William Stafford

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Writers Biographies
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William Stafford

William Stafford has a wife named Dorthy, had four kids with, and is also the eldest of three siblings.

William Stafford

He is an American poet and his poetry usually focuses on the ordinary things in life and if compared to another poet, it's usually Robert Frost.

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He died and was born in the United States. One of his collections called Traveling Through The Dark, which was published when he was 48, won the National Book For Poetry Award. Another one of his accomplishments were being titled “Poet Laureate of Oregon” in the year of 1975.

1914-1993

American GothicTraveling Through The Dark AtavismBi-FocalAllegiances

William Stafford Taking A Photo With One Of His Cameras

On the morning of the day of his death, he wrote a poem had the lines "You don't have to prove anything, my mother said. Just be ready for what God sends."

He was drafted into the United States military in 1941 at the same time he was completing his master's degree at the University of Kansas. However while he was there, he claimed himself a conscientious objector which meant that he refused to preform any military-like service.

Sourceshttp://www.poemhunter.com/poem/traveling-through-the-dark/http://thegraphicsfairy.com/wp-content/uploads/blogger/-wE7h6AXzwqU/T75Jgi5M3FI/AAAAAAAAR8E/jRxsjEC5c1A/s1600/ornament-fancy-Graphics-Fairy1.jpghttp://favim.com/image/599037/http://www.deviantart.com/morelikethis/338080373/literaturehttp://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bi-focal/http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Stafford_(poet)http://www.maine.gov/ifw/wildlife/disease/chronic_wasting_disease.html

William wrote in a daily jornal for 50 years that ended up holding over 22,000 poems! However, only 3,000 of the 22,000 were published. Also, in addition to being a photographer and a poet, he also taught at the San Jose State in California and the Lewis & Clark College in Oregon.

Traveling Through The DarkBy William StaffordTraveling through the dark I found a deerdead 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 carand 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.

AtavismBy William StaffordSometimes in the open you look upwhere birds go by, or just nothing,and wait. A dim feeling comes you were like this once, there was air,and quiet; it was by a lake, ormaybe a river you were alertas an otter and were suddenly bornlike the evening star into widestill worlds like this one you have foundagain, for a moment, in the open.Something is being told in the woods: aisles ofshadow lead away; a branch waves;a pencil of sunlight slowly travels itspath. A withheld presence almostspeaks, but then retreats, rustlesa patch of brush. You can feelthe centuries ripple generationsof wandering, discovering, being lostand found, eating, dying, being born.A walk through the forest strokes your fur,the fur you no longer have. And your gazedown a forest aisle is a strange, longplunge, dark eyes looking for home.For delicious minutes you can feel your whiskerswider than your mind, away out over everything.


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