The Consolations of Poetry

This blog-writing business is hard work. Sometimes the inspiration doesn't come to order. Like this week. My mind has been distracted by the mundane, and my heart has not been open. So rather than having a big fat zero for an entry this week, I turn to a predictable source of consolation, poetry.

image: flickr.com

By a happy coincidence, one of my recent discoveries, William Stafford, was born 100 years ago this month, on 17th January 2014. I was introduced to his poetry by the wonderful Panhala blog, and by a friend on Facebook. So in honour of his centenary, a poem by William Stafford:

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.