Source Poems: "The Way It Is"

For National Poetry Month 2014, I have invited 17 authors and poets to guest post about source poems. In this series of essays, each writer will describe a single poem's significance in his or her life.

Our guest blogger for today's source poem is educator and poet Linda Baie, who blogs at Teacher Dance.

Linda Baie

The Way It Is

By William Stafford, from The Way It Is, 1998

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among

things that change. But it doesn’t change.

People wonder about what you are pursuing.

You have to explain about the thread.

But it is hard for others to see.

While you hold it you can’t get lost.

Read the rest of the poem here.

==================

 I believe that life is chaotic, a jumble of accidents, ambitions, misconceptions, bold intentions, lazy happenstances, and unintended consequences, yet I also believe that there are connections that illuminate our world, revealing its endless mystery and wonder. David Moranis

When I consider my source poem, the back-story holds the meaning that connects later. My life with poetry began early, in a grandparents’ home where I lived until I was five. My father was killed in WWII in the Pacific theater, and my mother and I lived with her parents until I was five. Both my father’s and my mother’s parents were avid readers, and time with them in early childhood set my path toward loving poetry.

            Before I could read, they all read to me. I was the only grandchild in both families until I went to school. Everyone wanted to read to me! My mother was an artist, wrote and illustrated stories for me. One grandfather loved Shakespeare. No matter that I was young, he still shared the poems, the plays, about the life of Shakespeare with me. A grandmother was a pianist and taught me the poetry of song. I learned the music of the classics, but also hymns, the words of Stephen Foster, the carols of Christmas. When I visited my father’s parents for weeks in the summers, the first thing we did was visit their library, to gather piles of books, including poetry.

“There’s a thread you follow. It goes among

things that change. But it doesn’t change.”

My early life held the beginning connections to poetry, in different voices sure, but all with certain favorites that they shared. Later in school I remember teachers reading poems to us, memorizing for performances and finally, in college, I had the pleasure of working with John Neihardt, Missouri’s poet laureate, in a summer poetry class.

When I became a teacher, of first graders, I wanted to teach them to read, to love reading, and poetry too. My ‘go to’ book then was AA Milne’s When I Was Very Young and When We Were Six. My love of poetry started as a young child, and has continued both personally and in my passion to bring this love to students.

There is this poem taped to my desk lamp. I taught middle-school gifted students, a mixed group, for over 20 years at the school where I am now the literacy coach. There was a long list of priorities in teaching, but one of them was the importance of creating and keeping a community. Sharing “like” things in a mixture of unique preferences helped us become family, a group, a knit community.

“While you hold it you can’t get lost.”

For community building, I have used certain poems for the class, and one of those poems that I held dear was William Stafford’s “The Way It Is.” It would be shared, we would discuss it, what we thought about it and why it might help us as a group. In other conversations, it became a mentor text for voice. When we wrote, students and I referred to it, wishing we could meet this man who wrote so clearly. Of course, we met him in other poems too, and followed along with Naomi Shihab Nye, a student of his, whose poems also touched us. We discussed connections, how paths cross and re-cross, fade away, return again. And we illustrated those paths in artistic responses. The poem became important to each class, is important to me still.

Loving a poem is not new to me and there are others I love, too. And serendipity sometimes makes me shiver. Certain of my colleagues and I exchange Christmas gifts, and one year friends gifted me with the book Teaching With Fire, edited by Sam M. Intrator and Megan Scribner, an anthology of poems that are important “source” poems for teachers. On page fifteen, there is the Stafford poem again. Finally, when I left the classroom three years ago, the school gave a party in celebration of my years in the classroom, and several of my colleagues spoke about me, to me. It was a pleasure hearing those words, every one. But the surprise, the serendipity that happened is that my head of school, speaking of my time at the school, my work with students and colleagues, ended with a poem he thought defined me. And that poem was “The Way It Is.” I was shocked and a little teary. The thread continues, and with this poem especially, my strong

connection to poetry remains.

“You don’t ever let go of the thread.”

The poem in its entirety can be found at Goodreads, here. And I have written a poem in response.

Holding On

People wonder how to proceed,

when a boulder lies on the road.

I tell them I hold fast onto the thread;

those who are tangled there with me help.

They heave me over and in turn I pull them along.

The filament unwinds sometimes and loosens.

Sometimes wind blows it askew.

It wants re-winding.

A gentle tug and I’ve re-wound,

for me, for family, for friends.

Keeping the strand strong while everyone winds together

makes it easier to climb over that next boulder.

 Linda Baie © All Rights Reserved

===================================

William Stafford
Visit the William Stafford Archives online.

Linda Baie is a long time teacher of middle school students at a K-8 independent school for the gifted in Denver, Colorado. She is now the school’s literacy coach. She has a wonderful family, including three terrific grandchildren. Passions are reading, writing and being outdoors. She blogs at TeacherDance.org and tweets @LBaie. She is working hard on writing, sending a few poems to see if they might be published, participates in a writing group, and has been to one poetry workshop, with plans for another. She is holding onto the thread.

Previous posts in this series:

Laura Shovan on "This Is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams

Dylan Bargteil on "On Moral Leadership as a Political Dilemma" by June Jordan

J. C. Elkin on "Hannibal Clim" (author unknown)

Diane Mayr on a haiku by Basho

Jone MacCulloch on "We Are Waiting (a pantoum)" by Joyce Sidman

Mary Bargteil on Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot

Jacqueline Jules on "Mother to Son" by Langston Hughes

Pamela Murray Winters on "The Land of Counterpane" by Robert Louis Stevenson

Dennis Kirschbaum on "Rain" by Robert Louis Stevenson
Janet Fagal on "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" by William Butler Yeats

30 Habits of Highly Effective Poets #21: William Stafford on Being the Early Bard

I'm just a little obsessed with the poetry of William Stafford. When I learned that the great American poet rose daily around 4 AM to write, I decided to try it myself.

The first few days went great. My night-owl family did their best to understand that I'd be going to bed EARLY. But people needed help with homework and stuff. I started needing afternoon naps. The naps got longer. 4:00 AM became 4:45 AM. The snooze button was my frenemy. But on the days that I got up early, I did write.

I discovered that I am a morning person, not a true early bard. 

While Stafford's routine didn't work for me, there are many writers who are at their best in the pre-dawn hours. They like the quiet space of being the only awake person in the house. Stafford says, at this time of day, he felt available to "catch" the poems. There's a connection here with Betsy Franco's "Bed Head" post -- using the space between sleep and wakefulness, where the mind is still uncluttered and open to ideas.

In addition to William Stafford, Cynthia Lord (Rules) has told me that she is an early bard. Reportedly, so is novelist Manil Suri.

If you'd like to know more about Stafford's early-hours writing habit, check out my recent post on the poet.

Over the years, I have been working on a series of poems -- each in response to a piece in Stafford's collection, The Darkness around Us Is Deep.

My early poem, "Driving Home from the Poetry Festival, 1996" was written long before I started the series. However, a friend pointed out that this poem resonates with Stafford's well-known "Traveling through the Dark."

Here are both poems:

Driving Home from the Poetry Festival, 1996

by Laura Shovan

I would like to remember this night,

compel my mind to hoard sounds, images.

But Route 80 is featureless,

dark and nothing more.

I wish for some apparition,

a fire in the sky, the carcass

of an animal strewn across the road,

its blood flashing in snapshots.

Tonight words reached behind my eyes

like sea water, into my throat like desert air.

This night should be remembered.

My mother, with me big in her belly,

drove some other featureless highway,

the rest of the world home in bed.

A voice said, "Pull over."

And she did. Even though she was alone,

she listened to that voice,

and watched from the shoulder.

A darkened car hurtled toward her and me.

Tonight I say, speak to me, Voice,

so I will remember.

But I am closer to home with every mile,

knowing this drive will be forgotten,

not even hearing the radio drone.

Words burn in my mind.

There is no room for road,

or darkness, or music.

A voice I recognize now, as my own,

has whispered, Mother, blood, belly.

Carcass, car, desert.

These words anchor themselves just

long enough for me to write them here.

First published in Paterson Literary Review.

Traveling through the Dark

By William Stafford

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.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—

her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,   

alive, still, never to be born. 

The rest of the poem can be read at The Poetry Foundation.

Poetry Friday: Happy Birthday William Stafford

I've been away from Poetry Friday for a while, but I could not pass up William Stafford's birthday.


Stafford was born January 17, 1914. This week marked his 98th birthday. His first collection, Traveling though the Dark, won the National Book Award in 1963 (he was 48, all you late bloomers). "Ultimate Problems" -- oh, on my all-time favorite poem list!

Some time ago, I started a poetry project. I began writing response poems to each of Stafford's pieces in The Darkness around Us Is Deep: Selected Poems of William Stafford. (It's one of my favorite books of poetry.)

The project's beginnings were accidental. A line in "With Kit, Age 7, at the Beach" prompted a memory of observing my child in the snow, after the blizzard of 2003. I titled the poem with a phrase from "With Kit, Age 7": "An Absolute Vista." You can listen to Stafford's poem here.

Sometimes it was a line of Stafford's that prompted a memory or image for my own poem. Or it could be the title, the theme, even something in the feel or tone of the poem I was trying to capture. One of Stafford's poems perplexed me so much that I opted to take a short phrase, "fingers into stones," as a jumping-off point. The resulting poem is a surreal meditation on aging.

Recently, life has gotten in the way of continuing with my project, though I did write about a half dozen response poems. I hope to pick it up again some day.

Today, I'm sharing an original poem, written in response to one of Stafford's.

Here is his poem, "Passing Remark."

Passing Remark
by William Stafford

In scenery I like flat country.
In life I don't like much to happen.
In personalities I like mild colorless people.
And in colors I prefer gray and brown.
My wife, a vivid girl from the mountains,
says, "Then why did you choose me?"

Read the rest (and more poems) at Friends of William Stafford.

My response poem involves a passing remark, but has deeper resonances with Stafford's piece. It appears in my chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone.

Tomorrow Is Going to Be Normal

by Laura Shovan

Walking home from the school bus, my son says,
“Tomorrow is going to be normal.”
He speaks with the confidence of relief.
When every day is the same, he can breathe.

Each morning, I tell myself,

Today, is the day --
I wait for the remarkable to land on my shoulder
or call me on the phone.

Sometimes it is a fortune written on the tag of my tea.

Sometimes it is a bird. Other days
I miss the quiet calling to attention.
I go to bed tired.

My son knows there is comfort in monotony.

Do I really want the phone to ring? It could be the lottery
or a hospital calling. He thinks my life is enough:
the mildness of the room when I am the only thing moving in it.

No. I must begin each day

wanting the next few hours to jolt me out of sameness.
He shakes his head. That we could be so different
we both find remarkable.

This was not a "normal" day.

Poet Robert Bly interviewed Stafford for the introduction to The Darkness around Us Is Deep (which includes such well-known poems as "Traveling through the Dark," "Fifteen," and "Ask Me.") Bly asked about Stafford's practice of rising early to write each day. He said something like, "What if you're not so good that day?" And Stafford replied, "Then I lower my standards." I love that.

If you're as fascinated with Stafford as I am, here is an interview with his son Kim. It's a beautiful meditation on his father's writing space and daily practice. His book, Early Morning, is one I'm putting on my wish list.

Happy Poetry Friday. I'm going to celebrate by playing with my box of Haikubes. I'll post some of the results soon.

Elaine at Wild Rose Reader is our Poetry Friday host today. Stop by her blog for more poetry posts.

Poetry Friday -- Writing Habits

In his introduction to my poetry chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone, poet Michael Salcman writes:

"She knows all too well how strange and abnormal the everyday world can be. In this she follows in the path of one of her artistic lodestars, the American poet William Stafford."

Swoon. Stafford is one of my heroes. I am writing a series of poetic responses to the poems in his collection, The Darkness Around Us Is Deep. Several of these poems are in the chapbook.

As I was researching new names for my blog, I happened on the Friends of William Stafford website and his poem, "How These Words Happened."

In the interview with poet Robert Bly that introduces The Darkness Around Us, Stafford talks about his habit of rising early to write. Every day. And if the work wasn't so good that day...he said he lowers his standards! Don't you love that?

When I read "How These Words Happened," I imagine Stafford at his early morning work. There is magic in those hours, so close to sleep.

How These Words Happened

by William Stafford

In winter, in the dark hours, when others

were asleep, I found these words and put them

together by their appetites and respect for

each other. In stillness, they jostled. They traded

meanings while pretending to have only one.

Monstrous alliances never dreamed of before

began. Sometimes they lost. Never again

do they separate in this world.

Read the rest of the poem here -- that's at Friends of Stafford. Oddly, there's a slightly different version posted at a couple of websites. Here is one. It's amazing how a couple of changed words affect the poem. My guess is the second version is "correct." I'll check on that and will let you know.

What are your writing habits? Do you rise early to write like Stafford, see the kids off to school first (that's my M.O.), or do those monstrous alliances of words come to you at night?

Poetry Friday is here at Author Amok next week. Exciting! For today's round up, visit Irene at Live. Love. Explore!

Welcome, Poetry Friday!

I'm welcoming winter with an original poem. An Absolute Vista Our six year old climbed a snow bank at the back door to walk and meet his father. The snow was too deep. White erased everything – fences, sandbox. Ground was something to imagine. Why would he go? His weight was too sleight to puncture the icy crust with his boots. Our son floated on the surface, a dark form crawling away from the house. Midway he stopped. No one near but the wind, racing. My husband left off sweeping pear branches, strode deeply toward our child, and lifted him off that shifting surface. One body, they turned for home, each step sinking to the good, solid ground. I wrote this poem – about the blizzard of 2003 -- in response to William Stafford’s, “With Kit, Age 7, At the Beach.” His poem is set during a different kind of storm.

The rawness of Stafford's landscape gets at the elemental nature of being a parent. That’s how his poem reminded me of my son stranded in all that white (the kid is standing full height in this photo). We had 40 inches, the worst recorded snowfall in Baltimore.

You can hear Stafford read his poem here: Contribute winter welcome poems, warm weather wishes, Hanukkah book reviews, holiday verse, bah-humbugs (“ha-bumbugs!” if you’re a Runny Babbit fan), or anything else you’d like to share. Please leave a comment with a link. I’ll be rounding up throughout the day. Winter Welcomes Liz in Ink has “Picture Books in Winter” by Robert Louis Stevenson. Stacey from Two Writing Teachers has Billy Collins Poem, "Snow Day." Collins' poem is a popular one today. You'll also find it at Karen E's blog and at Shelf Elf. Check all these blogs out to get three different views of the poem. You’ll find some icy concrete poems by Heidi Roemer at Laura Salas’ blog. Those of us traveling during the holidays will want to take some of the poems from her “15 Words or Less” blog along for the ride. If you're travelling with little ones, Lorie Ann at Reader Totz shares "Horsey Horsey" for the ride. Sara at Read, Write, Believe is brightening the longest night of the year with Aretha Franklin's A Deeper Love. Fiddler at a Habit of Reading is also thinking about the solstice with a poem by Susan Cooper. And "my first ever holiday-themed original poem in the blogging world." Ruth is sharing a traditional Christmas Carol today: Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Another traditional carol from Kelly Fineman, who's posting Greensleeves. And another holiday rocker, Karen E. has Bruce Springsteen's "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town." She says, “My six-yr. old loves it. :-)” Bruce is from Jersey – what’s not to like? Little Willow also wants us to get up off that cozy couch by the fire and onto the dance floor. Visit Bildungsroman: Poetry Friday: Dare You to Move by Switchfoot If dancing doesn’t warm you up enough, learn to be a “Rock Star Reader” at Just One More Book. At Write Time, Linda's holiday post is a must-view for cat lovers. Jennifer at Ink for Lit opened an early holiday gift, Gardener's Magnetic Poetry. The resulting found poem is here. 7-Imp is in with "Sonnet in the Shape of a Christmas Tree" by George Starbuck. At Wild Rose Reader, Elaine offers us an original poem about her grandmother making Christmas babka. At Blue Rose Girl, she has a link to George Bush's Nightmare before Christmas. Elaine says, "In the video, an actor impersonating Bush recites a parody of Clement Moore's classic holiday poem." Tiel Aisha Ansari says, "I also have a winter-inspired original: December Idyll." It's a lovely sensory poem. Nadine at Kiddos and Books has Alvin Tresselt's opening poem from Caldecott Winner "White Snow Bright Snow." At Miss Rumphius Effect, Tricia is reading Douglas Florian’s Winter Hues with her family. Kurious Kitty has poetry in the news -- W.S. Merwin's interview on Fresh Air and his winter poem, “The Cold Before Moonrise.” She asks us to visit her quote blog also. Kelly has an original snowy poem with a sad ending (if you're a kid hoping for a Snow Day). And an original winter haiku (very cute -- you've gotta love the word "sashay") from Lorie Ann Grover at her site. Scrub-a-Dub-Tub has a great post about the joys of reading "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas." Seems there are as many poets writing Christmas poems as singers who do holiday CDs. Kevin Conder brings us "Old Angel Midnight" by Jack Kerouac and "Christmas Night" by Conrad Hilberry. Tributes & Celebrations Yat-Yee Chong has a beautiful poem about marriage by Arthur Conan Doyle. She is celebrating her own 20th wedding anniversary. At The Drift Record, Julie’s celebrating a wedding anniversary, too, with a spicy original poem. HipWriterMama is celebrating her blogiversary with Incantation by Czeslaw Milosz. Carol's Corner has a tribute to her wonderful 10-year-old student poets and some of their original poems -- many with winter themes. David Elzey’s tribute to a high school friend ends with a parody of Frost’s “Stopping by Woods.” Everything Else Mary Lee has news this morning, a post about the announcement of the inaugural poet. So you didn't get invited to be the inaugural poet, and you're wondering: "How Do You Know You're A Poet?" There's an answer at the Write Sisters. Sylvia Vardell at Poetry for Children has news about poet Helen Frost receiving an NEA Fellowship. jama at Alphabet Soup is ruminating about Kenneth Koch’s, "You Want a Social Life, With Friends" and the stresses of a writing life. I hear that! Stenhouse author Jeff Anderson is also thinking about a balanced life with "You Can't Have It All" by Barbara Ras. RM1(SS) says, “I'm in with an assortment of silly stuff” – all recommendations for his daughter’s poetry memorization assignment. Florian Café posted one of my favorites, Allen Ginsberg’s "A Supermarket in California." At What Adrienne Thinks about you'll find Marvin Bell's "I Didn't Sleep." Sarah Reinhard has a religious themed haiku. Still trying to find the perfect gift? If you have a writer on your list, check out how meaningful a pencil can be with Lisa Chellman's original poem, "Sharpen Your Pencil." My buddy Tabatha Yeatts bring us the real meaning of "Giving," with a poem by Khalil Gibran. Jill Corcoran wrote, "In these tough economic times and frigid cold weather I bring hope and warmth together with Langston Hughes' uplifting words." His poem, "Dreams," is a wonderful way to end our holiday Poetry Friday. I'm finally home from school parties, wrestling practice, and a friend's Hanukkah service. Time to relax with some hot chocolate and poetry. Thanks for the poems,everyone, wintry and otherwise. P.S. There was so much snow in ’03, we were inspired to make Snow Ice Cream. I’ll post the recipe tomorrow. It’s fun to make with kids.