By Kim Stafford, William Stafford
"In our time there was no poet who revived human hearts and spirits extra convincingly than William Stafford." —Naomi Shihab Nye
Some time while the river is ice ask me
mistakes i've got made. inquire from me whether
what i've got performed is my life.
—from "Ask Me"
In party of the poet's centennial, Ask Me collects 100 of William Stafford's crucial poems. As a conscientious objector in the course of global struggle II, whereas assigned to Civilian Public carrier camps Stafford all started his day-by-day writing perform, a lifelong early-morning ritual of witness. His poetry unearths the results of violence, the day-by-day necessity of ethical judgements, and the bounty of paintings. chosen and with a notice by means of Kim Stafford, Ask Me provides the simplest from a profound and unique American voice.
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Additional info for Ask Me: 100 Essential Poems of William Stafford
33 ANGELA ADÓN1CA H o y me he tendido ju n to a una jo ven pura com o a la orilla de un océano blanco, com o en el cen tro de una ardiente estrella de len to espacio. D e su mirada largamente verde la luz caía como un agua seca, en transparentes y profundos círculos de fresca fuerza. Su pecho como un fuego de dos llamas ardía en dos regiones levantado, y en doble río llegaba a sus pies grandes y claros. U n clima de oro maduraba apenas las diurnas longitudes de su cuerpo llenándolo de frutas extendidas y oculto fuego.
The furniture travels filled w ith his silent being like little ships inside the oíd ship, laden w ith his vague and evanescent being: the wardrobes, the green covers o f the tables, the color o f the curtains and of the floor, everything has suffered the slow emptiness of his hands, and his breath has worn things out. H e glides and slides, descends, transparent, air within the coid air that courses through the ship, w ith hidden hands he leans above the railings w atching the bitter sea as it flees behind the ship.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre. Sin embargo sería delicioso asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja. Sería bello ir por las calles con un cu ch illo verde y dando gritos hasta m orir de fr ío . N o quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas, vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño, hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra, absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día. N o quiero para mi tantas desgracias, N o quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba, de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos, aterido, muriéndome de pena.