Wednesday, August 11, 2010

A Ritual To Read To Each Other

[with thanks to Claude who introduced me to this poem from William Stafford
by doing so commenting Cover Story Ch. 17 (Rituals).  
If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,

a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,

a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,

or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
The peace of the night


  1. An inspired illustration for the poem. Merci!

  2. Ha, Ashley,
    glad you like it, and lovely you let me know. Thank you.
    I was slightly surprised, myself, when I saw this, and I thought it's a fitting end to this very poem.
    As for minimalism: Less is not seldom more.