William Stafford Quotations

I have woven a parachute out of everything broken.

The more you let yourself be distracted from where you are going, the more you are the person that you are. It's not so much like getting lost as it is like getting found.

I just kept on doing what everyone starts out doing. The real question is, why did other people stop?

You don't need many words if you already know what you're talking about

I'll be me, but I don't like it.

Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn't music.

When I dream at night, they save a place for me,no matter how small, somewhere by the fire.

When I dream at night, they save a place for me, no matter how small, somewhere by the fire.

Let the bucket of memory down into the well,bring it up. Cool, cool minutes. No onestirring, no plans. Just being there.

Leave sound in an emptyhouse in its own room there. . . .

Silence on a hill where the path endedand then the forest belowmoving in one long whisperas evening touched the leaves.

Silence on a hill where the path ended and then the forest below moving in one long whisper as evening touched the leaves.

Shelter in winter that day --a storm coming, but in the leeof an island in a cover with friends --oh, little bright cup of sun.

One way to find your place is likethe rain, a million requestsfor lodging, one that wins, findsyour cheek: you find your home.

Next time what I'd do is look atthe earth before saying anything. I'd stopjust before going into a houseand be an emperor for a minuteand listen better to the windor to the air being still.

Next time what I'd do is look at the earth before saying anything. I'd stop just before going into a house and be an emperor for a minute and listen better to the wind or to the air being still.

Poetry is the kind of thing you have to see from the corner of your eye. You can be too well prepared for poetry. A conscientious interest in it is worse than no interest at all. . . . It's like a very faint star. If you look straight at it you can't see it, but if you look a little to one side it is there.

I am a person a dictionary-maker has to contend with. I am a living evidence in the development of language.

I embrace emerging experience.I participate in discovery.I am a butterfly.I am not a butterfly collector.I want the experience of the butterfly.

Our Father Who art in Heavencan lick their Father Who art in Heaven.

My name is William Tell:when little oppressions touch mearrows hidden in my cloakwhisper, "Ready, ready.

My name is William Tell: when little oppressions touch me arrows hidden in my cloak whisper, "Ready, ready.

I think language does bring us together. Fragile and misleading as it is, it's the best communication we've got, and poetry is language at its most intense and potentially fulfilling. Poems do bring people together.

Will you ever bring a better gift for the worldthan the breathing respect that you carrywherever you go right now?

Willows never forget how it feelsto be young.Do you remember where you came from?

Willows never forget how it feels to be young. Do you remember where you came from?

Wisdom is having things right in your lifeand knowing why.

Well, it was yesterday. And the sun came,WhyIt came.

Well, it was yesterday. And the sun came, Why It came.

You and I can turn and lookat the silent river and wait. We knowthe current is there, hidden; and thereare comings and goings from miles awaythat hold the stillness exactly before us.What the river says, that is what I say.

We are led one thing at a time to that pure gain -- all that we lose.

You happy beings, watch every face for thoseyou pass caught in the midst of lifeby some horror, their souls gone dim, cursedor unlucky, exiled under a stone.

You happy beings, watch every face for those you pass caught in the midst of life by some horror, their souls gone dim, cursed or unlucky, exiled under a stone.

What can anyone give you greater than now,starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

Even the upper end of the riverbelieves in the ocean.

At noon in the desert a panting lizardwaited for history, its elbows tense,watching the curve of a particular roadas if something might happen.

At noon in the desert a panting lizard waited for history, its elbows tense, watching the curve of a particular road as if something might happen.

The world speaks everything to us. It is our only friend.

The saddest are those not right in their liveswho are acting to make things right for others:they act only from the self --and that self will never be right:no luck, no help, no wisdom.

The saddest are those not right in their lives who are acting to make things right for others: they act only from the self -- and that self will never be right: no luck, no help, no wisdom.

These words that occur to me come out of my relation to the language which is developing even as I am using it.

Some time when the river is ice ask memistakes I have made. Ask me whetherwhat I have done is my life. Othershave come in their slow way intomy thought, and some have tried to helpor to hurt: ask me what differencetheir strongest love or hate has made.

Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made. Ask me whether what I have done is my life. Others have come in their slow way into my thought, and some have tried to help or to hurt: ask me what difference their strongest love or hate has made.

So, the world happens twice --once what we see it as;second it legends itselfdeep, the way it is.

So, the world happens twice -- once what we see it as; second it legends itself deep, the way it is.

They tell how it was, and how timecame along, and how it happenedagain and again. They tellthe slant life takes when it turnsand slashes your face as a friend.

They tell how it was, and how time came along, and how it happened again and again. They tell the slant life takes when it turns and slashes your face as a friend.

They miss the whisper that runsany day in your mind,"Who are you really, wanderer?"and the answer you have to giveno matter how dark and coldthe world around you is:"Maybe I'm a king.

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.

It's love," they say. You touchthe right one and a whole half of the universewakes up, a new half.

It is time for all the heroes to go homeif they have any, time for all of us common onesto locate ourselves by the real thingswe live by.

It is time for all the heroes to go home if they have any, time for all of us common ones to locate ourselves by the real things we live by.

The ocean and I have many pebblesTo find and wash off and roll into shape.

If you don't know the kind of person I amand I don't know the kind of person you area pattern that others made may prevail in the worldand following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

If you have things right in your lifebut do not know why,you are just lucky, and you will not movein the little ways that encourage good fortune.

I call it cruel and maybe the root of all crueltyto know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

A great snug wall goes around everything,has always been there, will alwaysremain. It is a good world to belost in. It comforts you. It isall right. And you sleep.

A great snug wall goes around everything, has always been there, will always remain. It is a good world to be lost in. It comforts you. It is all right. And you sleep.

. . . You were aimed from birth:you will never be alone. Rainwill come, a gutter filled, an Amazon,long aisles -- you never heard so deep a sound,moss on rock, and years. You turn your head --that's what the silence meant: you're not alone. The whole wide world pours down.

. . . You were aimed from birth: you will never be alone. Rain will come, a gutter filled, an Amazon, long aisles -- you never heard so deep a sound, moss on rock, and years. You turn your head -- that's what the silence meant: you're not alone. The whole wide world pours down.

And sometimes when they look in the firethey see time going on and someone alone,but they don't say anything.

And sometimes when they look in the fire they see time going on and someone alone, but they don't say anything.

All right. I listen. My life sinks a littlefarther, for the pity; from now on I know itwith them. We'll take a stand, wherever the end is.We go forward by this quiet sharing,they one way, I another. I am their promise:no one else is going to know.

All right. I listen. My life sinks a little farther, for the pity; from now on I know it with them. We'll take a stand, wherever the end is. We go forward by this quiet sharing, they one way, I another. I am their promise: no one else is going to know.

And all the time it's your own story, even when you think -- "It's all just made up, a trick. What is the author trying to do?" Reader, we are in such a story: all of this is trying to arrange a kind of prayer for you. Pray for me.

Some people are blinded by their experience. Soldiers know how important war is. Owners of slaves learn every day how inferior subject peoples are.

You were aimed from birth: you will never be alone... The whole wide world pours down.

They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, "Who are you really, wanderer?"-- and the answer you have to give no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: "Maybe I'm a king.

When the snake decided to go straight, he didn't get anywhere.

I have this feeling of wending my way or plundering through a mysterious jungle of possibilities when I am writing. This jungle has not been explored by previous writers. It never will be explored. It's endlessly varying as we progress through the experience of time. These words that occur to me come out of my relation to the language which is developing even as I am using it.

I am not learning definitions as established in even the latest dictionaries. I am not a dictionary-maker. I am a person a dictionary-maker has to contend with. I am a living evidence in the development of language.

The ocean and I have many pebbles To find and wash off and roll into shape.

It is as if the ordinary language we use every day has a hidden set of signals, a kind of secret code.

You can treat experience as a set of surprises on which to exercise your quirky self.

And the things you know before you hear them; these are you and the reason you are in the world.

People wander about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread.

I'll be Pavlov, you be the dog.

The signals we give-yes or no, or maybe-/should be clear/the darkness around us is deep.

A student brings something to discuss, saying, "I don't know whether this is really good, or whether I should throw it in the wastebasket." The assumption is that one or the other choice is the right move. No. Almost everything we say or think or do - or write - comes in that spacious human area bounded by something this side of the sublime and something above the unforgivable.

When you allow me to live with you, every glance at the world around you will be a sort of salvation.

A writer is someone who has found a process that will bring about new things.

Keep a journal, and don't assume that your work has to accomplish anything worthy: artists and peace-workers are in it for the long haul, and not to be judged by immediate results.

One way to find your place is like the rain, a million requests for lodging, one that wins, finds your cheek: you find your home.

My question is "when did other people give up the idea of being a poet?" You know, when we are kids we make up things, we write, and for me the puzzle is not that some people are still writing, the real question is why did the other people stop?

There are so many things admirable people do not understand.

I don't see writing as a communication of something already discovered, as "truths" already known. Rather, I see writing as a job of experiment. It's like any discovery job; you don't know what's going to happen until you try it.

If you purify the pond, the lilies die

'Be alive,' the land says, 'listen - this is your time, your world, your pleasure.'

If you can say it, it begins to exist.

You can lie at a banquet but you have to be honest in the kitchen.

The root and the flower have to trust each other. If the root does not trust, the plant won't blossom.

It is this impulse to change the quality of experience that I recognize as central to creation. . . . Out of all that could be done, you choose one thing. What that one thing is, nothing else can tell you--you come at it over unmarked snow.

What you have to do as a writer is . . . write day in and day out no matter what happens.

Others may be able to accept standards from another, but an artist is a person who decides.

I heard a bird congratulating itself all day for being a jay. Nobody cared. But it was glad all over again, and said so, again.

Language can do what it can’t say.

All still when summer is over stand shocks in the field, nothing left to whisper, not even good-bye, to the wind. After summer was over we knew winter would come: we knew silence would wait, tall, patient calm.

Can injustice one way be corrected without the interim reaction that tries to impose injustice the other way?

When a goat likes a book, the whole book is gone, and the meaning has to go find an author again.

You shouldn't have standards that inhibit you from writing It really doesn't make any difference if you are good or bad today. The assessment of the product is something that happens after you've done it.