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William Stafford’s Story: Compelling not Cliché Theresa Edwards1 I saw a deer struggling to get up off the Taconic State Parkway—something told me to stop. I felt I had to help it onto the shoulder or the grass, help it die with dignity (as cliché as that sounds). A man slowed down and pulled over, asked me if I was alright. "Yes, thanks, I didn’t hit it," I answered. "I want to get it off the road." Another man stopped as I tried to instruct the deer to get up off the road (like it knew what I was even saying to it). The second man told me to call the police; they would come and shoot it, take it out of its misery. I called; service on my cell phone was dead (deer still alive and suffering). I didn’t get through. The deer had finally made it off the parkway and into the grass, but I left it there to die. Did I do the right thing? Help it off the parkway, so it wouldn’t get crushed, mangled repeatedly, flattened? This happened a couple of days after I had read William Stafford’s poem about a dead deer in the road, "Traveling through the Dark," in his book The Darkness Around Us is Deep. Some time after the parkway incident, I was talking poetry with a friend, and my son Troy interrupted the conversation, "You talking about the deer poem?" he asked. I had told Troy and my husband, Doug, about Stafford’s "deer poem." Yes, I probably was talking about Stafford’s work, and as much as I have thought to look more closely at some of Stafford’s other poems in this book ("The Farm on the Great Plains," "At the Bomb Testing Site," and "The Well Rising"), I repeatedly return to his "Traveling through the Dark." It is truly a poem that speaks to people on all levels. My son remembered me telling him about the poem, my husband actually listened to me as I conveyed the poem’s story, and I found myself slowing down and pulling over on a dangerous road not only because of a struggling deer but also because of Stafford’s piece. These events cause me to ask myself, "How does Stafford put a story onto the page that could have ended up being just another clichéd, dead-deer-on-the-road tale without making it cliché?" This is when I need to look further into his poem. At first glance the title alone seems rather trite; we’ve all heard this phrase, "traveling through the dark." Even Stafford’s first two lines, "Traveling through the dark I found a deer / dead on the edge of the Wilson River road," could insinuate another dead deer story we’ve heard a hundred times. All we would have to do is replace Wilson River road for another one, like the Taconic. However, his next three lines, which complete his first stanza, make us realize that Stafford’s account will be anything but cliché. He writes, "It is usually best to roll them [deer] into the canyon: / that road is narrow; to swerve might make more / dead" (lines 3-5). A vivid image emerges in these lines, and the first sign of the speaker’s touch, in particular, ignites our senses, as Stafford parallels death with the possibility of more death unless the speaker acts logically, doing the best thing to avoid a potential accident. And Stafford’s continued use of imagery connected to the speaker’s sense of touch is most ingenious. The speaker realizes that although the doe is cold, dead, and stiff (9)—more images we know from touching—there is much more at stake then just rolling her off the road. The speaker shares:
As readers, we become sympathetic to what the speaker shares—the fact that the doe’s unborn calf is still alive—and we are compelled to read on, just like my son and husband were intrigued to hear me tell them about Stafford’s poem. In these lines, we question the shape of the story to come and are drawn into Stafford’s words. What could have been just another dead deer story becomes a story of decision, of humanity, and of logic. And as readers we ask, "What will the speaker do? Will he or she do the right thing, be logical without remorse?" However, Stafford has already anticipated our question as he finishes his third stanza, "Beside that mountain road I hesitated" (15). This is a perfect line to keep his readers engaged in a story that obviously is one they may have never heard, therefore, one they want to hear to the end. As Stafford continues, giving us what may seem at first to be normal details of the scene (the car’s parking lights and exhaust, the purring of the engine), his last few lines of the poem reveal his underlying reason to tell this story: to show the mind’s burden of a right decision. The speaker shares:
Nothing cliché here, as the speaker accepts his place among the rest of creation: a doe, her unborn calf, and the rest of their natural surroundings. And there is one last hesitation from the speaker, a decision, before executing the difficult yet right choice. With each time I read this poem, I ask myself if I made the right choice to allow the deer on the Taconic a few more minutes, maybe hours of life, knowing that it would suffer. Of course, my husband would probably think I made the wrong choice, and my son wouldn’t criticize my action. However, I am left almost to the point of rumination, compelled to write a more detailed account of my deer incident, one that, like Stafford’s, is potently vivid and compelling to all readers, one with a story that is not cliché.
Stafford, William. The Darkness Around us is Deep. Ed. Robert Bly. New York: HarperCollins, 1993. 1 Written for semester coursework with Beatrix Gates. |
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