April 26: William Stafford, "The Well Rising," I Believe

The Well Rising

by:  William Stafford

The well rising without sound,

the spring on a hillside,

the plowshare brimming through deep ground

everywhere in the field—

The sharp swallows in their swerve

flaring and hesitating

hunting for the final curve

coming closer and closer—

The swallow heart from wingbeat to wingbeat

counseling decision, decision:

thunderous examples. I place my feet

with care in such a world.

________________________

I believe in climate change.  That the levels of the oceans are rising.  That humankind is the culprit.

I believe that fossil fuels are not good energy sources.  That the people of the world need to figure out how to live using less (or no) gasoline and oil and coal.

I believe that sulfide mining is inherently damaging.  That it destroys habitats and pollutes pure water sources.

I believe in God, and I believe in science.  I believe those two beliefs are not mutually exclusive.

And, like William Stafford, Saint Marty believes that we all need to place our feet with care in the world.

February 11: Close Encounter, William Stafford, "Traveling through the Dark"

Last day for William Stafford poems, and I've save the best for last.  It's not just one of my favorite William Stafford poems.  It's one of my favorite poems, period.  I think I love it so much because it could easily be a U. P. poem.  It's about a close encounter between a car and a deer. 

In my life, I've had one such encounter, but it was a good one.  I totaled my Sable, and the deer ran off.  I'm sure that it was severely injured, but it was strong enough to gallop into the trees.  I'd just made the last payment on my car, so I was happily debt-free for about a week.

That's one of the joys of living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. 

Saint Marty got a new car out of the deal, and a five-year car loan.

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.

February 10: Every Morning, William Stafford, "Just Thinking"

Every morning, I get up earlier than everybody else in my house.  I stumble through the dark house, sit and read a magazine or book, check my e-mail, or stare with an unfocused gaze at the wall.  It's how I ease into the day.  A silent house.  A cold drink of water.  The day waiting like an unopened Christmas card.

I love those moments.  They fill me up, get me ready for the day's events.

That's what the whole thing is about for Saint Marty, and William Stafford, too.

Just Thinking

by:  William Stafford

Got up on a cool morning. Leaned out a window.
No cloud, no wind. Air that flowers held
for awhile. Some dove somewhere.

Been on probation most of my life. And
the rest of my life been condemned. So these moments
count for a lot--peace, you know.

Let the bucket of memory down into the well,
bring it up. Cool, cool minutes. No one
stirring, no plans. Just being there.

This is what the whole thing is about.

February 9: Snow Tubing, William Stafford, "Objector"

I went snow tubing with my son this evening.  It was an event sponsored by his school.  The hill is immense and steep, sloping down onto a frozen lake. The moon was big, almost full.  The air, frigid.  And there were lots of kids.  Everywhere.

While my son tubed, my wife and I trudged down to the lodge at the base of the hill to have hot chocolate and eat homemade cookies.  It was a good night, where all kinds of people came together for the sake of the kids.  There was no arguing.  I didn't hear the word "Trump" once, thank God.  The biggest drama of the night was when my son fell off his tube on one of his descents.

Tonight emphasized one thing to me:  we are more similar than different.  We all want happy kids.  We all want hot chocolate and cookies.  And we all want to get to the bottom of the hill safely.

Saint Marty doesn't think anyone will object to that.

Objector

by:  William Stafford

In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon
to ward off complicity--the ordered life
our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife,
our chance to live depends on such a sign
while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon
is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith;
be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face
annihilation unless all citizens get in line."

I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere
other citizens more fearfully bow
in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state.
Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there
will never be slaughtered by my act." Our vows
cross: never to kill and call it fate.

February 8: Scary Stuff, William Stafford, "For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid"

Each time I look at the television or my iPhone, I am confronted by news stories that scare the shit out of me.  A President of the United States who violates the Constitution.  A Secretary of Education whose knows nothing about the educational system.  An Attorney General who was criticized by the widow of Martin Luther King, Jr., for being a racist.  That stuff is scary.

There's a lot of fear in the United States right now.  Compassion and love and charity are not words I would apply to those in charge of my country at the moment.  Quite the opposite.  And that worries me.

But I have faith, too.  Therefore, I believe, in the end, that goodness will overcome the racism and Islamophobia and homophobia and xenophobia and misogyny and  . . . Well, you get the idea.

So, Saint Marty has hope tonight.  Saint Marty also has a mug of hot chocolate generously spiked with Bailey's Irish Cream.

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.

February 7: Everything is Going to be Okay, William Stafford, "Bess"

Tonight, I have a friend who's really struggling in her life.  She's a single mother with two boys.  Her sons are almost the exact ages as my kids.  In the last few months, she's had to move and, just today, she realized that she's going to have to take a job that she's going to hate.

She texted me earlier, told me that she's been crying all day long.  When I asked her if there was anything I could do, she texted back, "Just tell me everything is going to be okay."

I texted her that everything was going to okay.  I texted that message to her over and over.

William Stafford has a poem about a woman in a difficult situation.  Bess is dying, and yet she is able to hold on to joy.  It's a poem that never fails to move me.

Saint Marty prays that his friend finds some joy in her life.

Bess

by:  William Stafford

Ours are the streets where Bess first met her   

cancer. She went to work every day past the   

secure houses. At her job in the library

she arranged better and better flowers, and when   

students asked for books her hand went out   

to help. In the last year of her life

she had to keep her friends from knowing   

how happy they were. She listened while they

complained about food or work or the weather.   

And the great national events danced   

their grotesque, fake importance. Always

Pain moved where she moved. She walked   

ahead; it came. She hid; it found her.   

No one ever served another so truly;   

no enemy ever meant so strong a hate.   

It was almost as if there was no room   

left for her on earth. But she remembered

where joy used to live. She straightened its flowers;   

she did not weep when she passed its houses;   

and when finally she pulled into a tiny corner   

and slipped from pain, her hand opened

again, and the streets opened, and she wished all well.

February 6: Poet of the Week, William Stafford, "Peace Walk"

Monday.  Time for me to name a new Poet of the Week.

William Stafford.  He's been one of my favorite poets since I was in high school.  I've been thinking a lot about his poem "Peace Walk" these last few weeks because of all the demonstrations that have been taking place across the country.

This poem reminds me that what we're going through right now isn't new.  People have been marching for different reasons since before the United States was the United States.  Remember a little demonstration called the Boston Tea Party? 

That's why this country is so great.  We are allowed to disagree, state our beliefs, and not worry about being thrown in jail.  At least, not yet.

Saint Marty knows he's lucky to live where he does.  He'd have been shipped off to a gulag a long time ago if he lived anywhere else.

Peace Walk

by:  William Stafford

We wondered what our walk should mean,

taking that un-march quietly;

the sun stared at our signs— “Thou shalt not kill.”

Men by a tavern said, “Those foreigners . . .”

to a woman with a fur, who turned away—

like an elevator going down, their look at us.

 

Along a curb, their signs lined across,

a picket line stopped and stared

the whole width of the street, at ours: “Unfair.”

Above our heads the sound truck blared—

by the park, under the autumn trees—

it said that love could fill the atmosphere:

Occur, slow the other fallout, unseen,

on islands everywhere—fallout, falling

unheard. We held our poster up to shade our eyes.

At the end we just walked away;

no one was there to tell us where to leave the signs.

February 10: Waiting for Poetry

I just finished watching Il Postino:  The Postman in my film class about a half hour ago.  Now, I'm eating dinner, preparing to teach my poetry workshop tonight.  I'm in the mind of poetry.  I've actually been in that mind most of the day, even with that bad news about my car repair.

Tonight, we're going to talk about language poetry.  We're going to read some Rae Armantrout and Lyn Hejinian.  I am not a language poet.  Given the choice between Armantrout and William Stafford, I'll go with Stafford.  I like stories.  And I like poems that tell stories.  That is not a popular sentiment in modern poetry these days, but I have to be true to myself.

Be that as it may, I am going to try to get the members of my workshop to write language poetry tonight.  I'm not sure how successful I'm going to be.  Most people (myself included) are naturally inclined to string together words to communicate, not frustrate.  Somehow, I have to get my students to set that inclination aside for a couple hours.  It might be a little freeing.

Or it might be excruciating.

Saint Marty is willing to take that chance.

A great Valentine's Day movie

August 30: William Stafford, "At the Un-National Monument Along the Canadian Border," Labor Day

Tonight, I want to share a poem by one of my favorite poets, William Stafford.

Stafford doesn't get a whole lot of attention these days, but his work leaves me slack-jawed and breathless most of the time.  He's a quiet poet.  His lines sneak up on you like the first snow of autumn.  With silence and bracing beauty.

Saint Marty can't think of a better way to kick off Labor Day weekend than with this poem.

At the Un-National Monument Along the Canadian Border

This is the field where the battle did not happen,
where the unknown soldier did not die.
This is the field where grass joined hands,
where no monument stands,
and the only heroic thing is the sky.

Birds fly here without any sound,
unfolding their wings across the open.
No people killed--or were killed--on this ground
hallowed by neglect and an air so tame
that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.

Bill Stafford

May 3: Brighton, Best Friend, "Traveling Through the Dark," William Stafford

Greetings from Brighton, Michigan.  Yes, dear disciples, I have ventured into the lower part of Michigan for this first time in almost a year.  When I left my home, snow and sleet were pelting the road, and fog hung in the air like a New Year's Day hangover.  Here, in Brighton, the temperature is close to 80 degrees, and the people are walking around in shorts and sandals.

It was a long day of travel.  We stopped in Roscommon to have lunch with my best friend who pastors the local United Methodist Church.  We weren't able to stay long, but we made plans to get together later this summer when I have a couple weeks of vacation.  He's been in Roscommon for close to three years now, but I still miss him a great deal.  If I'm lucky, I see him once or twice a year.

It took us about three hours to drive from Roscommon to Brighton.  The traffic was heavy, but we managed to arrive with very few wrong turns and missed exits.  The power was out in the hotel when we arrived, but it was restored shortly after we checked in.  My daughter has to be at the dance competition by 7 a.m. tomorrow.  I did a trial run to the competition site tonight to make sure I knew where I was going, but it was in the dark.  Everything looks different in the dark, and I hate driving after sundown.

Tonight, I'm giving you one of my favorite poems by William Stafford.  It's about traveling and darkness.

Saint Marty needs to get to bed.

Traveling Through the Dark

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.

Saint Marty and his best friend