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Another World Instead: The Early Poems of William Stafford, 1937-1947
The unpublished early poems of William Stafford now added to "a body of work that represents some of the finest poetry written during the second half of [the twentieth] century." ( Library Journal ) If I could remember all at once―but I have forgotten.
But some day, looking along a furrowed cliff, staring
beyond the eyes' strength, I'll start the avalanche
and every stone will fall separate and revealed.
―from "Meditation"
Twenty-eight years old and a conscientious objector during World War II, William Stafford was assigned under penalty of law to work in camps, an internal exile within his own country. In this remarkable collection of poems, nearly all of them never before published, the first decade of Stafford's writing life is for the first time made available to readers. Edited by the poet Fred Marchant, one of
the first marine officers honorably discharged as a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War, Another World Instead tells the story of a committed pacifist living in a time of war and a writer beginning a major life in American poetry.
But some day, looking along a furrowed cliff, staring
beyond the eyes' strength, I'll start the avalanche
and every stone will fall separate and revealed.
―from "Meditation"
Twenty-eight years old and a conscientious objector during World War II, William Stafford was assigned under penalty of law to work in camps, an internal exile within his own country. In this remarkable collection of poems, nearly all of them never before published, the first decade of Stafford's writing life is for the first time made available to readers. Edited by the poet Fred Marchant, one of
the first marine officers honorably discharged as a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War, Another World Instead tells the story of a committed pacifist living in a time of war and a writer beginning a major life in American poetry.
128 pages, Hardcover
First published April 1, 2008
1 person is currently reading
23 people want to read
About the author
William Stafford
190 books127 followersWilliam Edgar Stafford was an American poet and pacifist, and the father of poet and essayist Kim Stafford. He and his writings are sometimes identified with the Pacific Northwest.
In 1970, he was named Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, a position that is now known as Poet Laureate. In 1975, he was named Poet Laureate of Oregon; his tenure in the position lasted until 1990. In 1980, he retired from Lewis & Clark College but continued to travel extensively and give public readings of his poetry. In 1992, he won the Western States Book Award for lifetime achievement in poetry.
Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William...
In 1970, he was named Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, a position that is now known as Poet Laureate. In 1975, he was named Poet Laureate of Oregon; his tenure in the position lasted until 1990. In 1980, he retired from Lewis & Clark College but continued to travel extensively and give public readings of his poetry. In 1992, he won the Western States Book Award for lifetime achievement in poetry.
Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William...
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Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
November 24, 2020
Consider the controversies regarding America's involvement in World War II; what stands out the most? There's a lot to choose from: the firebombing of cities, the internment of Japanese-Americans, the use of the atomic bomb and the uneasy alliance with the Soviet Union (whom many officials regarded as the real foe.) But for all the controversy, few have argued America should have stayed out of the war given Axis aggression, mass-murder and the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.
Among the few who objected contemporaneously was William Stafford, a young poet just coming into his own as an artist. In the introduction to Another World Instead, a collection of Stafford's work from around the time of the war, Fred Marchant hints at Stafford's mindset; 'In the fall of 1941, as war loomed, Stafford applied to his draft board for conscientious objector status. At his hearing, he was asked how he came by his objection to war. The questioner was the head of Stafford's draft board, but he also had been one of Stafford's Sunday school teachers. Stafford replied that he had come to his stance because people such as his questioner had taught him not to kill.'
A clever response from the young poet, if a pedantic one. Many Old Testament heroes carved bloody trails through their enemies, after all. And it's difficult to imagine anyone stopping the Nazi reign of terror without considerable violence.
But as tricky as it can be to fit pacifism into our messy world, it presents a tempting vision of peace, clarity and a better life for all. So while reading Another World Instead, I found myself craving a practical argument for how pacifism could work on a large scale. But Stafford is a poet so his world view came with all the lyrical trimmings; at times I grew frustrated by the obscurity layered by his chosen artform, and Stafford's work is on the opaque side.
But between Stafford's loving descriptions of nature, heartfelt calls for non-violence and thinly-veiled criticism for 'The Midgets of War,' a purpose emerges. In 'CO's Work on Mountain Road', Stafford claims his fellow objectors to be;
'Like bay trees on the edge of La Cumbre Peak,
liking with wistful scent the swooping world below,
We few dreamers'
The implication (as pointed out to me by someone who knows poetry) is that conscientious objectors, while often ignored, do influence the world in subtle ways just as the floral scents of bay trees reach people far away, carried on the wind. Perhaps exposing people to the idea of pacifism is enough to help many question the need for war, even if they don't reject violence altogether.
A common theme in Western religion is that we are all sinners, but that we should all strive to be saints. Perhaps the underlying thesis for many conscientious objectors is that we live in a world of inevitable violence, greed and war, but that we should strive to live in another world instead.
Edited 11/23/2020
Among the few who objected contemporaneously was William Stafford, a young poet just coming into his own as an artist. In the introduction to Another World Instead, a collection of Stafford's work from around the time of the war, Fred Marchant hints at Stafford's mindset; 'In the fall of 1941, as war loomed, Stafford applied to his draft board for conscientious objector status. At his hearing, he was asked how he came by his objection to war. The questioner was the head of Stafford's draft board, but he also had been one of Stafford's Sunday school teachers. Stafford replied that he had come to his stance because people such as his questioner had taught him not to kill.'
A clever response from the young poet, if a pedantic one. Many Old Testament heroes carved bloody trails through their enemies, after all. And it's difficult to imagine anyone stopping the Nazi reign of terror without considerable violence.
But as tricky as it can be to fit pacifism into our messy world, it presents a tempting vision of peace, clarity and a better life for all. So while reading Another World Instead, I found myself craving a practical argument for how pacifism could work on a large scale. But Stafford is a poet so his world view came with all the lyrical trimmings; at times I grew frustrated by the obscurity layered by his chosen artform, and Stafford's work is on the opaque side.
But between Stafford's loving descriptions of nature, heartfelt calls for non-violence and thinly-veiled criticism for 'The Midgets of War,' a purpose emerges. In 'CO's Work on Mountain Road', Stafford claims his fellow objectors to be;
'Like bay trees on the edge of La Cumbre Peak,
liking with wistful scent the swooping world below,
We few dreamers'
The implication (as pointed out to me by someone who knows poetry) is that conscientious objectors, while often ignored, do influence the world in subtle ways just as the floral scents of bay trees reach people far away, carried on the wind. Perhaps exposing people to the idea of pacifism is enough to help many question the need for war, even if they don't reject violence altogether.
A common theme in Western religion is that we are all sinners, but that we should all strive to be saints. Perhaps the underlying thesis for many conscientious objectors is that we live in a world of inevitable violence, greed and war, but that we should strive to live in another world instead.
Edited 11/23/2020
August 31, 2008
Lovely. Sad. Hopeful and hopeless. Stafford was a conscientious objector during World War II (!) and these are (mostly) poems written when he was in the Civilian Public Service because of his pacifist status. I hadn't read him before, but thought his poetry was simple but dense and very moving. I read many of them over and over. I really recommend this for a different perspective on that time period.
February 11, 2018
With the foresight, strength of character and determination so many of us just don’t have William Stafford became a conscientious objector during World War II. As a result by 1942 Stafford was in the CPS (Civilian Public Service) work camp in Los Priestos, California in the mountains above Santa. During his years with the CPS Stafford would grapple with his art in earnest, getting up hours earlier before everyone else to write. The manual labour was hard and conditions often primitive in the camps but he was working in some of the most beautiful and wild parts of the US, dreaming of Another World Instead.
Reading between the lines of a lot of these poems we can begin to comprehend the tenet of those times - that no-one could stand back and ask “Is there another one way?” As a result of his beliefs we can feel the frustration and anger in many of his poems. Also the resultant isolation (even in his home town) and the fear of what mankind will do. But above all this is the consolation of nature:
“Friend Sky
Blue, blue forever and ever falling
(over the street I walk toward home)
Resting upon my eyes resting
(I have lived here all my life)
Soft over the trees over the hills
(I meet a man who hates me; he speaks curtly)
Over his shoulder soaring curving upswelling
(my house greets me: I enter the pleasant rooms)
Carrying the gaze forever and ever the sky.
And one my favourite poems:
“Time fills the canyon...”
Time fills the canyon, stillness of dim bowl.
The pine trees grow and stand in it, more still
than stillness, done moving, dreamed in amber time,
called silent, told quiet, cried wilderness by some dead god.
Off down, free of earth, flown
from arms of trees that hold from the cliff rim, tomorrow lies.
One gray bird goes far below across time -
a simple bird in sunlight,
loose, alive in air below my stand on cliff.
I gaze on time, and oh follow the live bird on its short flight.
We need people like Stafford now more than ever to dream another world instead. An interesting read.
Reading between the lines of a lot of these poems we can begin to comprehend the tenet of those times - that no-one could stand back and ask “Is there another one way?” As a result of his beliefs we can feel the frustration and anger in many of his poems. Also the resultant isolation (even in his home town) and the fear of what mankind will do. But above all this is the consolation of nature:
“Friend Sky
Blue, blue forever and ever falling
(over the street I walk toward home)
Resting upon my eyes resting
(I have lived here all my life)
Soft over the trees over the hills
(I meet a man who hates me; he speaks curtly)
Over his shoulder soaring curving upswelling
(my house greets me: I enter the pleasant rooms)
Carrying the gaze forever and ever the sky.
And one my favourite poems:
“Time fills the canyon...”
Time fills the canyon, stillness of dim bowl.
The pine trees grow and stand in it, more still
than stillness, done moving, dreamed in amber time,
called silent, told quiet, cried wilderness by some dead god.
Off down, free of earth, flown
from arms of trees that hold from the cliff rim, tomorrow lies.
One gray bird goes far below across time -
a simple bird in sunlight,
loose, alive in air below my stand on cliff.
I gaze on time, and oh follow the live bird on its short flight.
We need people like Stafford now more than ever to dream another world instead. An interesting read.
May 21, 2016
As someone who is very fond of the poetry of William Stafford [1], this book provides a worthy volume among the many that exist of the late poet's work. Stafford was well-known for his pacifism during World War II; he ended up serving in a camp for conscientious objectors in California, as well as doing work elsewhere during the course of the war and the immediate postwar period. He was 37 before he had published any works of poetry, and had a long habit of writing early in the morning before the day began, and this book of early poems, most of which languished in obscurity, about half of the known early poems of Stafford's body of work, provide insight into why Stafford was the kind of poet he was, given that he was preoccupied by the same concerns that he returned to over and over again with a great deal of delicacy [2] and skill, and although many of these poems are quite excellent, they demonstrate later editing and some of them are at least a little bit awkward, as Stafford was trying to set down his thoughts and took some time and plenty of practice to get into his mature form, so that by the time he published his poetry in earnest he was well-practiced after more than a decade of solid effort.
In terms of its contents, this book is short and straightforward. Containing 176 of the roughly 400 poems that William Stafford wrote during this collection, including all of the ones that had been previously published in other collections, as far as could be determined, which have been carefully noted in the endnotes to the book, as well as an introduction that provides the historical context of Stafford's time in the CO camps and the origin of his idiosyncratic but firm stance against violence, this is a volume that shows a young artist at work reflecting upon life and also musing upon experience, the inner and outer streams of influence combining to make for arresting and deeply reflective poetry. The poetry included is, as near as possible, given in chronological order so that the reader can see Stafford come into form as a major poet from his earlier efforts in college to more mature efforts after World War II. The editor of this work, a conscientious objector during Vietnam and poet of no mean skill himself, has done a great job of attempting to wrestle with the many revisions of Stafford's complicated body of work, and for making sensible decisions about where to indent a line for effect and where to allow for a lengthy line that in the typeset versions of the early poems were included on more than one line for purposes of space. The result is a pleasing collection that shows obvious care and craft on the part of the poet as well as the editor.
What these poems allow the reader to do, above all, is to see Stafford as a man, as his poetry is deeply personal and reflective, and even though it is restrained in the manner of Emily Dickenson, it exposes the belief system and essential compassion of Stafford for fellow humanity, as well as a certain sense of righteous anger about jingoistic calls for war and retributive violence. This is to be expected given the context of these writings within wartime. It is also somewhat unsurprising that Stafford should dwell so long on themes of home and exile given his life experience during these years as well. Perhaps more surprising is the fact that Stafford's poems seem to dwell so long on the terrors of the night. Without wishing to speculate on the reasons for the author's habits, it is noteworthy that Stafford developed the habit of writing early in the morning and that many of his poems dwell on darkness, on night, and on nightmares. Perhaps as a person whose sleep was troubled, and who had reasons to reflect rather gloomily on the night, he chose to write early in the morning as a way of turning that torment into the well-spring of beautiful art, and to allow him to write in such a way that turned the darkness of night into an expression of hope for the early morning instead, a way of making difficult situations the fountain of creative solutions for the betterment of life and art. The poems included are therefore not only the works of a young poet finding his way with words to skillfully write evocative and reflective verse, but are also a demonstration of the concerns of a poet who in many ways is not so unlike myself.
[1] See, for example:
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
[2] See, for example:
“The Sound: Summer, 1945”
Not a loud sound, the buzz of the rattlesnake.
But urgent. Making the heart pound a loud drum.
Somewhere in dead weeds by a dry lake
On cracked earth flat in the sun.
The living thing raises the fanged head,
Tormented and nagged by the drouth,
And stares past a planet that’s dead,
With anger and death in its mouth. (82)
"Exile [II]"
The burning city of my sorrow hurts
And blinds the eye turned carelessly on it.
Avert the face; look full on it at night;
Be wary days. Increase the time of gaze
As time goes by, and hate grows strong,
And sight grows dim, and cities burn and die. (25)
"They taught me to be hurt..."
They taught me to be hurt.
I don't know why.
They held my hand till dark,
Then said goodbye.
And those who held me up
Grew weaker then.
And those I thought were gods
Were frightened men.
Such gods, who told me wise
And left me dumb,
Will have to call me long
Before I'll come. (65-66)
In terms of its contents, this book is short and straightforward. Containing 176 of the roughly 400 poems that William Stafford wrote during this collection, including all of the ones that had been previously published in other collections, as far as could be determined, which have been carefully noted in the endnotes to the book, as well as an introduction that provides the historical context of Stafford's time in the CO camps and the origin of his idiosyncratic but firm stance against violence, this is a volume that shows a young artist at work reflecting upon life and also musing upon experience, the inner and outer streams of influence combining to make for arresting and deeply reflective poetry. The poetry included is, as near as possible, given in chronological order so that the reader can see Stafford come into form as a major poet from his earlier efforts in college to more mature efforts after World War II. The editor of this work, a conscientious objector during Vietnam and poet of no mean skill himself, has done a great job of attempting to wrestle with the many revisions of Stafford's complicated body of work, and for making sensible decisions about where to indent a line for effect and where to allow for a lengthy line that in the typeset versions of the early poems were included on more than one line for purposes of space. The result is a pleasing collection that shows obvious care and craft on the part of the poet as well as the editor.
What these poems allow the reader to do, above all, is to see Stafford as a man, as his poetry is deeply personal and reflective, and even though it is restrained in the manner of Emily Dickenson, it exposes the belief system and essential compassion of Stafford for fellow humanity, as well as a certain sense of righteous anger about jingoistic calls for war and retributive violence. This is to be expected given the context of these writings within wartime. It is also somewhat unsurprising that Stafford should dwell so long on themes of home and exile given his life experience during these years as well. Perhaps more surprising is the fact that Stafford's poems seem to dwell so long on the terrors of the night. Without wishing to speculate on the reasons for the author's habits, it is noteworthy that Stafford developed the habit of writing early in the morning and that many of his poems dwell on darkness, on night, and on nightmares. Perhaps as a person whose sleep was troubled, and who had reasons to reflect rather gloomily on the night, he chose to write early in the morning as a way of turning that torment into the well-spring of beautiful art, and to allow him to write in such a way that turned the darkness of night into an expression of hope for the early morning instead, a way of making difficult situations the fountain of creative solutions for the betterment of life and art. The poems included are therefore not only the works of a young poet finding his way with words to skillfully write evocative and reflective verse, but are also a demonstration of the concerns of a poet who in many ways is not so unlike myself.
[1] See, for example:
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress...
[2] See, for example:
“The Sound: Summer, 1945”
Not a loud sound, the buzz of the rattlesnake.
But urgent. Making the heart pound a loud drum.
Somewhere in dead weeds by a dry lake
On cracked earth flat in the sun.
The living thing raises the fanged head,
Tormented and nagged by the drouth,
And stares past a planet that’s dead,
With anger and death in its mouth. (82)
"Exile [II]"
The burning city of my sorrow hurts
And blinds the eye turned carelessly on it.
Avert the face; look full on it at night;
Be wary days. Increase the time of gaze
As time goes by, and hate grows strong,
And sight grows dim, and cities burn and die. (25)
"They taught me to be hurt..."
They taught me to be hurt.
I don't know why.
They held my hand till dark,
Then said goodbye.
And those who held me up
Grew weaker then.
And those I thought were gods
Were frightened men.
Such gods, who told me wise
And left me dumb,
Will have to call me long
Before I'll come. (65-66)
July 18, 2019
I love love love William Stafford.
May 16, 2009
These are the first poems of William Stafford, and they're a portrait not only of "the artist as a young man" but of him struggling to be a pacifist during World War II. Actually, I guess the two aren't separate threads. Stafford's life and poetry are intertwined, and as he works to find a writing voice he is also revising and refining his beliefs.
August 12, 2013
Wonderful poems filtered through the lens of Stafford's conscientious objector status. He has a beautiful turn of phrase which reminded me a lot of Kay Ryan.
Want to read
December 23, 2016COCC PS3537.T143 A84 2008
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