Detours and Convergences: Two Takes on James Tate

By STEVE PAUL

(c) 2025

Courtesy William Stafford Archives, Watzek Library, Special Collections, Lewis and Clark College.

Stafford first crossed paths with James Tate in the late 1960s, around the time the younger poet, still at the Iowa Writers Workshop, won the Yale Younger Poets Prize for his first book, The Lost Pilot. They corresponded and met up over the years on one campus or another. Stafford was famous for hauling out his camera at every writers’ gathering, and in browsing a vast collection of his photographs I’ve come across several pictures he took of Tate. This one, Tate at right, dates to roughly 1976, probably at Iowa. I haven’t yet identified the other poet in the photo (left), so if anyone has a clue, please let me know. In the late 1980s, when I was book review editor of the Kansas City Star, I happened to interview Tate at least twice. (There was also one dinner in Kansas City that I recall, though I don’t think I was taking notes.) Here are the two resulting stories from The Star. In 1992, I responded quickly to news of his Pulitzer Prize and got him on the phone before he’d heard from anyone else. The stories first appeared April 3, 1988, and April 8, 1992.

Decisions, Decisions: How the Pieces of a Biography Come Together

By STEVE PAUL

(c) 2025

This post is about how biographers make certain decisions about what to include and how to include it. If it sounds like I’m speaking to myself, well, yes I am. But it occurs to me that pulling back the curtain on how certain moves are made would be enlightening for other writers in general as well as those who might be interested in the story of William Stafford. Stafford often pulled back his wizard’s curtain and wrote about how this poem was made or that one. As much as he thought, or wanted us to think, that poems emerge from somewhere ineffable and often seem to write themselves, he knew otherwise.

As this anecdote was emerging one morning while waking up, I wondered about going back four years to the notes I began making as this project was taking shape and birthing and growing up. In January I started a notes file for Year 5 of the Stafford biography. So five documents now add up to hundreds of pages of random notes, collected facts, poetic lines, emails of interest, interviews, and occasional interior debates about strategies, ideas, dead ends, and new finds. Watch for a separate post in the near future where I’ll share a progression of those notes, a kind of writing diary as I was learning and thinking about this extraordinary poet, citizen, and human.

It was nearly four years ago when I came across this curious episode in Stafford’s writing life. December 6, 1973, he appeared on a reading event in San Francisco with the wild and grungy Charles Bukowski. The Stafford archives made a blog entry about the whole thing in 2013, offering up not only an account of the event but an exchange of letters between the two poets that revealed a complex level of multi-layered interpersonal relations, hard feelings, and snap judgments. This will be fun to write about, I’ve thought all along.

William Stafford’s photograph of Charles Bukowski.

And now, while nearing the spot in a late chapter where l’affaire Bukowski would neatly fit, I came to a crossroads. What exactly should I do with it?

I’ve got the letters. I’ve got the blog item. Now what? I didn’t want to just recast the archive blog in my own words. I soon realized that if I couldn’t bring anything new to the incident then why bother spending much time and space on it.

So I poked around. The internet, of course, was quite helpful. Three or four “new” things did emerge, none employed by Jessica Alberg, a Lewis and Clark student, for the Stafford Archives blog in 2013. (The William Stafford Archives are housed in the Special Collections Department of the Aubrey Watzek Library at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Ore.)

First was a poem by Bukowski that directly described, with derision, his version of the scene as Stafford read poems about “nature and the inherent goodness of man.” The second find was a newspaper article from Portland nearly a year later when a poetry columnist dredged up the episode and quoted an account, anonymous, from a witness. A contemporaneous review of Bukowski’s recently republished short fiction adds another voice and a respectful view of the poet’s provocative but invaluable place on the literary landscape. And a letter to another poet contained a useful snippet of Stafford’s real feelings.

The 2013 blog included a photograph that Stafford took of Bukowski that evening, a copy of which he apparently sent to the L.A. poet, if you read between the lines of Stafford’s brief letter.  I had hoped to find alternative takes of the photograph in the vast cache of Stafford’s negatives in the archives. I looked through hundreds of photos from 1973 and adjacent years. Alas, none other turned up (yet).

These four extra bits don’t necessarily translate into a startling series of sentences. But they gave me something to work with other than a rehash of previously known material. Here’s how it turned out in the draft manuscript, which is currently still growing toward completion. (I’ve included source notes, along with the archive blog url near the end). As I was approaching this chapter, I’d expected to write a longer section about Stafford and Bukowski, but for now I’m hoping these four paragraphs suffice:

            Charles Bukowski, the boozy and bonkers poet laureate of underbelly Los Angeles, took public aim at Stafford in a mid-1970s poem. Bukowski was remembering the odd night in December 1973 when he was paired with Stafford for a reading at the San Francisco Museum of Art. Sponsored by the San Francisco Poetry Center, the event has taken on legendary proportions—a gladiatorial meeting of the mild-mannered Oregonian and the grungy, gun-slinging Angeleno. In his poem “All the Little Girls” (later titled “The Little Girls”), Bukowski derides Stafford’s innocence, represented by the audience of girls in the colorful dresses and their “tight blue jeans with little hearts sewn on them” who wanted nothing more than to hear him read his poems “about nature and the goodness of man” Stafford, named only William in Bukowski’s poem, “had never been in jail or in a whorehouse…had never needed more than 3 drinks during his wildest evening; had never been rolled, flogged, mugged…” Bukowski, of course, knew nothing of Stafford’s wartime incarceration, but no matter, this was a performance.

           Bukowski was likely drunk when he took the museum stage on Dec. 6, 1973. “Bukowski…looking like a wino from Fifth and Minna, vastly entertaining, and he had these groupies, vast and pendulous, wandering in and out, changing clothes and shuffling chairs while Stafford read…It was most touching that Bukowski took time out from his own reading to mock Stafford (‘Has he fainted yet?’) This reading was shocking. It was insensitive to put anyone short of King Kong on the same bill with a charismatic slime like Bukowski. It is doubly insulting to put a poet of William Stafford’s unique stature on such a bill.” This witness was an anonymous source for a Portland journalist who recounted the event nearly a year later. The Poetry Center director acknowledged that the combination of voices, while energetic, might have been a mistake given how rude Bukowski’s fans were to Stafford. But, “so be it.” [Bukowski’s poem can be found under both titles online. Gene Detro, “Poetry Notes: Readings Scheduled at PSU,” Oregon Journal, Oct. 12, 1974, 10.]

            A Bukowski story collection had recently been reprinted by City Lights Books of San Francisco, prompting at least one admiring review. The literary critic and antiquarian bookseller Ralph Sipper, recognizing how the “black humor of ignominy pervades Bukowski’s work and it makes us laugh too,” describes how he stands far away from Stafford’s position on poetry’s spectrum though not too far away at the same time: “He is the minstrel of the men and women whose lives have been permanently derailed from the main line of comfortable society. And while that becomes unbearable at times, one listens because he sings the truth.”[Ralph Sipper, “A Volume of Adult Classics,” review of Bukowski’s Notes of a Dirty Old Man, San Francisco Examiner, Dec. 30, 1973, 121.] It’s doubtful that the Portland literature professor ever got around to reading Bukowski’s stories.

            Nevertheless, Stafford was typically agreeable and unflustered when he wrote a brief letter to Bukowski a few days later and apparently sent him a print of the low-light photo he had taken. He regretted that they didn’t meet after the show. Bukowski was typically audacious in his reply a few weeks later, though reading his letter closely reveals that he might have even been touched by Stafford’s outreach. “It’s just as well we hadn’t met. I do things stupid.”[WS to Charles Bukowski, Dec. 10, 1973, Bukowski to WS, Jan. 4, 1974, General Correspondence. The letters are reproduced with a 2013 blog article about the episode, https://williamstaffordarchives.blogspot.com/2013/03/i-like-flat-country-and-i-hate-precious.html] Despite his polite letter to Bukowski, Stafford might have come closer to his real feelings in a letter about the same time to William Heyen, a poet and editor to whom he was submitting a piece about writing. Stafford called the San Francisco episode “one of the strangest readings of my life.”[WS to William Heyen, Dec. 9, 1973, General Correspondence, Box 22.3, Watzek]

Poet to Poet: Stafford Writes to Jimmy Carter

           In September 1992, Stafford wrote a fan letter to a former U.S. president and fellow poet, Jimmy Carter. Stafford had read a group of Carter’s poems that had recently been published in the North Dakota Review. Carter, who died Dec. 29, 2024, at 100, was reportedly studying poetry in those days with two Arkansas writers, Jim Whitehead and Miller Williams. Stafford appreciated “that glimpse of part of your life” that he found in Carter’s poems. And as a fellow writer, Stafford enclosed a poem from his book An Oregon Message (1987). Although we’re not yet sure which poem he sent to Carter, Stafford felt like it was “harmonious with” one of the former president’s poems he particularly liked.

            Within a month or so, according to a notation made on the letter that appears in his correspondence files, Carter responded with a brief hand-written acknowledgment on a copy of the original letter, reproduced here.

Some months later, in January 1995, the New York Times would report that Carter spent two solid hours signing copies of his new book, Always a Reckoning (published, as it happens, by the newspaper’s imprint, Times Books), at a Rizzoli’s bookstore.

            By this point in Stafford’s career, just a year before his death, converging with heads of state and top political figures who happened to be poets might have been old hat for him. In the early 1970s, as you’ll discover in my forthcoming biography of Stafford, he began a friendship in poetry with Sen. Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota. McCarthy was the erstwhile presidential candidate—I worked for his campaign as an early teenager in 1968! McCarthy was not shy about sharing his poems with Stafford during the year (1970-71) the Oregon poet served in Washington, D.C., as poetry consultant to the Library of Congress. — SBP

William Stafford, Aphorist: A Line-by-Line Rodeo

          Stafford came under the spell of the philosopher Frederich Nietzsche while reading in the library at the University of Kansas. From Nietzsche and others he developed a talent for boiling wisdom into bite-sized expressions that can stand the test of time. His essays, poems, and other writings amount to a bottomless well of aphorisms.

Stafford scholars Vincent Wixon and Paul Merchant celebrated the practice in a valuable collection, Sound of the Ax: Aphorisms and Poems by William Stafford. Published in 2014 by the University of Pittsburgh Press, the book presents more than 400 items and prompted the poet Naomi Shihab Nye to conclude, “These brilliant lines are tuning forks, weather reports from a resonant interior world, to help us with the mysterious days confounding us. Dip in anywhere, repeatedly.”

           In my scouring of the Stafford record, I frequently highlight lines that resonate in this way. It occurred to me that, since my biography of Stafford remains a thing in progress, I shouldn’t have to wait to share more of his compressed thoughts.

It’s likely that some of my finds also appear in Sound of the Ax, but most of them are new, I think, and I expect the collection posted here will grow as I revisit various Stafford books and continue to page through the poet’s archives of writings and correspondence. Stafford turned his attention to the whole world, but the process of writing becomes a naturally recurring topic. Some lines collected here are less aphoristic but leapt forward as glimmering poetic gestures worthy of heightened attention.

Items are generally identified by their sources; often the poems are listed by their first book appearance, though many of Stafford’s most memorable poems are also collected in the posthumous The Way It Is. Unless otherwise noted, most drafts and unpublished material come from the William Stafford Archives in the Watzek Library at Lewis and Clark College, Portland, Oregon.  

—Steve Paul

“Writing is a reckless encounter with whatever comes along.”

—   “Making a Poem/Starting a Car on Ice,” Writing the Australian Crawl

“My debt to the world begins again,/ that I am part of this permanent dream.”

—    “Glimpses,” A Glass Face in the Rain

“We are surrounded, not by emblems, by paragons or villains, or fragments from Heaven and Hell, but by ready and adjustable potentials: nothing is special, everything is maybe.”

—   “The Importance of the Trivial,” prose draft, c. September 1964

“Anyone in the breathing business is in the rhythm business.”

—   “Writers Who Talk, Talkers Who Write,” essay draft, 1968

“Could there be a light so far that when/ you stop you make a shadow forever?”

—   “Passing a Pile of Stones,” A Glass Face in the Rain; this, of course, is a likely candidate to become an epigraph in my book, whose working title is The Shadow Poet.  

“Wherever you are, there is another door.”

—   “Smoke,” Smoke’s Way

“No matter how willing and weak your own/ face is, you know another face/ for you somewhere in the world: your house.”

—   “Looking for You,” Smoke’s Way

“Set free, the mind discovers shortcuts and arabesques through and over and around all purposes.”

—   Writing the Australian Crawl

“Animals full of light/ walk through the forest/ toward someone aiming a gun/ loaded with darkness./ That’s the world: God/ holding still/ letting it happen again/ and again and again.”

—   “Meditation,” the whole poem, frequently reprinted

“Those mad rulers at times elsewhere,/ inhuman and yet mob-worshipped,/ leaders of monstrous doctrine, unspeakable/ beyond belief, yet strangely attractive to/ the uninstructed.”

—   “Help from History,” An Oregon Message]

“But some facts happen only to people who are ready/ for how the Yukon turns over when you say its name.”

—   “For People with Problems About How to Believe,” An Oregon Message

“And you live beside me, millions of stars away.”

—   “Where We Live,” Learning to Live in the World

“A poem is a serious joke, truth that has learned jujitsu.”

—   “What It Is Like,” Writing the Australian Crawl

“The only connection we make/ is like a twinge when sometimes they change/ the beat in music, and we sprawl with it/ and hear another world for a minute/ that is almost there.”

—   “Sending These Messages,” A Glass Face in the Rain

“You turn your head—/ that’s what the silence meant: you’re not alone./ The whole wide world pours down.”

 –“Assurance,” Smoke’s Way

“In my life, I will more than live.”

—   “Reminders,” Learning to Live in the World

“(I)ntention endangers creation.”

—   Writing the Australian Crawl

“If you let your thought play, turn things this way and that, be ready for liveliness, alternatives, new views, the possibility of another world—you are in the area of poetry.”

—   “What It Is Like,” Writing the Australian Crawl

“Poems don’t just happen. They are luckily or stealthily related to a readiness within ourselves.”

—   Introduction, Since Feeling Is First

“I feel ready to follow even the most trivial hunch, and my notes to myself are full of beginnings, wavery hints, all kinds of inconclusive sequences sustained by nothing more than my indulgent realization that if it occurred to me it might somehow by justified.

—   “A Statement on Life and Writing,” Writing the Australian Crawl

“Now and then a sequence appeals to me for long enough to be teased into something like a poem, and when I feel sufficient conviction, I detach it from the accumulated leaves—my compost heap—and halfheartedly send it around to editors.”

—    “A Statement on Life and Writing,” Writing the Australian Crawl

“What one has written is not to be defended or valued, but abandoned: others must decide significance and value.”

— “Writing and Literature: Some Opinions,” Writing the Australian Crawl

“A poem today is anything said in such a way or put on the page in such a way as to invite from the hearer or reader a certain kind of attention.”

—    “The End of a Golden String,” Writing the Australian Crawl

“Only the golden string knows where it is going, and the role for a writer or reader is one of following, not imposing.”

—   “The End of a Golden String,” Writing the Australian Crawl

“A realization: my slogan for writing—lower your standards and go on—applies to living, to getting old.”

—   Sound of the Ax

“My typical act is—hit the road.”

—   Sound of the Ax

Notes from the Literary Road: How a Biography Grows

On November 13, 2024, near the end of a two-week research trip to the Stafford Archives, in the Watzek Library at Lewis and Clark College, I started musing. Like this:

A real Portland rain this morning. As dreary as it gets. But I’m back at the library early enough to snare one of the more convenient parking spaces. I’ve been thinking about where this project is headed and what still needs to be done.

There are many series of papers in the Stafford Archives that I’ve not yet inspected, most having to do with book publications that come along later in the 1970s, ‘80s and beyond. As of now, and as an example of what that means, I’ve got a decent picture of how the 1970 collection, Allegiances, came together and am on the verge of weaving that into a chapter that closes the 1960s and leads up to Stafford’s Library of Congress year of 1970-71.

There are said to be more than 100,000 pages of correspondence on the storage shelves nearby, and while it seems I’ve already paged through that many, I’ve only barely scratched the surface. My practice over the last three years, which I think is the right approach, has been to make surgical forays into the correspondence boxes to gather material relating to a specific month or year or, especially, to gather Stafford’s correspondence to (if there are carbons) and from certain people.

This week, for example, I wanted to find letters to and from two of Stafford’s Lewis and Clark faculty colleagues, Vern Rutsala and Bob Dusenbery. There aren’t a lot of letters involving each, but the process, aided by the searchable Finding Aid online, means asking for multiple boxes (only two at a time) in order to pull out the one folder that might have one letter often, though not always, identifiable by a particular date. I make notes or digital scans of the letters that have usable material. This, of course, takes a considerable amount of time for what essentially is a small return.

Inevitably, just having one of those folders open in search of a single letter, my eyes will settle on a name (one of the Stafford children, say) or a subject that causes me to stop and scan. These unexpected digressions are gratifying, but they do add time to the process.

Occasionally, I have paged through folder after folder in a certain period in order to get a good sense of Stafford’s travels, speaking invitations, or activities that bear a closer look as I work on chapters involving certain times in his life and career. This turn-every-page procedure adds up, as well, and the research clock ticks. I’ve found myself spending an hour or an hour and a half in a single folder. Consider this: Stafford’s general correspondence spans more than 70 boxes, each of which contain as many as five or six folders stuffed with paper representing roughly a month or more of Stafford time.

The incoming correspondence, except that from known figures, poets, and friends, tends not to be of much use—random people asking Stafford to read their poems, organizations seeking his participation, hosts and hostesses thanking him for an appearance, itinerary planning, etc. Then again, you never know. Surprises and unexpected finds can occur around any bend. Without getting into details here, I was stunned one day to find a note from Dorothy Stafford chastising her husband for a perceived affront.

Incoming letters, especially from friends and writing or publishing colleagues, also tend to contain references to a Stafford letter they’d received or to notable events that demand following up. In the last few days I’ve been inventorying a cache of Stafford letters to the poet Donald Hall that have only recently become accessible from the University of New Hampshire library. I first tried to poke into that collection more than three years ago. Now, my reading of Stafford’s connections with Hall have become far more layered and meaningful.

As researchers we live for miracle moments. They don’t happen often, but they are elating when they occur. Shortly after drafting the first version of this essay, I was surprised to find, in an unexpected box of material, a package of letters that Stafford sent home from his two-month State Department tour of South Asia and the Middle East in 1972. This and other “new” material from this journey provided a welcome revelation that a chapter soon to be written will now be enriched with details I didn’t expect to have at this point.

Aside from chasing miracles, biographers are also faced with the frequent dilemmas that enormous amounts of material present. Just yesterday, when chasing down a single piece of paper, I learned that the meticulous record-keeper Stafford, and his subsequent archival ranchers, amassed a box full of three folders holding 1,057 (by someone’s count) notebook pages of what Stafford called his “Tired Poems”—they’d wandered around the market so much, rejected here and there, that he set them aside. It’s possible that some of these poems eventually did get published, but I’ve at least momentarily decided that figuring that out is not my job right now.

Still, knowing this detail is quite enough to help tell the Stafford story as it unfolds elsewhere on my laptop.

Research Discovery: Stafford in 'Aperture' Magazine

As my manuscript progressed through the early 1960s I came across a reference to a Stafford contribution to Aperture, the photography magazine. In the James Pirie Stafford bibliography it’s item E285. As I build my chronological spine for the project I consult and usually make a copy of Pirie’s year-by-year listings of Stafford’s appearances in journals, periodicals and the like. This item intrigued me because of Stafford’s own attraction to photography (as well as my own) and for the somewhat unusual alignment (for him at the time) of poems with visual images.

It’s still unclear how the connection was made, but Stafford’s stature had risen when he won the National Book Award in 1963 and by early 1964 he was corresponding with Minor White, the magazine editor, and others at Aperture. I’m inclined to think White invited Stafford to respond to a series of photographs, and Stafford eagerly complied. No matter how useful it could be, I decided I needed to have a copy of the magazine and had little trouble turning up the issue online.

White introduced the issue with a note about “transactional photography,” which seems to suggest that the photographer and ultimate viewer are present together in the moment. It seems as though the phrase these days implies more of a commercial arrangement between photographer and customer. I’ll let my friends in the photography world mull over the finer philosophical points here. I do seem to recall that pairing photos with poetry was not uncommon in the 1960s. In researching my Evan S. Connell biography, I found at least two photography books from the early 1960s and ‘70s to which he contributed or compiled selected poetry and prose. It must’ve been a thing. As the whole poetry-in-the-schools movement took root in the U.S. in the mid-1960s I think we were inundated with volumes of poetry, made to go down easier alongside photos and art works. In my personal “archives” I still have a little sprial-bound “book” of my own photos of Boston alongside samples of my insipid poetry. But enough about that.

In a letter to Stafford dated Feb. 19, 1964, Minor White responded to Stafford’s submissions: “Straw, feathers, dust, will work very well for the inside front cover,” he wrote. (See images below.) And he emphasized that each text, as with each photograph, would speak for itself and “should just be there.”

White chose to end the volume with a single line from Stafford: “The centers of stones need your prayers.” White’s comment: “WOW!…Hardly need the rest of the poem.” Curiously, while listing the six preceding untitled poems and fragments in his bibliography, Pirie missed this last one.

For his part, Stafford seemed fully absorbed by the idea of this project. As he wrote to an Aperture staffer earlier that month, “it would be great to achieve an inevitable and beautiful coherence which would loom for the viewer without being driven at him.”

Not sure at the moment whether any of this will find its way into my Stafford biography. The chapters from this period are already crammed full (of all good stuff, I might add).

Remembering William Stafford: An Update

Last summer (in 2023, that is), I wrote a piece for Literary Hub on the 30th anniversary of William Stafford’s death. I think I meant to post it or a link here as well, but, blimey, I guess I didn’t, so I’ll drop the link in down below.

More than three years into the project, my biography of Stafford moves like a snail, or as Evan Connell once referred to his writing of stories, grows like a starfish. At the moment I’m closing in on 100,000 words overall and in the process of finishing drafts of the first 10 chapters to join drafts of four later chapters completed (mostly) earlier.

Above is a shot of the well-organized Stafford papers, giving readers here an idea of the mountainous task I’ve taken on. Will I turn every page, as the research saying goes (thanks to Bob Caro)? Doubtful; but I will turn very many of them. I’ve been in the archives for a total of about six weeks, most recently a week in April 2024, scanning documents, correspondence and the like, and getting my head around and inside the not-so-easy-to-comprehend head of Stafford.

I should say a quick word about the parallel project called the Stafford Challenge, which was launched early this year by a Portland poet who was inspired by Stafford to inspire others to write every day. Reportedly some hundreds of people signed up to participate, vowing to write a poem a day for the next year. Stafford didn’t exactly write a poem a day, though he scratched out something—notes, dreams, the beginnings of poems, and even occasionally complete poems—almost every morning for nearly 50 years. I became a passive participant. I don’t churn out a poem a day, though I write almost daily on this book and other projects. I have produced a few decent poems, however. An informal discussion group that I passively joined and Zoomed with early in the Stafford Challenge fell apart rather quickly, so, as a poet I remain mostly a bubble boy in my lonely silo.

I’ve had some issues with posting links on this Squarespace site, so hoping this one to the LitHub article works OK:

https://lithub.com/remembering-william-stafford-whose-poetic-region-was-all-the-world/

The Pacifist Poet, the Nuclear Physicist, and a Moment in Literary Time

Christopher Nolan’s new movie, “Oppenheimer,” has sparked a boatload of newsy and literary chatter. As I was reading one of biographer Kai Bird’s recent essays on his role in the Oppenheimer project, it occurred to me I had a small slice of life connecting Oppenheimer with William Stafford, the subject of my own project, now in its third year of research and writing.

By STEVE PAUL

(c) 2023

            When the little-known Oregon writer and teacher William Stafford won the National Book Award in Poetry in 1963, he strangely crossed paths with the physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer. Strange because the so-called “father of the atomic bomb” gave the keynote speech at the award ceremony in New York and Stafford was a committed pacifist, some of whose recent poems reflected his and the nation’s nuclear anxieties of the day.

            Given that Oppenheimer’s new cultural moment in the U.S. coincides with my current work in progress, a biography of the Kansas-born Stafford, a few words about their mutual brush with fame seem timely.

            In developing his new film, “Oppenheimer,” the director Christopher Nolan turned to a majestic biography of the scientist published in 2005. The book, American Prometheus, was the product of an enormous amount of research conducted by the historian Martin Sherwin. Some 20 years into it, Sherwin was paired with the writer Kai Bird, who spurred the project toward completion. (Sadly, Sherwin didn’t live to see the film’s completion. He died in October 2021.)

            The New York Times recently told the story of the long-in-the-making project, and Bird himself wrote an essay for The New Yorker, which recounted a drawn-out and only recently successful campaign to restore Oppenheimer’s reputation. Nearly 70 years ago, in the midst of the Communist-hunting hysterics stirred by Sen. Joseph McCarthy, a tribunal of the Atomic Energy Commission accused Oppenheimer of spying for Russia and stripped him of his security clearance. As Bird writes, Oppenheimer “had to be silenced because he was opposing the development of the hydrogen ‘super’ bomb. Ever since, historians have regarded him as the chief celebrity victim of the national trauma known as McCarthyism.”

            Yet it took the passage of nearly a dozen presidential administrations before Energy Secretary Jennifer Granholm, in December 2022, responding to a persistent consortium of historians and scientists, including Bird, nullified the humiliation of 1954.

            Oppenheimer is said to have been publicly diminished by the episode. He “lived out his life a broken man,” the New York Times wrote while reporting on Granholm’s decision and seeming to skim over the fact that that in subsequent years Oppenheimer continued to serve as director of the Institute for Advanced Studies at Princeton University. He died in 1967.

            And yet, there he was, on March 12, 1963, in front of a thousand book people at the National Book Award ceremonies in the swank ballroom grandeur of the Americana Hotel. Sherwin and Bird make no mention of this event in American Prometheus. When I reached out to Bird in October 2021 wondering if the authors’ files might have details, he told me that he had learned just that morning that his co-author had died. I rather awkwardly backed away and let it drop.

            Nevertheless, archival documents and media coverage helped fill in some blanks.

            Stafford’s Traveling Through the Dark, published by Harper & Row in August 1962, prompted the award judges to conclude, “William Stafford’s poems are clean, direct, and whole. They are both tough and gentle; their music knows also the value of silence.”

            Stafford and the other honorees—the novelist J.F. Powers (Morte D’Urban) and Leon Edel, cited for the first two volumes of his biography of Henry James—received their one thousand dollar checks and made their remarks.

            At a news conference that day in New York, Stafford, who was a soft-spoken professor of English at Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon, recalled his book-hungry family and their frequent treks to the library as he was growing up in the 1920s in Hutchinson, Kansas. And he hinted at a key source of his pacifism: “Though my mother thought the Boy Scouts too militaristic, my brother—the reckless one of the family—joined; and we could all use his official canteen when we picnicked.” When World War II arrived, Stafford’s brother, Bob, joined the Army air corps. Stafford registered as a conscientious objector and spent the war years in a series of Civilian Public Service camps, building roads, fighting forest fires and writing his way into his future life as a poet. And Oppenheimer, of course, led the secret mission at a laboratory in Los Alamos, New Mexico, to develop an atomic weapon that could bring a swift end to the war.

            As the NBA’s featured speaker, Oppenheimer seemed to blend science and faith under a theme of human responsibility. In speaking about technological progress and mysteries that lay ahead, he also invoked Saint Matthew: “And which of you taking thought can add to his stature by one cubit?”

             Oppenheimer concluded with this anecdote, according to a reporter, William D. Snider: “Three weeks ago a high officer of the National Book Committee asked for a title for this talk. I did not have one, but promised to call back shortly, and gave the title that is before you (‘The Added Cubit’). The officer protested that my title was indeed puzzling and uninformative. I said that it had a history and when the officer asked, I quoted St. Matthew. And then the officer asked, ‘From what book is that?’ The National Book Committee still has a lot to do.”

            Snider’s article failed to note whether the room erupted in laughter. Stafford, for one, would have appreciated Oppenheimer’s spiritual reference as well as his impish humor in the moment, just like his own.

            Stafford and Oppenheimer certainly would have bonded, if only through their bearing as men of conscience and witness. Stafford had written of war’s vast destruction in a poem even before Hiroshima: “There are more cities going into the sky,/ helplessly, than ever before” (“These Mornings,” 1944). One of Stafford’s most enduring poems, first published in 1957, is “At the Bomb Testing Site.” It’s unclear whether Stafford was channeling Trinity, that first atomic bomb test of 1945, or representing the ongoing bomb testing in the desert West in the 1950s, which continued spewing radioactive materials into the atmosphere. Yet, in reading the poem, one can’t help but think of that New Mexico scene in 1945, the mushroom cloud ascending and Oppenheimer thinking of a line from the Bhagavad Gita: “Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” Stafford’s take is much more subtle and glancing; it closes with a lizard gripping the desert sand. (see the full text below.)

            The poet Sir Stephen Spender, interviewed in 1987, recalled how he’d run into Oppenheimer sometime in the 1960s. Oppenheimer pointed to a book he was reading. Poems by Stafford—though we can only imagine it was Traveling Through the Dark, the NBA award winner. Spender regretted he’d never told Stafford the story before. As he put it, Oppenheimer told him Stafford’s work was “the real thing.”

In the Stafford Archives: A View from the Vietnam War

On one of my research trips to the Watzek Library Special Collections room at Lewis & Clark College, I unearthed a remarkable letter to Stafford from a soldier in Vietnam. Trouble was, the correspondent’s name was missing. I told the story in this article for the Friends of William Stafford in October 2022.

Little Did I Know 30 Years Ago...

I began researching a potential full-life biography of William Stafford in early 2021 as I was awaiting production and publication of my book about Evan S. Connell. I knew there was no biography of Stafford, though his son, Kim, had written a memoir focused much on his father, Early Mornings, published in 2002. Others had written critical works and poetic studies over the years. But no biography, per se. As is my usual practice, I plunged in recklessly, “recklessly” I would eventually learn being a favorite Stafford expression of jolly communication, gossip, and creative expression. I had met Stafford a couple of times in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. And, in researching in his papers at Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon, I even found a photograph of me and Stafford together at a book event in 1992. It took a while of poking around before I reminded myself that I wrote about the poet after his death in August 1993. Reading that article recently turned out to be a revelation. I was finding some of the same phraseology and ideas about Stafford that I was using again today. Could it be that I actually began this project 30 years ago? Weird to think so. But as I think about what this new blog will end up doing, even as I continue to peck away at this potential book, it seemed a reasonable place to start. Of the published article, Sept. 5, 1993, in The Kansas City Star, I’d say that there are a couple of sentences I would probably correct now that I know much more than I knew back then. But, as know, journalism is the first draft of history. Many revisions await.