A book that I recently completed in my morning reading rotation is Things That Happen Where There Aren't Any People, a solid little William Stafford 38 page chapbook, put out by BOA Editions in 1980. Many of the poems in the book are about what the title suggests: things that happen without people. Stafford's deep interaction with nature comes out in any number of the poems included, such as the following: Through the Junipers
In the afternoon I wander away through the junipers. They scatter on low hills that open and close around me. If I go far enough, all sight or sound of people ends. I sit and look endless miles over waves of those hills. And then between sentences later when anyone asks me questions troubling to truth, my answers wander away and look back. There are these days, and there are these hills nobody thinks about, even in summer. And part of my life doesn’t have any home. Stafford is the kind of poet who, on occasions such as this one, we seem to overhear talking to himself. He was a prolific poet, a serial writer if you will, and the more you read, the more you feel him working out the many different aspects of things he encounters. I could easily imagine him, on any given day, writing a very different last line for this poem. It is important to note, however, that this last line does not present empirical fact or even conjectural 'fact' - it presents feeling, how he felt after encountering nature without humans, and how he feels upon reentering the world of humans. Reading this through some might think of Buddhism. Though this has some substance, I thought that Stafford, in his approach, represents a very Western (in this case, in both senses of the word) way of thinking, albeit a wilderness way of thinking. It reminded me of Somerset Maugham's character Larry Darrow from The Razor's Edge, who thinks that it is easy to be a monk on a mountain top, just try taking idealistic principles down into the world of people. In case you forgot the post from 3 years ago (or weren't around these parts at that time), here's a scene with Bill Murray capturing the above sentiment from the excellent 1984 movie adaptation:
Because serendipity is the way of all things, I ran into the following haiku by Shiki in-between the next to last and last edit of this post and it seems, in its own way, to speak to the heart of the subject at hand: There is no trace Of him who entered The summer grove
In the Aztec design God crowds into the little pea that is rolling out of the picture. All the rest extends bleaker because God has gone away.
In the White Man design, though, no pea is there. God is everywhere but hard to see.
The Aztecs frown at this.
How do you know He is everywhere? And how did He get out of the pea?
~ William Stafford
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As I've noted in passing, over the last couple of months I've been reading Eastern mystic poets: Rumi, Kabir, Hafiz, and Ghalib, to mention just a few. My current morning practice involves a stack of some 7 or so books, from which I read 1 to 4 poems each. In this rotation of wonder are the translations of Robert Bly (as well as others) of the above mystics, the poetry of William Stafford, and the new translation of the collected haiku of Buson, by W. S. Merwin and Takako Lento.
As one might imagine, sparks have been flying.
One early morning, I was struck by a poem of William Stafford's, thinking: "That sounds like Ghalib." I also thought, I'm probably not awake enough to be discerning and this is my mind just goofing around or, worse, nodding off. After all, the poem was entitled "A Song in the Manner of Flannery O'Connor."
I had to be way off base.
Ghalib, along with Kabir, have been the two mystics who have struck me deeply, the latter in a Krishnamurti finger-wagging kind-of-way, and the former in a down-to-earth, challenged in my faith, all-too-human manner.
As a result, I've been searching out various translations to get more and more of a feel for these two poets. One day, I ran across a little pamphlet of translations of Ghalib by Ahmad Aijaz, which I later found out was excerpted from a larger book, entitled Ghazals of Ghalib. The translator had help from a number of distinguished English language poets, including Adrienne Rich, W. S. Merwin, Mark Strand, David Ray ... and William Stafford.
Ah, my instinct, and my ignorance, revealed.
The question remains, for me, why exactly I thought of Ghalib when I read this Stafford poem:
Song in the Manner of Flannery O'Connor
Snow on the mountain--water in the valley: you beat a mule and it works hard, Honey. Have a cigarette?
Where is the guidepost? Written on your hand. You point place with it and everyone understands. Like to dance, Honey?
Country folks used to talk to us like this. Now they're wiser than the rest of us. So long, Sucker.
I'm guessing that it is a combination of direct address - "Like to dance, Honey?" - and an unabiding realism about what's what on this little spinning pea of ours. Ultimately, it may be tone - in the following case, perhaps the flip side of the same coin:
Pulling Out the Chair
Pulling out the chair Beneath your mind And watching you fall upon God--
What else is there For Hafiz to do That is any fun in this World!
Hafiz translated by Daniel Ladinsky
Though a bit of a free associative ramble, I hope some of this makes sense. If not, perhaps the poems themselves will pay my fine for indulging a bit too long and a bit too discursively.
Cheers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Woodblock by Sügakudö
the nightingale sings
with a country twang...
springtime
I've been trying to write a swallow poem for the better part of my life. I ran across this the other day and thought, well, there it is. Not by me, but there it is.
Beautiful poem by the beautiful William Stafford.
---------------------- It is with great sadness I note the passing of one of the greatest singer/songwriters of his generation: Jesse Winchester. He came into the public eye when he emigrated to Canada to avoid the draft and his first self-titled album was produced by the Band's Robbie Robertson (and the Band plays on two cuts).
Give a listen to his little known masterpiece, 3rd Down, 110 to Go - once you start, it's hard to stop. Rest in piece, friend. ----------------------
Posts
.jpg)
