The Way It Is

A friend whose reactions to the world I particularly admire posted a poem by William Stafford online recently; that was the first I'd heard of him. These poems mostly fall within a distinct emotional terrain - part stoic, part melancholy - and within it, they are wonderful. Stafford published his first book of poetry at age 48, and many of his poems focus on memories of his parents, aging and retirement, or how we live in the presence of transience and loss. His language is resolutely simple, often warm; natural forces are profound and often generous. A few of the poems reflect Stafford's pacifism, but most pose moral rather than political questions.

Here's one short poem, titled, 'At the Grave of My Brother: Bomber Pilot' (p15)

Tantalized by wind, this flag that flies
to mark your grave discourages those nearby
graves, and all still marching this hillside chanting,
"Heroes, thanks. Goodby."

If a visitor may quiz a marble sentiment.
was this tombstone quarried in that country
where you slew thousands likewise honored
of the enemy?

Reluctant hero, drafted again each Fourth
of July, I'll bow and remember you. Who
shall we follow next? Who shall we kill
next time?

and another, titled 'Over in Montana' (p167):

Winter stops by for a visit each year.
Dead leaves cluster around. They know what is
coming. They listen to some silent song.

At a bend in the Missouri, up where
it's clear, teal and mallards lower
their wings and come gliding in.

A cottonwood grove gets ready. Limbs
reach out. They touch and shiver.
These nights are going to get cold.

Stars will sharpen and glitter. They make
their strange signs in a rigid pattern
above hollow trees and burrows and houses -

The great story weaves closer and closer, millions of
touches, wide spaces lying out in the open.
huddles of brush and grass, all the little lives.

A final aspect of Stafford's poetry - not captured in either of these two poems - is his wit, which shows up most often in a final phrase, or even just a parenthetical, that turns the rest of the poem on its head, or re-orients it in a way that exposes human vulnerability. This will be a collection to acquire and read regularly. ( )