[New-Poetry] from The Writer's Almanac

[Anny Ballardini]

It's the birthday of the poet *William
Stafford<http://www.elabs7.com/c.html?rtr=on&s=fj6,di3g,dv,3a9b,jim2,3hrs,fxvj>
*, (books by this
author<http://www.elabs7.com/c.html?rtr=on&s=fj6,di3g,dv,459s,ec0u,3hrs,fxvj>)
born in Hutchinson, Kansas, in 1914. He usually wrote poetry in the early
morning. He sat down with a pen and paper, looked out the window, and waited
for something to occur to him. He wrote about farms and winter, about the
West and his parents and cottonwood trees.

He wrote,

In the 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.


And about his own writing, Stafford said, "I have woven a parachute out of
everything broken."



-- 
Anny Ballardini
http://annyballardini.blogspot.com/
http://www.fieralingue.it/modules.php?name=poetshome
http://www.moriapoetry.com/ebooks.html
I Tell You: One must still have chaos in one to give birth to a dancing
star!
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