The Book Review, Sunday, January 29, 2012: William Stafford

Dear Gentle Readers,

Please read these words and then pause before going on:

...And if any of us get lost,

if any of us cannot come all the way—

remember: there will come a time when

all we have said and all we have hoped

will be all right.

There will be that form in the grass.
 

How does that make you feel?  Reading this poem has been a kind of balm for Madame L many times in her life.  

Madame L doesn't know why a lot of literary people in Oregon and Southwest Washington are celebrating William Stafford's birthday this week, because he was born January 17, 1914 (according to Wikipedia).

Maybe they think better late than never, and Madame L agrees with them. William Stafford is probably Madame L's favorite modern American non-comedic poet. (Madame L started to write that he was her favorite poet, but then realized she had to clarify, because she has so many favorite poets and even among modern American poets there's always Ogden Nash, about whom Madame L will be writing again soon.)

Madame L will definitely try to attend one of the readings of William Stafford's poems at local bookstores this week. Madame L loved Stafford's work before she ever moved to Southwest Washington and before she knew anything about this poet besides this one poem, "A Message from the Wanderer.

Here's the whole poem: 

A Message from the Wanderer

Today outside your prison I stand

and rattle my walking stick: Prisoners, listen;

you have relatives outside. And there are

thousands of ways to escape.

Years ago I bent my skill to keep my

cell locked, had chains smuggled to me in pies,

and shouted my plans to jailers;

but always new plans occurred to me,

or the new heavy locks bent hinges off,

or some stupid jailer would forget

and leave the keys.

Inside, I dreamed of constellations—

those feeding creatures outlined by stars,

their skeletons a darkness between jewels,

heroes that exist only where they are not.

Thus freedom always came nibbling my thought,

just as—often, in light, on the open hills—

you can pass an antelope and not know

and look back, and then—even before you see—

there is something wrong about the grass.

And then you see.

That’s the way everything in the world is waiting.

Now---these few more words, and then I'm 

gone: Tell everyone just to remember

their names, and remind others, later, when we

find each other. Tell the little ones

to cry and then go to sleep, curled up

where they can. And if any of us get lost,

if any of us cannot come all the way—

remember: there will come a time when

all we have said and all we have hoped

will be all right.

There will be that form in the grass.