A Poem for Sunday
I feel that everyone should love William Stafford. His writing is beautiful, thoughtful, and often life-affirming in ways for which poetry rarely gets recognized.
A friend of mine, many years back, introduced me to Stafford’s work by gifting me what is essentially a postcard. It hangs on my refrigerator now: a picture of Stafford’s gentle face next to the poem “You Reading This, Be Ready.” It’s one of my few treasured possessions.
This poem has an interesting history in my life, and it is a poem I return to over and over—not just for me, but to deliver a hopeful message to others. If we lived in an ancient time that required a herald to bring us news, I would be the one to run into a town with this poem rolled up in my hand, ready to be delivered.
It is also a poem for all contexts. There have been times in my life when I’ve been asked to read in environments where I, or my writing, are not the best fit. This poem always does the job. Perfectly. I have read this poem in a church, in a prison, in classrooms, at a wedding, at a kitchen table over dinner.
William Stafford wrote nearly every day of his adult life, right up until two days before he passed away (his final poem is, for me, the best definition of spirituality I can come up with).
So here is your poem for Sunday. I hope you like it. I’ve included the text in case the image on the card is difficult to see.
You Reading This, Be Ready
by William Stafford
Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?
When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life –
What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?
I heard Stafford read just a few weeks (days?) before he passed at a writing conference in Port Angeles, WA., so likely it was his last public performance. (I crashed this conference with my ex-wife: she had an official invitation, I did not--but that's a story for another time.) Anyway, Stafford was the featured poet at the final gathering of the conference, and he was a magical presence. Everyone in attendance, I presume, knew who he was--it was a writing conference, after all--but I'm convinced that had this reading been someone's very first introduction to the man, they would have immediately and intuitively grasped that they were in the presence of a true bodhisattva: he simply radiated a gentle, all-accepting wisdom, and he had an aura of kindness that was nearly palpable. And while he certainly must have known he was in front of a crowd of people who revered him, he seemed so humble you wanted to reassure him: "No, Mr. Stafford, you're truly a great poet. Really!" Thanks for this poem: it reminded me that I probably need to read some more Stafford poetry.