I really wanted to include this poem in my discussion of William Stafford yesterday, but I didn’t because the post threatened to get too long. Several appreciative comments persuaded me to send it out today. This selection is available in The Way It Is, the collection of Stafford’s poetry I referenced, with a link, at the bottom of yesterday’s post. This, along with other William Stafford poems, can also be found on various poetry websites. It was first published in a 1960 collection called, West of Your City. Enjoy.
A Ritual To Read To Each Other
If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider–
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give–yes or no, or maybe–
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.