(European Eagle Owl, watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels, in a private collection)
William Stafford wrote poetry every day, including the day he died in 1993. When people asked him if he thought a particular poem of the day was weak, he would say “Then I will lower my standards.” I think this is good advice for any poet. Don’t doubt, reject but keep the flow going. We learn day by day.
Lady Nyo
The Darkness was deep
My father was too
And I craved any lamp
To get myself gone.
He wasn’t much with language,
But if I watched quietly
I could see a world
Shaping under his hands
As he carved, planed, sanded
Nothing much into something.
This was the beginning of poetry
Though I never knew it for half a century.
The quiet observation of things outside myself
That tumbled into stanzas
With peacock feathers and bird of paradise colors.
I wondered what world he was fermenting
With hands colored by wood stains,
Toughened with labor
Cracked with the mechanics of cold and old age.
He with his turnings, me with my words
Silently observing what each other was made of
What would come out of that darkness
And be led into the light.
Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2017 (poem for the day)
Lady Nyo's Weblog 
March 24, 2017 at 4:18 pm
I really love the paragraph about William Stafford in the beginning of your poem. It’s such a good reminder to all poets everywhere, I feel like we’re the hardest judges of ourselves.
Your poem is also a beautiful tribute to that feeling when you discover poetry 🙂
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March 24, 2017 at 4:22 pm
Thank you, Jade. William Stafford is a poet very much worth studying and generally reading. I have three volumes I read but not enough. Now? I am keeping them close for each day. And yes, we are the hardest judges of ourselves. The poem was more of a thought about my father who died in Nov 1989…a silent and very talented man, a carpenter/sheet metal worker and a French Horn player. I honor his life within mine. The best of parents, the only real parent I had. Thank you for reading and your insightful comment!
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March 24, 2017 at 4:24 pm
Wow…thank you for sharing your past and story with me, Lady Nyo. I think your father would be so proud of you and your writing 🙂
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March 24, 2017 at 4:26 pm
So true, I’m not a wood carver myself, but like so many things, I appreciate the skill, the time, patience and everything that goes into it…as well as the final hand-made, hand-loved item. I really enjoyed this piece.<3
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March 24, 2017 at 4:27 pm
Thank you, Jade. It was many years later that I became a writer, and particularly a poet, and he never lived for that. I was a painter closer to when he died and he did see a few of those. It is my greatest sorrow in life that we didn’t have more time together and to share and talk. Thank you so much for writing.
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March 24, 2017 at 4:30 pm
Wow, Dr. Howe. I am so amazed. I just cobbled this poem at my computer right before I posted it. It really is a very simple poem, but speaks to the differences in a father and daughter who really didn’t know each other well for many reasons. However, I do know now, but only now, that my father embodied the concept of Unconditional Love. Something the rest of my birth family avoid like the plague. LOL!~ Sometimes our poems, writing strike deep because they haven’t gone through much ‘refining fire’. LOL! Thank you so much for writing.
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March 24, 2017 at 8:19 pm
it is important to have creativity in any form
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March 24, 2017 at 9:35 pm
Still, quiet, and touching. Nice write! ~peace, Jason
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March 25, 2017 at 12:04 am
Thank you, Jason. Peace to you.
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March 25, 2017 at 12:05 am
Agreed, Maureen. Many do not realize that this river of creativity is deep inside and can not be ignored forever. It springs forth in the most impossible times.
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March 25, 2017 at 1:26 am
yes, it left mine a little late…
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March 25, 2017 at 12:17 pm
“The quiet observation of things outside myself
That tumbled into stanzas”
This ❤
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March 25, 2017 at 4:55 pm
Thanks, Paul. The recent influence of Stafford sets a particular mood. The simple approach is better in these things, I think. I was reading him this am, on the back porch where I could hear the morning birds, and his words…”finding out what the world is coming to be’… just hit me hard. There is such tenderness in his work. And such honesty. He’s kind but he also tells it like it is. Especially about folk. His.
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March 25, 2017 at 4:57 pm
Ah, shucks, Maureen….as long as it was there. I didn’t start into any poetry until I was 60. A late starter indeed.
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March 25, 2017 at 5:07 pm
Such a beautiful and heart warming write – that connects two souls. Truly loved your words.
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March 25, 2017 at 10:14 pm
thank you so much, Abhra. I wish I had been a more attentive daughter to my father, and he died in 1989, but there were so many other issues at that time. I can only write poems to a man who, without declaiming…practiced Unconditional Love….every day of his life. I wish I had more time with him.
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March 26, 2017 at 1:16 am
This made me contemplate that I believe my father would have loved to have read my writings. He was an avid reader and loved words. He died about five years before I took up writing in 2010. I loved the gentle acceptance of each other that I sensed in your warm and sweet poem, Jane. xo
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March 26, 2017 at 3:06 pm
Thank you, Gayle. It is our personal tragedies that our fathers didn’t get a chance to see what we were thinking about, fermenting in this particular part of our lives. I would have loved for him (as you would) to know this part of their daughters. Actually, my father was a good writer of letters…funny and off kilter, and I had only three from him, and stupidly gave one to my mother who didn’t appreciate it at all….but I treasure the two I have left. They are sweet, touching and hysterical. Gives me a glimpse into a man I really didn’t know well. Thank you, Gayle. xox
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March 27, 2017 at 4:11 am
I can truly say that I didn’t know my father very well either, at least not his innermost self of feelings and emotions that he could share openly. No, I mostly knew his pain-filled side and how he self-medicated himself to try and dull his demons. Too bad about that for everyone involved. What a treasure those letters are for you like those books were to me…they are long gone now but not my memory of how happy they made me. xo
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March 27, 2017 at 9:47 am
Well., I didn’t either, Gayle. Only with his death, years later, did I come to appreciate him and his kindness. I teetered between his drunk kindness and my mother’s sober malice. It was hard as a child to exist between to such different poles. he had demons, too but I think his wife was the worse. And yes, we pick and choose memories to at least have something to hold on to. People who have normal childhoods are rather a strange breed to me. But we do what we can to survive. Books are a great thing to have, especially in childhood. They go a long way to seeing the world beyond our experience. xox
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March 27, 2017 at 9:07 pm
Such a peaceful abd profound poem Jane. I know my mother would love my poems. I never shared my poetry with any if my family. .. For whatever reason. I find strangers to be more honest as ny parents think anything I do is amazing.
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March 28, 2017 at 10:36 am
that is so wonderful, Toni. To have parents that are so embracing and not critical. Well, you are also an excellent poet so I could see this. I didn’t share my poems with my father because he died way before I ever wrote any. However, I made the critical mistake of sharing them with my mother, who thought all of them were about ‘her’ and didn’t like most of them. I also find strangers more embracing and honest than my family. That is a tragedy for those of us who write. Thank you, Toni. My thoughts are will you this morning. Love.
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March 28, 2017 at 11:37 pm
Thank you Jane. It is sad to grow up as you did. It is abuse, plain and simple. She should be put in prison.
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March 29, 2017 at 2:53 am
Thankyou, Toni. Yes, it was abuse, plain and simple. But I think she has been in a prison of her own making her entire life. Delusions. I used to hate her, because she was unable to love me. Now? I just pity her. But I think of what ‘legacy’ I will leave behind. I want that to be one of love for others and I want them to know it. Now. I have experienced too much raw hatred from people who should have known better.
I am just glad that my relationship with my son is so much better and different. He deserves the best, as the start of his own life was very rocky.
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