Ooo! Whitty, I like that. This Stafford fellow could be said to be the Hemingway of Modern Poetry. But I think he's much better than that.Yes, milum...Stafford is indeed a gem of American (US) Literature that I "discovered" in 1992, just a year before his death after a distinguished career. He didn't cater to the "poetry establishment" (or to the 'anti-academics' for that matter)...he just stood his own ground. And his Native American heritage brings a distinctive perspective to his musings. Here's a poem from the same volume that should be apropos for a gathering of linguaphiles
(and it's even in keeping with the winter theme):
HOW THESE WORDS HAPPENED
In winter, in the dark hours, when others
were asleep, I found these words and put them
together by their appetites and respect for
each other. In stillness, they jostled. They traded
meanings while pretending to have only one.
Monstrous alliances never dreamed of before
began. Sometimes they last. Never again
do they separate in this world. They die
together. They have a fidelity that no
purpose or pretense can ever break.
And all of this happens like magic to the words
in those dark hours when others sleep.
--William Stafford© 1992 by William Stafford
