Thoughts for the future and some notes on faith

You might not be able to tell just by looking at this blog, with its relatively low number of posts, but I've been veraciously reading and studying William Stafford for the past five years. The trouble is I don't always know how to turn my work into content for this blog. I'm considering spinning off a less blog-esque website to introduce new folks to Stafford without having to wade through a bunch of content they may or may not be interested in. I don't know what it would look like, but my brain's working on it. In the mean time I'll be completing an MA thesis focusing, in part, on Stafford over the next few months, so I'm not sure how quickly things will change around here. For now, I'll leave you with some of my latest (unedited) reflections on Stafford's work as it relates to spirituality and theology. I'll be taking a class in Narrative Theology this semester, examining WS's World War 2 memoir Down in my Heart, and this is what I started thinking about:

William Stafford as Religious Poet?

If you've followed this blog for any amount of time, you'd know I read a certain amount of religious meaning in William Stafford's poetry. This is largely due to my primary interest of study being religion for the past seven years through college and seminary. For better or worse, I tend to find religious and spiritual truths in many places within the culture I live in, especially art and language.

If you've read much of William Stafford's poetry, you may have noticed he mentions religious and spiritual themes, but they are not often the main focus of his work. Stafford grew up attending various Protestant churches, and later came under the influence of Quakerism and Anabaptism. But for most of his life he lived in Oregon, one of the most secular places in America. As far as I know, he was not highly involved in any religious institution for very long; he generally shunned institutions. But he also had a keen sensibility that allowed him to intuit many spiritual truths.

His pacifism is perhaps the best known incarnation of his religious stance. When he spoke to his draft board in World War Two, he told them he learned in church that it was wrong to kill, and he was believed to be sincere enough to perform alternative service, working for the government in manual labor camps instead of donning a uniform and picking up a gun.

A lot of attention has been paid to Stafford's writings on peace, including a collection of poems and essays, and a documentary film based upon the collection, both works entitled "Every War Has Two Losers." Interestingly enough, not much has been said about Stafford's religious and spiritual writings. Generally he is thought to have been secular, though I wonder if he fell more along the the lines of secular Christianity, that is, believing basic principles of the faith, while not making a distinction between religious and nonreligious realms of culture. He was asked in a 1993 interview with The Paris Review if he considered himself a Christian poet. Here is his response:

I might describe myself as a religious poet whose vocabulary, reference points, and surrounding culture are phrased in Christian terms. I think I would be whatever religion there was in the society around me; it’s not the local content of the religion that possesses me, but the general attitude, the way of living that recognizes more than we know.

I have begun to read critics' views on Stafford to find what others readers have found in his work that hints toward some spiritual stance, and have found that many call him a mystic but almost always qualify it by explaining that his poems are rooted in the daily world. Stafford, then, was not interested in transcending the world, but entering into it to find "more than what we know." I have also started to identify poems and essays by Stafford that say something of his religious and spiritual views. I am also interested in researching these questions in the Stafford archives in Portland, Oregon and interviewing scholars and writers who may be familiar with this aspect of his work. Possible outcomes could be an anthology of Stafford's writings on spirituality and religion with an introduction, or a book length essay. I will see what possibilities arise. For now, I will keep reading.

to open this book is to spread the curtains wide

I've been pretty busy, and haven't been able to give much time to reading poetry, let alone Stafford. But then yesterday, Stafford came up in a conversation with a friend who knows of my interest in his work. The syllabus for a seminary class this friend and I will be taking together in the fall suggests WS as a possible author to research and present on as a theopoet--a writer whose work engages the imagination and reveals the divine that is within and around all of our daily living. After our conversation, I pulled "The Way It Is" off the shelf for the first time this summer, and happily started reading again. Then just as I begin to think of WS again, he enters my world in an even more tangible, and exciting way.

As I was running errands today in downtown Richmond, Indiana, I thought I'd go browse my local used bookstore. I wasn't planning on making any purchases, but was just interested to see what was there, and if anything new came in I might find worthwhile. I spent my usual five or ten minutes in the religion section, then stepped over to the poetry books. I always check first for any work by Stafford, even though the store owner said he didn't ever sell any Stafford when I had asked a few years back. It's rare that my Stafford searches are successful, but today, my eyes fell on a copy of Traveling Through The Dark, Stafford's 1962 National Book Award winner. The store owner said, jokingly I think, that he might raise the price if I kept saying how amazing of a find it was, so I bought it quickly.

When I got home, I did some looking around online, and found a signed first edition in fine condition for $450. There's no direct evidence that my copy is a first edition (I still need to do some more research on the book and publisher), and the condition is not quite fine (though my untrained eye says it's pretty close), but I would think it would be worth more than the four dollars I payed for it. Whatever it's worth, it's now sitting on my shelf with my growing Stafford collection, but it's too valuable in other ways to just sit there unappreciated. Before I got the book I had read most of the poems in the book in other places, but as I read the title poem from those 1962 pages today, it was a completely new experience. Here's what I wrote soon after I got home from the store.

Upon Finding “Traveling Through The Dark”
by Travis Poling

To open this book is to spread the curtains wide
in the middle of the day; reading
“Traveling Through The Dark” brings
as much light into the room, eyes opening
to images and brightness of what is most real
but barely seen. The yellowed pages
of the first printing years ago is daylight pushing out past
the bookstore two miles away, into my house as I rise early—
this sun calls me to its bright source. In the store I read
of messengers and premonitions, then return the book of angels
to its slot between prayer and scripture, turn again, and step
to the stacks of poetry, scanning the named edges
beside the window.

I happened to find two new sites from the Stafford Archives today as well, William Stafford Archives blog, and StaffordArchives.org.

Article on Stafford in Brethren news publication

In the April 22, 2008 issue of the Church of the Brethren Newsline, Brian Nixon, a member of the Church of the Brethren recounts a poetry reading William Stafford gave at the denomination's 1991 Annual Conference in Portland, OR. I'm pretty certain I was at that conference, but I didn't know anything about Stafford then, at age 12.

Nixon tells this story:

As an impressionable college student, I looked over the plethora of lectures, seeing one that read, "Poetry Reading: William Stafford." This sounded great to me, but I was unsure of exactly who Stafford was. As a member of the Church of the Brethren, I had heard of Mr. Stafford, but was not yet quite "into" him. I knew he published a book of poetry with Brethren Press called "A Scripture of Leaves," and was well loved among the Brethren folk.

But as I stood there and looked at the other conference offerings, I finally decided upon a folk group concert instead (you see, I was "into" music).

Read the rest here.

Ready for 'Another World '? Stafford's early poetry published

Today I went to my local bookstore and stumbled across an article in the May/June 2008 issue pf American Poetry Review. I picked up the magazine and opened it to the first page and thought of the photo there, "That looks like Stafford." My eyes went up the page and sure enough, there was his name. The photo is of a young Stafford at a Civilian Public Service camp during his years as a conscientious objector in World War II.

The article, by Fred Merchant, explains that "Stafford was not a member of one of the historic peace churches [who ran the CPS camps: Quakers, Mennonites and Brethren], though he did in fact meet and marry Dorothy Hope Frantz, the daughter of a Brethren minister, while serving in the Los Prietos camp." When I was a student at Manchester College several years back, where Stafford taught for a year in the mid 1950s, I ran across a membership book of the local Church of the Brethren congregation, and there is at least one Stafford listed among the membership roles. If I remember correctly, it even read "W. Stafford." Without being at the college, I am unable to confirm this, but I might contact the archives and ask for a copy of that page. Stafford was fairly anti-institutionalist, so it would not surprise me if he never joined the denomination, even if he had attended a Brethren congregation and been sympathetic with its ethical and spiritual flavor.

In any event, what is most exciting in the article is the announcement of a forthcoming publication from Graywolf Press of a new collection of poems by Stafford: Another World Instead: The Early Poems of William Stafford, 1937-1947. At 128 pages, Another World promises to be an intriguing look into the young William Stafford, from age 23 to 33, from his college years to after the end of the war. The APR article called it "forthcoming" but it looks as if it's possible to order a copy from the Graywolf Press website already. I'll be waiting to get my hands on it. The eight poems they've printed in APR give just enough of a teaser to whet the appetite for more unreleased Stafford work, but only enough to last a little while.

Sing Now: A Poem

This is a poem I wrote a while ago after reading a poem of Stafford's, though the title eludes me at them moment.

Sing Now

A cappella four-part harmony is.
Everything else waits, listens.
Silence rises on air
at each breath, while
heaven descends on
old hundredth or 606.

All we need is now.
Before and after tumble
down, and now lifts away.
Sound is the only chapel.

A cappella four-part harmony is:
it saves us everywhere.

The silent river of life

I just returned tonight from a retreat of a group known as A Place Apart, a growing network of communities that strive to follow Jesus in ways that nurture being fully alive as God would have us, as Jesus modeled in his life. As I continue to read Stafford, I am struck by how much of what he says is so in line with what A Place Apart is about. Here is a blurb from their website that begins to sum it up:

The purpose of A Place Apart is to provide a place where men and women, young and old, married couples and singles, clergy and lay people, Christians, other faith traditions, and those without any religious affiliation can comfortably come to break with the frenzied pace, empty value systems, fakery, and pseudo-life of the world and develop a new relationship to God, to others, to themselves, and to the Earth. A Place Apart will be a place to regain hope and a place to receive direction and channel hope.

Stafford, in my view, was about this break from what is empty in the world and reconnecting to the world in new and innovative ways.

On Friday night I read some of Stafford's poetry, and several people commented how much they appreciated his words. I believe he is addressing a longing that so many of us are experiencing: to stop pretending that we have the answers, to no longer be afraid to say and be who we are and what we dream of becoming. I don't consider Stafford, nor myself, to be a "Christian poet" per se, but we both seek to present the world in ways that are true to human experience, so true that they move the reader to some sort of action, even--and especially--if that action is a shift in view. So much of poetry is about vision, a way of seeing that is apart from the habitualized, ritualized norms. I may write more expressly at times in religious language more than Stafford, but my writing, like Stafford's, is not about the "right way" as Christianity often is. Many people are beginning to no longer say we are Christian, because we are do not desire to be a part of that system anymore. Instead, we are calling ourselves, if we must call ourselves anything, followers of Jesus. (YouTube has four humorous videos that attempt to get at this dynamic.)

I have been reading The Answers Are Inside the Mountains: Meditations on the Writing Life, and I just came across this passage from an interview with Stafford this evening:

To what extent do religious beliefs influence your work? Do you consider yourself a Christian poet?

I might describe myself as a religious poet whose vocabulary, reference points and surrounding culture are phrased in Christian terms. I think I would be whatever religion there was in the society around me; it's not the local content of the religion that possesses me, but the general attitude, the way of living that recognizes more than we know.

For Stafford, religion is not about religiosity--it is about the people around you rather than "getting it right"; and "the way of living" which he says so wonderfully "that recognizes more than we know." This is precisely what A Place Apart is seeking to do--what I am striving for myself. Of course, I am a Christian--or follower of Christ, and probably won't lose that part of myself. But I desire to live in a way that is not so much about me and what I believe, but how I live with the people around me, and how I interact with what I can never fully know. This is my "silent river" of sorts, as Stafford says of in "Ask Me":

...We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.

I wait to hear "what the river says," and write what I see. This is the only way I know how to be alive.

There is a country to cross

A dear friend asked me to keep her and her mother in my prayers. And then I read "For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid," which can be read here. Stafford's words in this poem have become my prayer.

Anabaptist American anguish

I came across this daily writing from December 4, 1981 in Every War Has Two Losers:

Was there ever anyone who understood the anguish of still being subject to allegiances you have begun to distrust?

Nietzsche did.

I don't know about Nietzsche, but I can say that this has been a large part of my own life. My own patriotism has been put to the test more than once in my life, and I continue to claim that my allegiance is not to America, but rather to my own (non)resistant Anabaptist tribe. I claim that it is, though I sometimes doubt where my allegiances truly lie, since I am so entrenched in the world and in America, for better or worse.

In the end, and to answer Stafford's question above, I do "understand the anguish." Even if my allegiances are not always clear, I, like Stafford clearly did, still struggle with what it means to live in this nation as one of many who rejects its malignant ways.

Stafford and the San Francisco Renaissance

I was browsing through Preaching in a Tavern, a collection of small Brethren tales, when I came across an entry about creative arts in the Civilian Public Service. During World War II, the Church of the Brethren operated labor camps for conscientious objectors. One camp in the Pacific Northwest known as Waldport was home to a number of artists, among them the poet William Everson. The story said that Everson played a part in the beginnings of the San Francisco Renaissance, otherwise known as the Beat movement.

Stafford, another conscientious objector, did not attend this camp, but was stationed nearby. Everson and Stafford got to know one another, and Stafford even published a few works in the Waldport press.

After the war Everson joined the Dominican order. He changed his name to Brother antoninus, but continued his printing and poetry. In 1967 Stafford wrote an introduction critiquing the work of his friend in a small volume entitled The Achievement of Brother Antoninus.

Stafford writes:

Kenneth Rexroth, in an article which helped to launch "the beat generation" into public notice ("San Francisco Letter," in the second issue of Evergreen Review), calls William Everson "probably the most profoundly moving and durable poet of the San Francisco Renaissance," and continues: "His work has a gnarled, even tortured honesty, a rugged unliterary diction, a relentless probing and searching, which are not just engaging, but almost overwhelming." And Rexroth goes on to say, "Anything less like the verse of the fashionable literary quarterlies would be hard to imagine."

I recall reading WS's WWII memoir, Down in my Heart, and being reminded of the prose style I appreciated over ten years ago when I first picked up Jack Kerouac's novels. It makes me wonder: if Stafford had settled in California, would he have become a Beat icon? I don't know for sure. What I can say is that I am thankful that he moved to Indiana and joined the Brethren. Otherwise I might not have discovered him, at least in the ways that I have.

But consider this: Could WS be a Beat in his bones, in his soul of souls? I ask because of the meaning of the word "Beat" as it pertains to Gary Snyder (who interestingly serves as an advisor to Friends of William Stafford) Kerouac, Ginsberg, Rexroth and the like:

The word "Beat" originally derived from circus and carnival argot, reflecting the straitened circumstances of nomadic carnies. In the drug world, "beat" meant "robbed" or "cheated" (as in a "beat" deal)...

The word acquired historical resonance when Jack Kerouac, in a November 1948 conversation with fellow writer John Clellon Holmes, remarked, "So I guess you might say we're a beat generation." ..."It involves a sort of nakedness of mind, and, ultimately, of soul," Holmes wrote, "a feeling of being reduced to the bedrock of consciousness."

By the early 1950's, Kerouac and Ginsberg had begun to emphasize the "beatific" quality of "Beat", investing the viewpoint of the defeated with mystical perspective. "The point of Beat is that you get beat down to a certain nakedness where you actually are able to see the world in a visionary way," wrote Ginsberg, " which is the old classical understanding of what happens in the dark night of the soul."

So much of this seems to resonate in the works of William Stafford, as well as in the wider Anabaptist story, of which Stafford is one part: from Kerouac's "we're a beat generation." ... to Ginsberg's "you get beat down to a certain nakedness where you actually are able to see the world in a visionary way". This may also explain why I, as an Anabaptist poet, am drawn to the visionary ways of Stafford and Kerouac. Even the writing styles of the two poets seem akin. As I've previously discussed in other places,

In his essay "“Belief & Technique for Modern Prose", Kerouac lists these essentials among others for producing prose works: “2. submissive to everything, open, listening...5. Something that you feel will find its own form...13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition

Likewise, Stafford's first rule of writing is "lower your standards."

Here the task gets trickier. Imagine a conversation between Stafford and any of the Beats. What would they say to each other? How would they interact? Someday I'll write that short story. Until then, I'll take your comments.

Declaration of the Feast of William Stafford

In response to yesterday's parenthetical petition, I received a message from Jeff Gundy, the organizer of Mennonite/s Writing:

I hereby declare that in the minds of all who choose to accept it, August 28 is from now on the Feast of William Stafford!

Book critiquing WS wins award; Menno Lit conference blogging

Mennonite poet & critic Jeff Gundy's book Walker in the Fog: On Mennonite Writing, which contains a chapter on WS entitled "Almost One of the Boys: Marginality, Community and Nonviolence in William Stafford" received an award named for a Brethren scholar at a Brethren college. Gundy's site announces:

Walker in the Fog has been chosen for the 2006 Dale W. Brown Award, given each year by Elizabethtown College for "outstanding scholarship in Anabaptist and Pietist studies."

read the news release

Gundy was responsible for a large part of my appreciation of WS as an Anabaptist writer. Congratulations on your award, Jeff.

Related news:
Gundy is the organizer of this year's Mennonite/s Writing conference (Oct 26-29), which I'll be attending and hopefully blogging on this site and Radical Pie.

'Ready for what God sends', August 28 Feast of William Stafford

August 28 is the day of the Feast of Saint Augustine, and the anniversary of the 1993 death of William Stafford. Both were very prominent and prolific spiritual writers who valued the inner life and community, as well as the amazing power of love.

On this morning thirteen years ago, Stafford wrote his final poem "Are You Mr. Wiliam Stafford?". The last stanza contains these lines:

You can't tell when strange things with meaning
will happen. I'm [still] here writing it down
just the way it was. "You don't have to
prove anything," my mother said. "Just be ready
for what God sends."

This conveys a part of what it has meant for me to walk as an Anabaptist, a writer, and a reader of Stafford. Tomorrow, I will carry these words along as I begin my first full semester of seminary, where I expect to find "strange things with meaning" and hope to "be ready for what God sends."

(Perhaps readers of WS could petition Mennonite/s Writing to make today the Feast of William Stafford!)

William Stafford, pray for us.

I swear to you I did not plan this

I swear to you I did not plan this. Neither am I stalking the legacy of WS, but he seems to be everywhere I turn these days, as if he has preceeded me here. When I think of predecessors, I imagine great people who cleared the path for those even greater. This is no the case of WS and me, not by a long shot. Perhaps he is inviting or guiding me through the world instead. Or maybe my world is just too small and I need to get out more. But I am in it, living it, I am of the world, sad as that might make me. I cannot escape the world that I was brought into by those who came before me who said to be in, not of the world. These are the same people WS joined in his early adulthood, perhaps around my age. WS was no recluse, though, just as most any Anabaptist literary writer; simply that act of writing poetry and story proves that. WS was in the world, in academia, but also within himself and in the people and places he loves, the same as I am. My soul is not midwestern, but WS's is. Perhaps that is why no encounter of mine with his works really came into fruition until I left the mountains of Mid Atlantic America, to come to know the flatness of Indiana. "Mine was a Midwest home—you can keep your world.", WS wrote in the poem "One Home" of his native Kansas. My world is Pennsylvania, and I do intend to keep it, but it gets harder to hold onto out here in the open land, where WS thrived, yearned to return to one day but never did, in flesh anyway. His spirit is alive here in Indiana, though, and it has been following me. Many may not know of him here, but his words and even his steps seem to guide me through this midwest world, and frankkly, I can think of not better companion.

It was the first class in my seminary career just two weeks ago. It was a creative writing class called "Aspects of Writing as Ministry." The professor split us into groups to critique groups of poems on death. The other group all had poems about deceased children, while myself and my neighbor were given two poems on roadkill. Our instructions were to decided if the works could be defined as religious or spiritual writing. One poem was "Thoughts on Capital Punishment" by Rod McKuen, and we decided pretty quickly that it was not within the criteria set before us: no propagandizing, no peering into the private realm, and there were more which I'll have to check on. The other poem shouted spiritual writing. It was WS's "Traveling through the Dark". Although I have repeatedly read this poem, new insights jumped out at me: The traveling of the narrator was not necessarily down a roud at night, but a spiritual journey one takes when facing questions of mortality and morality. The poem tells a story that I can see so vividly in my mind, the act of dragging a dead doe from the road, feeling her round belly and knowing the life that lie in wait within, then deciding, for the wellbeing of the delicate balance of life, to do the unthinkable yet necessary:

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.

The class discussion made me go back to The Way it Is, where I found "Growing Up", a poem that fit almost too well with the narrative memoir I was writing for the class. My story told of foolishly crossing a dam in my hometown at a lake, and I fell in, unable to swim. I chose the final two lines of "Growing Up" the epigram to my memoir:

It hurt to be told all the time
how I loved that terrible flame.

While my story was told of falling into water which could be equated to the flying in "Growing Up", what the memoir was really about, at least what the even meant to me as I lived it, was that as dangerous as I was living at certain times of my life, I loved playing with that fire, and to hell with anyone who told me it was dangerous. To me, life was, and still is, about living it fully. Sure, I've made some mistakes, but I love that terrible flame.

And if all that is not enough, when I picked up one of my texts for my next writing class, "The Paradise of Bombs" by Scott Russel Sanders, and turned it over to find the first jacket blurb written by Kim Stafford, son and literary executor of WS's estate. Kim writes the following of the book:

In these eleven essays, knowing about the world is not an intelectual exercise but a sensation, or a chain of sensations, told by a troubled intelligens...They give the reader more evidence than a poem and more intention than a story, more detailed substance from more angles than either poetry or fiction would."

There have been more serendipitous runnings-in with Stafford and his work in my life, like the date of August 28th, but I'll wait till that day to reveal it. Until then, you can explore a new link I just uncovered: The William Stafford Center. Be sure to check out the NWI for workshops in Stafford Studies.

To the churches: The War is Over!

"The pity of it!" George said. "Finding only such rare occasion (to have to wait for there to be a war, and then for it to end!) for them to relax their fears long enough to admit in public that they are enjoying themselves, to smile at strangers, to feel justified in having the actual freedom of a street-width in which to walk, rather than the narrow, crowded sidewalks."

I felt then, while listening to George, how good it would be--he made me see it--if that stretch of street could remain forever closed to automobiles, if for six blocks of a city's shopping center people could again have spaciousness. If they could sometimes get that feeling we often got on the truck, rolling along through the open country, gesturing broadly around at the mountains and the tall trees, knowing that we could relax with friends and confess our doubts, fears, ambitions and confusions--and that just over the hill was the back country, or rebellion, or any other adventure endless with possibility and serenity.

William Stafford, Down in my Heart. Elgin, IL: Brethren Publishing House, 1947: 83.


In this passage from William Stafford's memoir of his Civilian Public Service years, the celebrations of D-Day filled the streets. The Second World War was over, and everyone but the CPS men were ecstatic. Having lived in military-style camps for four years to perform "work of national importance" on the homefront--preventing soil erosion, extinguishing forest fires, serving as mental hospital orderlies--in exchange for exemption from donning a uniform and carrying a gun overseas, these pacifists knew that the world they hoped to see was far from being fulfilled. From their standpoint, military victory was not only not enough to sustain genuine peace, but was in fact antithetical to the establishment of the kingdom, defined by Stafford in the opening dedication of the book: "the society of human beings who have a common life and are working for a common social good." War does not usher in this kind of kingdom, but runs counter to it. The men of CPS saw themselves as seeds of the kingdom, but knew that it would take more than a cease-fire for the seeds to take root. War brings anxiety. The end of any war may bring about a collective release of this emotion, but for the men in this story, it is too little too late.

The spaciousness that Stafford wishes for in the midst of the crowd relies upon the absence of automobiles. He dreams of the day when people will not have to hide away in their cars, but can be out in the open, walking in the streets, seeing and approaching each other with nothing but the common air between them. It is significant that this is realized in the marketplace, the area outside temples in ancient days, or churches in medieval (and even modern) Europe. Inside the temple or church has historically been safe-haven. Criminals or anyone else being pursued could enter a religious building and, in most cases, be assured of protection. Likewise, today, we go about in church glad that it is safe--social convention says that we don't ask personal questions, we don't openly confess, face to face, our hopes or fears. Instead we sit through the prescribed, predictable worship. If we meet any member of the congregation outside of Sunday morning, it can be awkward--we might reveal something about ourselves we don't want others to know. We try to avoid this at all costs, and behave well--not out of of any religious motivation, but merely because it would embarrass us if the "wrong" news got out. But Stafford is praising the marketplace and all of its spontaneity, favoring it over the safe distance that the automobile affords. And George is correct--it shouldn't take some great collective victory for us to be able to genuinely see each other as fellow humans with a common good. Our world, and our church, will not have a moment so energizing that it sustains us throughout the rest of our time on this earth. We must start doing this now, getting out of our cars, our predictable church religiosity and anxieties, and take a look around. We might just see a few seeds sprout.

The true value of Stafford's works

Two questions: How much would you pay for a Stafford collectible? Which publication would you pay the most for?

I don't know what my answer would be, but it's interesting that the the highest priced Stafford item that I could find online is a First Edition copy of Down in My Heart selling for $900! It isn't even poetry, but rather WS's memoir of alternative service during World War II. I would expect his award winning collection Travelling Throught the Dark to fetch more, but then, if that's what everyone knows, it holds less alluring mystique.

Here are the notes on this item:

Elgin, IL: Brethren Publishing House, (1947) First edition of author's first book, an account of his experience as a conscientious objector interned in Arkansas & California during WWII. Bound in gilt stamped cadmium green, 94pp. Very good-, gift inscription on front free endpaper, in good+ dust wrapper with some soiling but with price unclipped.

I can hear WS singing that old CPS song, perhaps with a new verse:

"I've got that opposition to consumption way down in my heart..."

At the same time, I want that $900 book! Maybe that's a sign I need to surf less and read more poetry.

The beginning

I first encountered the work of William Stafford in a meaningful way in the spring of 2005. As I stood and read "A Ritual to Read to Each Other" in the Manchester College library, I found myself, in the words of Robert Frost, "immortally wounded" by the poem. I wanted to re-enter the lines and settle in. I felt a tug on my spirit to try and figure this wondrous writer out. That semester I wrote a major paper critiquing Stafford in the context of Anabaptist literary writers, and found that, unlike many past subjects of academic inquiry, I never once tired of encountering this poet. I still have not grown weary of Stafford, but am rather driven to encounter his world all the more deeply. This weblog will chronicle my journey with William Stafford. I invite you to join in, share and grow along with me.