I first came across a snippet from one of his poems when I was attending Western Oregon State College (now University) in Monmouth. I believe it was during my freshman year, probably in one of the Honors program classes. My memory gets a little fuzzy as I can't figure out exactly how that first bit of poem made it to me: my best guess is that it was in a book the class was reading, and in conjunction with the book, the professor showed a film of an interview with Stafford about his life and writings. All I remember for certain is that it moved me so much that I never forgot it. I found out later it's from a poem called "Things in the Wild Need Salt."
Once in a cave a little bar of light
fell into my hand. The walls leaned over me.
I carried it outside to let the stars look;
They peered in my hand. Stars are like that.
Do not be afraid--I no longer carry it.
But when I see a face now, splinters of that light
fall and won't go out, no matter how faint
the buried star shines back there in the cave.
It is in the earth wherever I walk.
It is in the earth wherever I walk.
In the film, Stafford said something that made so much sense to me that I scrawled it on the cover of my battered teal folder: "That writer writes too loud." I came across it the other day and had to smile because what the girl who copied that quote didn't know was just how important the man who said it would become in her life, both as a writer and as a human being. I likely took that class in 1994, which would have been a year or so after his death. What a shame I wasn't born a decade or two earlier--I might have had the heart-stopping honor of being his student or seeing him read his poetry in front of groups both large and small. While I feel so happy to have discovered his work and the chance to learn more about him, at the same time I feel like I just missed him. Discovering those lines of poetry unfortunately didn't inspire me to read more of Stafford's work at the time--I was busy being a college student and making the transition from child to young adult, although in retrospect, it was a time in my life when his words were sorely needed.
It wasn't until I took a nonfiction creative writing course a few years ago at Portland Community College that I was reintroduced to William Stafford. One morning our instructor handed out slips of paper printed with a Stafford poem. The college was celebrating his birthday and everyone was invited to attend. I read the poem ("You Reading This, Be Ready")--and felt the floor drop out beneath me.
Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?
When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life--
What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?
Here were words that spoke to something deep within me and addressed my fears and my regrets as if they were written just for me. Although I couldn't go to the birthday celebration because of a work conflict, this time my curiosity was piqued and I began to seek more of his words.
I bought a compilation of poems taken from among his many, many published volumes. It's called The Way it Is, and I would recommend it most highly if you have any interest in poetry whatsoever. I would also recommend it if you are stirred by words put down simply, without a lot of fanfare, but with piercing honesty. Pick up a book of his poems and you'll see what I mean.
Many of you know that the last couple of years have not been easy for me. I have struggled and a large part of what has saved me (and continues to save me) is Stafford's work. I read his words and feel like I am less alone--someone else (someone I never met and a man, no less), gets it. His poems tell me that he has been in my shoes. He has been sad, worried, angry, despairing. But he has also seen beauty in everyday things. He recognizes that each of us is not defined by our acts, our accomplishments or our possessions, but by a mostly hidden, inner world of thoughts and dreams. When he was alive, he encouraged everyone, his family, friends, students and readers, to say it simply, but to say it--to continue to put voice to their thoughts--not for any hope of fanfare or recognition, but for themselves alone.
Stafford has encouraged me to begin writing steadily again, and I have. I have been writing what I never considered writing before: poetry. In my search to express my feelings, I have discovered that saying it simply in lines of poetry works for me. There is one poem in particular that I wrote less than a month ago that I know "works." And the way I know that it works is because my eyes fill with tears each time I say its lines in my head. It is something I wrote for no one but myself in the beginning, but maybe one day someone else in a similar situation will be helped by it, and I will be glad for that.
The beginning of the new year hasn't been terribly exciting for me. I haven't felt hopeful that wonderful things are in store for me in 2011, and last weekend I was really feeling a deep sense of futility. So I headed for the library (and later Powell's bookstore) in search of comfort and encouragement. I was looking for books by Marie Howe (another fantastic poet whom I have recently discovered), and one about William Stafford's life, written by his son, Kim, who is also a writer. As I headed up the stairs to the poetry section, a flier caught my eye. It was an announcement of a birthday celebration in honor of Stafford's life and work. Two local poets (one was Ursula K. LeGuin) would be reading some of their work and some of Stafford's, and then each person in the audience was invited to read a favorite Stafford poem. A sense of excitement swelled within me. This was just what I needed to start my new year; this event could possibly shift my mindset and give me the encouragement I was seeking. And then I saw the date and time: the event had started that day, two hours earlier. I had missed it.
I left the library feeling angry and sad. How could I have missed something so important? Why was I not going to the library more often where I might have had some advance warning? Why had I not gone earlier in the day as planned, instead of doing other things I "needed" to get done? I headed for Powell's and felt a little better when I found one of Howe's books at a reasonable price and also the latest issue of The Sun (I was late renewing my subscription, and wouldn't be receiving the January issue, but luckily found out that Powell's carries it). Yet I headed for home still wrapped in gloom at having missed the Stafford event.
The Beaverton library didn't have the Stafford book I was looking for, but the Hillsboro public library was supposed to have a copy on hand. My new job is located almost next door to that library and all week at work I planned to go there over my lunch hour, but it never happened. I left work last night at 6pm, and thought I'd swing over there before heading home to see if they might be open and have the book. I was in luck in more ways than one: I found the book right away and carried it carefully to the self-checkout machines, feeling like I was holding a treasure (Book lovers, I know some or all of you must feel the same way when you leave a library or a bookstore with some new find, full of a sense of possibility and discovery. You feel like a child about to unwrap a present--am I right?).
On my way out the door, another flier caught my attention. In large print, it advertised William Stafford's birthday celebration, listing 23 different venues in the Portland and Vancouver area that would be hosting celebrations during the entire month of January. (To read an article about Portland-area celebrations, click here.) I kept re-reading the dates to confirm that no, I had not missed them, and yes, there were a multitude of events I could choose to attend. Suddenly, I was filled with joy. Here was my chance (chances!) to convene with other Stafford devotees, to hear his work read, to learn more about his life from people who had known and worked with him, and maybe to share one of my favorites of his poems during the open mic part of the event. How wonderful.
I started my weekend with some of the excitement for the new year that I felt had been lacking
in my life . . . now to decide which event to attend . . . or to attend as many as I possibly can and see what miracles happen in my life this year--both as a writer and as a person on this earth.
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