BookTalk.org

I thought of this poem after we read the two Dickinson poems, which we labeled as "statement" poems and therefore not among ED's better ones. But the great thing about poetry is that it can do anything, even make statements. It's all in the handling. I like this William Stafford poem for the way it makes a statement. I once heard someone criticize the line "and the river there meant something" as vague, but to me it's just right. It's the "meant" that carries the weight; to specify the "something" would be artificial and unconvincing.

One other thing. Do you have a person in mind who is your image of what a poet is, someone you've seen read his/her work or have seen pictures of? William Stafford is that person for me. He came to Colo. State to a Northwest Poets conference in about 1973. I can't define what it was about him; he was a smallish man, kinda weather-beaten, softspoken and gentle. He writes a lot about the outdoors, like Gary Snyder. I wonder now whether he is still living.

At Cove on the Crooked River

At cove at our camp in the open canyon
it was the kind of place where you might look out
some evening and see trouble walking away.

And the river there meant something
always coming from snow and flashing around boulders
at shadow-fish lurking below the mesa.

We stood with wet towels over our heads for shade,
looking past the Indian picture rock and the kind of trees
that act out whatever has happened to them.

Oh civilization, I want to carve you like this,
decisively outward the way evening comes
over that kind of twist in the scenery

When people cramp into their station wagons
and roll up the windows and drive away.

...and then I saw this Stafford poem again and had to post it, too.

Near

Talking along in this not quite prose way
we all know it is not quite prose we speak,
and it is time to notice this intolerable snow
innumerably touching, before we sink.

It is time to notice, I say, the freezing snow
hisitating toward us from others' grey heaven;
listen--it is falling not quite silently
and under it still you and I are walking.

Maybe there are trumpets in the houses we pass
and a redbird watching from an evergreen--
but nothing will happen until we pause
to flame what we know, before any signal's given.

I adore the phrase "flashing around boulders". Thank you for sharing. I'll have to give more thought to your "poet" question. You sould very lucky to have experienced this poet in person.

DWill wrote: One other thing. Do you have a person in mind who is your image of what a poet is, someone you've seen read his/her work or have seen pictures of?

Sharon Olds. I saw her read at the 2008 Dodge Poetry Festival. She is a bit scattered and right on the mark in the same moment. She is appologetic on the podium and bold in her poetry.

William Stafford is that person for me. He came to Colo. State to a Northwest Poets conference in about 1973.

I think you need to go to the 2010 Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival! It is October 7 - 10, 2010.

Lucille Clifton died 2/13/2010


POEM
“oh antic God”

by Lucille Clifton
oh antic God
return to me
my mother in her thirties
leaned across the front porch
the huge pillow of her breasts
pressing against the rail
summoning me in for bed.

I am almost the dead woman’s age times two.

I can barely recall her song
the scent of her hands
though her wild hair scratches my dreams
at night. return to me, oh Lord of then
and now, my mother’s calling,
her young voice humming my name.

Very beautiful, very melancholic, very haunting. Thanks, Saffron!

oblivion wrote:Very beautiful, very melancholic, very haunting. Thanks, Saffron!

You are welcome. Lucille Clifton's poem gives me goosebumps when I read it. I miss my own father in a similar way. When it was time for us, my siblings & me, to come home he would whistle for us. He was a sax player, so it was just any whistle, it could be heard all over the neighborhood. I love to whistle, just because it reminds me of the nicest things about my dad.

A few hours after I posted the poem I found out my ex-father-in-law passed away. He was a complicated man to love or even like, but I know that he will be missed by his family.

DWill wrote: Near

Talking along in this not quite prose way
we all know it is not quite prose we speak,
and it is time to notice this intolerable snow
immumerably touching, before we sink.

Loved the William Stafford poems, especially the first. Is there a typo in the second poem? I bolded the word that is giving me trouble. William Stafford is not a poet I am familiar with, but now I think I should be. I like the opening lines of Near. I'm glad you posted the pair.

Hey, I just found something that could be a gem of a find. While investigating more about William Stafford I came across the following:

A brand-new documentary film by Haydn Reiss, Every War Has Two Losers, is available now also. Above is the trailer. Based on the book of that name by William Stafford that was edited by Kim Stafford, Linda Hunt narrates and Peter Coyote provides the voice of William Stafford. To order and to learn more: http://www.everywar.com Graywolf Press recently published Another World Instead: The Early Poems of William Stafford, 1937-1947, edited by Fred Marchant.

http://www.everywar.com/about.html

Saffron wrote:

DWill wrote: Near

Talking along in this not quite prose way
we all know it is not quite prose we speak,
and it is time to notice this intolerable snow
immumerably touching, before we sink.

Loved the William Stafford poems, especially the first. Is there a typo in the second poem? I bolded the word that is giving me trouble. William Stafford is not a poet I am familiar with, but now I think I should be. I like the opening lines of Near. I'm glad you posted the pair.

Typo? Why you must be mistaken. Go back and read it. No, seriously, thanks for your sharp eyes. I don't have a moment just now to look into this link you posted above, but leave it to you to find that!