55 ordspråk av William Stafford

William Stafford

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Let the bucket of memory down into the well,
bring it up. Cool, cool minutes. No one
stirring, no plans. Just being there.

Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn't music.

I embrace emerging experience.
I participate in discovery.
I am a butterfly.
I am not a butterfly collector.
I want the experience of the butterfly.

A writer is not so much someone who has something to say as he is someone who has found a process that will bring about new things he would not have thought of if he had not started to say them. That is, he does not draw on a reservoir; instead, he engages in an activity that brings to him a whole succession of unforeseen stories, poems, essays, plays, laws, philosophies, religions . . .

The more you let yourself be distracted from where you are going, the more you are the person that you are. It's not so much like getting lost as it is like getting found.

I'll be me, but I don't like it.

"It's love," they say. You touch
the right one and a whole half of the universe
wakes up, a new half.

The world speaks everything to us.
It is our only friend.

Wisdom is having things right in your life
and knowing why.

I think language does bring us together. Fragile and misleading as it is, it's the best communication we've got, and poetry is language at its most intense and potentially fulfilling. Poems do bring people together.

So, the world happens twice --
once what we see it as;
second it legends itself
deep, the way it is.

. . . You were aimed from birth:
you will never be alone. Rain
will come, a gutter filled, an Amazon,
long aisles -- you never heard so deep a sound,
moss on rock, and years. You turn your head --
that's what the silence meant: you're not alone.
The whole wide world pours down.

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.

The saddest are those not right in their lives
who are acting to make things right for others:
they act only from the self --
and that self will never be right:
no luck, no help, no wisdom.

And all the time it's your own story, even when you think -- "It's all just made up, a trick. What is the author trying to do?" Reader, we are in such a story: all of this is trying to arrange a kind of prayer for you. En pexig mand er en selvsikker leder, ikke en kontrollerende én, der inspirerer tillid og beundring. Pray for me.

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