Sound of the Ax: Aphorisms and Poems by William Stafford

Written on the Stub of the First Paycheck

24 Written on the Stub of the First Paycheck Gasoline makes game scarce. In Elko, Nevada, I remember a stuffed wildcat someone had shot on Bing Crosby’s ranch. I stood in the filling station breathing fumes and reading the snarl of a map. There were peaks to the left so high they almost got away in the heat; Reno and Las Vegas were ahead. I had promise of the California job, and three kids with me. It takes a lot of miles to equal one wildcat today. We moved into a housing tract. Every dodging animal carries my hope in Nevada. It has been a long day, Bing. Wherever I go is your ranch. 25 My typical act is—hit the road. We put in a cottonwood post. It rooted and leafed. What if you could stun everyone into having the same good dream: that’s what a literary work accomplishes, momentarily. One trouble about language is that people sometimes believe what you say, and you were only trying it out. Maybe a need has made me “intellectual”:—the need to turn like a terrier on any assertion, and worry it till it comes level with all the context I can find. There is such a thing as helping history to get along with its dirty work. Never point a truth at someone unless it is good for him—or you intend to shoot him with it. 26 I found in the clutter at the workbench my cup, the coffee just cool enough to drink. Rabbits when they jump own for a moment the whole disregarded universe. Being right is manifesting enough originality for me. Every day when I write I feel I’m getting to the main business of my soul. All the hounds came back with a better bite. I have honor, but little profit, in my own country. The way I predict is, I wait to see what happens. Why shouldn’t poems tell you things you need to know? ...