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toniapeckover's review against another edition
4.0
Reading Stafford's "Poets on Poetry" series books are like being dropped into the middle of a wine-soaked conversation that has been going on for a couple of hours now. Half the time you don't know where you are and the other half you're leaning in and listening hard because you know this is important stuff if you could just enter into the rhythm of it. This book in particular, with its strange collection of conversations, interviews and poems, reveals more about Stafford as a human being and I began to understand exactly what it is that draws me to him repeatedly. Stafford believes in goodness and he writes with this in mind. He wants to write about "the vision of life haunted by some unerasable good deed..." Contrast that with so much of modern writing, which is about revealing the hidden sin and the blistering wound at the core of the soul and you begin to understand what makes Stafford special. He also has a profound respect for others, whether that be his readers, his students, or fellow writers and a natural reticence for pursuing fame. All this lends an honesty and gentleness to his work that I find greatly appealing. I don't know if this book would appeal to all writers - but I will be reading it and quoting from it repeatedly.
juliechristinejohnson's review
5.0
A Memorial
In Nagasaki they built a little room
dark and soundproof where you can
go in all alone and close the door and cry.
William Stafford, Poet Laureate of Oregon from 1975 until 1990, crafted over 20,000 poems during his time on Earth- a staggering output. A pacifist—soft-spoken, yet fierce—Stafford was a teacher, a mentor, a wide-eyed, gracious observer and recorder of life. His poems are clean, without guile or pretense and most often set in the natural world. He eschewed the rules of writing, rising above convention to state simply that showing up to the page was enough. That writing made one a writer, not publishing, not critical acclaim, not commercial success.
Find limits that have prevailed and break them; be more brutal, more revealing, more obscene, more violent. Press all limits.
The Answers are Inside the Mountains is one in a series of Poets on Poetry, a collection of interviews and conversations with a celebrated poet, as well as selected essays and poems. It includes a beautiful exchange between Stafford and his dear friend and fellow poet of the West, Richard Hugo. A slim volume rich and full of hope and light, compassion and encouragement The Answers are Inside the Mountains is one of the loveliest sources of inspiration this writer has read.
The earth says have a place, be what that place requires; hear the sound the birds imply and see as deep as ridges go behind each other.
I immediately lent it out to a writer friend and now I am bereft, trying to write this review without the treasured work beside me to flip through and reread. But I took notes in my journal, and took great comfort in reading that Stafford too kept journals, that they were the source of his creativity, one of the places he turned to in crafting his poems, where he worked out ideas and themes, from which he pulled his own material.
Save up little pieces that escape other people. Pick up the gleamings.
At this precarious time, when I struggle to find hope and beauty, I am reminded the answers are in the mountains, the mountains of art that surround me.
We drown in ugliness. Art helps teach us to swim.
I'm closing with a poem that wasn't in the book, because in searching for another poem, I came across this. It's been one of my favorites for years and reading it again opened up a river inside me. A river frozen over, now melted by Stafford's words.
Ask Me
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.
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.
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