The Dream of Now --William Stafford
When you wake to the dream of now
from night and its other dream,
you carry day out of the dark
like a flame.
When spring comes north, and flowers
unfold from earth and its even sleep,
you lift summer on with your breath
lest it be lost ever so deep.
Your life you live by the light you find
and follow it on as well as you can,
carrying through darkness wherever you go
your one little fire that will start again.
A Ritual To Read To Each Other --William Stafford
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 or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.