A Ritual To Read To Each Other
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.
—William Stafford
Born January 17, 1914, Hutchinson, Kansas;
died August 28, 1993, Lake Oswego, Oregon.
3 responses so far ↓
1 Sharry // Jan 18, 2009 at 1:59 pm
Thanks for posting the beautiful poem. As you read it in class, I was wishing for a copy.
Hugs,
Sharry
2 Liz Sherbow // Jan 18, 2009 at 3:02 pm
Thanks so much for this wonderful poem. I am trying to change a more of silence in my family, silence about many things. This is just perfect to share. Love, Liz
3 Ruth // Jan 18, 2009 at 3:27 pm
Sigh!
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