Bathing with William Stafford, a sonnet I wrote once upon a time (National Poetry Month)

Bathing with William Stafford

Tonight I took a bath with dear William
Stafford. How lovely he looked in the light
of candle as I held a glass of wine
to sip while my voice so full of great might

sounded out the words I wanted to hear.
And he was kind. And he was full of strength.
And suddenly, just knowing he was near
made me feel like I too was filled with strength,

like I was somehow more than what I was
before he came to grace my life with words
and inspiration. I’m in love because
he brings me a midnight sky with birds

who understand what it is to sit still
on nights like this, perched on a windowsill.



A few years ago I took a poetry class through the Northwest Writing Institute at Lewis & Clark College. One of the assignments was to write a sonnet, something I'd done maybe once or twice before. The end result of that assignment was this one for William Stafford.

Some people can't stand writing poems that have a form, a structure. When I was writing a lot of poetry, I rarely forced myself to do it. But the thing it taught me, the thing all assignments, forms, structures, taught me, is how wonderful it is to be backed into a corner. You'll never cease to astound yourself with the creative way you get out of it. Think of all those MacGyver episodes, think of all the times you just weren't sure what to do until there was a brilliant flash of light as the bulb lit up and a solution could be seen.

I don't tend to do many "writing exercises" these days, as I work on long fiction. But I still love sitting down with a prompt and just seeing what comes of it. I have a feeling I'm going to do a bit more of that in another week or two after my manuscript has been sent off and I need something to distract me while I wait for the response. I have a few ideas circulating through my brain for what my next book will be, but maybe something entirely different will come to take its place. I'm curious to see.

One thing I heard over and over again whenever any of my teachers talked about William Stafford, was how diligent he was about writing every day. It is a challenge I have long struggled to achieve. I'm not there yet, but I'm getting closer, one day at a time.

William Stafford (National Poetry Month)

Report to Someone

We think we're all there is, then the big light,
and a call comes and everyone understands.
All right, we're lonely:---trees never need us, and
wind in its wandering visits us then goes away.
And we can't see it but we think there's a light inside
everything. Even at night it wants out and pushes
quietly, insistently on the wall with its tiny hands.

In the silence that comes flooding down from the mountains
a shapeless lament begins to press toward sound.
It can wait: it gains by every day
of being recognized. Without moving
it explores a way to be ready, and when
pieces of time break off it follows them,
alive in their being and unknown but true.

William Stafford