I would like to talk about a poem but

[stilltrucking]

William Stafford - Traveling Through The Dark

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.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all--my only swerving--,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

[mousey1]

I hate it!

I hate this poem!

It made me burble up with sadness and grief!

I guess it's an effective poem, grabs you in the guts where you live...but...

I hate it!

Probably the sign of a good poem.

But I crave the happy endings. Where Bambi emerges, cuddled and coddled in the cold beams light. Nurtured forth and given a chance at life.

Humans! Bah Humbug.

[stilltrucking]

I miss Norman Mallory. I never appreciated how much he had to teach about poetry by not teaching about poetry. I stumbled on a link to William Stafford that he gave me four years ago but never read. I thought about you when I posted it. I was going to put it on your artlog but I changed my mind.

I like this one a lot too.

Ask Me

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.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

[Barry]

I like the poem.

I don't like what happened
to the doe
to the fawn
to the man who found them and had to decide.

I don't like what happened
but I understand the man's decision.
Don't know that I would have made the same one myself.
Probably would have cut the baby from its mother's womb
causing all kinds of trouble.

I like the poem.
I understand it.

Peace,
Barry