Poems by William Stafford

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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Graydigger's Home

Paw marks near one burrow show Graydigger

at home, I bend low, from down there swivel

my head, grasstop level—the world

goes on forever, the mountains a bigger

burrow, their snow like last winter. From a room

inside the world even the strongest wind

has a soft sound: a new house will hide

in the grass; footsteps are only the summer people.

by William Stafford

Objector

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."

by William Stafford

For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid

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

by William Stafford

Lit Instructor

Day after day up there beating my wings

with all the softness truth requires

I feel them shrug whenever I pause:

they class my voice among tentative things,

And they credit fact, force, battering.

I dance my way toward the family of knowing,

embracing stray error as a long-lost boy

and bringing him home with my fluttering.

by William Stafford

Allegiances

It is time for all the heroes to go home

if they have any, time for all of us common ones

to locate ourselves by the real things

we live by.

Far to the north, or indeed in any direction,

strange mountains and creatures have always lurked-

elves, goblins, trolls, and spiders:-we

encounter them in dread and wonder,

by William Stafford

Atavism

Sometimes in the open you look up

where birds go by, or just nothing,

and wait. A dim feeling comes

you were like this once, there was air,

and quiet; it was by a lake, or

maybe a river you were alert

as an otter and were suddenly born

by William Stafford

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.

by William Stafford

Notice What This Poem Is Not Doing

The light along the hills in the morning

comes down slowly, naming the trees

white, then coasting the ground for stones to nominate.

Notice what this poem is not doing.

A house, a house, a barn, the old

quarry, where the river shrugs—

how much of this place is yours?

Notice what this poem is not doing.

by William Stafford

When I Met My Muse

I glanced at her and took my glasses

off—they were still singing. They buzzed

like a locust on the coffee table and then

ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the

sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and

knew that nails up there took a new grip

on whatever they touched. "I am your own

way of looking at things," she said. "When

by William Stafford

A Ritual To Read To Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am

and I don't know the kind of person you are

a pattern that others made may prevail in the world

and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,

a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break

sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood

storming out to play through the broken dyke.

by William Stafford

The Well Rising

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—

by William Stafford

Ask Me

Some time when the river is ice ask me

mistakes I have made. Ask me whether

what I have done is my life. Others

have come in their slow way into

my thought, and some have tried to help

or to hurt: ask me what difference

their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.

by William Stafford