18 of 18 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Stafford's Voice Makes You Listen, April 5, 2002
When I read the poems of William Stafford, it feels less like reading and more like "listening." There's something about his voice that calls me to attention, that makes me notice not only the words on the page but all the sounds that attend my mornings: the return of the finches to the Hawthorne tree, for example, or the rustle of wind in the new cherry blossoms. As I re-read some of my favorite poems from The Way it Is, I find myself in a strange situation; I feel as though I have traded places with the poet, "partly propped up" on the sofa in his den at 4 a.m., where he wrote every day until he died in 1993. Perhaps it is because he often tells us so much about the writing process itself; Stafford's poems are imbued with that particular room; they arise from that private space he allows us to enter for a few moments at a time. He often brings in the same details over and over, the mundane yet transcendent things he notices in the early hours: sunlight moving across a wood floor, trees "still trying to arch as far as they could," the houses that "waited, white, blue, gray..." The things themselves, as in the poetry of William Carlos Williams, become the containers of ideas, thought, emotion. The diction is simple, the rhythm a comfort; before we know it, we've been lured into a place of transcendence without even trying.
The sun becomes a constant companion to the writing act, a kind of muse that illuminates the hand at work. For instance, the last poem he wrote, just hours before he died, begins with the line: "Well, it was yesterday./Sunlight used to follow my hand." Towards the end, he reiterates: "I listened and put my hand/out in the sun again. It was all easy." Perhaps the knowledge that these are the last lines Stafford will write adds to their poignancy (that hand will soon be stilled, in darkness), but I feel privileged, every time I open this book, to be in the presence of a voice that speaks so simply and yet with such passion. Because of the sheer number of poems and writings Stafford left behind, there are bound to be some clunkers, some lines that seem overly simplistic and sentimental, but the force of Stafford's voice overcomes these occasional lapses. The Way it Is is a "must have" for the writer's library; crack open the book at the start of your own writing session and you'll remember why you ever wanted to be a writer in the first place.
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15 of 17 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
William Stafford: Crossing Time & Distance, June 17, 2004
"You are a memory
too strong to leave this world..."
So wrote William Stafford in "For A Lost Child"
but it could apply equally as well to him.
His absence continues to leave a conspicuous poetic void.
Still there remains what was written, and this definitive volume
contains the majority of his finest work.
"Starting here, what do you want to remember?"
So opens the poem "You Reading This, Be Ready"
and it's somewhat telling of what his writing was
predominantly about: Awareness. Attention. Remembrance.
Making note of what endures.
The beauty. The sorrow. The questions.
He could make even the smallest snapshot scene
as every bit worthy of recall
as any grand-scale panorama.
Even as his own life and times become relegated to the past,
his poems ~ indeed, every insight he set on paper ~
forever remain in the present tense ~ ever as accurate and timely
as when they were first composed.
It's not only how things were, but how they are
~ the way it still is.
His poems, while personal, shared insights based on common human experience:
the lessons and questions encountered in the day-to-day world.
Thoughtful. Authentic. Perceptive.
Life-affirming even as they question,
life-enhancing even when they convey a brutal truth.
Certainly no poet or writer should be without
his presence on the nearest bookshelf.
His perceptions reach across time and distance,
so vividly alive he easily incites a creative response ~
setting any aspiring writer fast upon his or her own path.
Serving as a kind of "literary generator," so to speak.
(To paraphrase something Robert Frost once said about certain
rare inspiring creative individuals.)
Once you've shared his vision, you will tend to notice more
the scripture of leaves, light on the water, every hue of colour
across a sunset sky, the sad passenger in a nearby car,
the view that your train window passes by.
Rare was the moment, memory, thought or question,
he let go by without notice or an honourable poetic mention.
"What can anyone give you greater than now...?" he once asked
and that thought still holds true.
And if you open this book completely at random, right here and now,
letting it fall open to any given page,
whatever line your eyes come to rest upon and read
will be pure gift: your life will be better for it.
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