William Stafford
American poetry in the mid-twentieth century found itself pulled between academic formalism and a growing appetite for something more plainspoken and grounded. William Stafford, born on January 17, 1914, in Hutchinson, in the United States, worked as a poet and an educator writing in English during those decades of shifting literary priorities.
Stafford attended Liberal High School before going on to study at the University of Kansas. He pursued both poetry and teaching across his career, occupying the roles of poet and educator in a literary landscape that was actively debating what American verse should sound like and who it should speak to. His work existed within that conversation, shaped by the same pressures and possibilities that other poets of his era were navigating.
That work drew repeated recognition from major literary institutions. Stafford received the National Book Award for Poetry, a Guggenheim Fellowship, the Shelley Memorial Award, and the Robert Frost Medal. Few American poets of his generation accumulated that range of honors, and the consistency of the recognition across different awarding bodies points to the esteem in which his work was held by the literary community over time.
Stafford died on August 28, 1993, in Lake Oswego. The Robert Frost Medal was among the honors he carried into the final years of his life, and it stands as one concrete marker of the regard his peers extended to him. His career, rooted in the education he received at the University of Kansas and shaped by decades of work as both poet and educator, ended with a body of recognized achievement that the awards record continues to document.
Quotes by William Stafford
William Stafford's insights on:

You shouldn't have standards that inhibit you from writing It really doesn't make any difference if you are good or bad today. The assessment of the product is something that happens after you've done it.

When a goat likes a book, the whole book is gone, and the meaning has to go find an author again.

Can injustice one way be corrected without the interim reaction that tries to impose injustice the other way?

All still when summer is over stand shocks in the field, nothing left to whisper, not even good-bye, to the wind. After summer was over we knew winter would come: we knew silence would wait, tall, patient calm.

I heard a bird congratulating itself all day for being a jay. Nobody cared. But it was glad all over again, and said so, again.

Others may be able to accept standards from another, but an artist is a person who decides.

What you have to do as a writer is . . . write day in and day out no matter what happens.

It is this impulse to change the quality of experience that I recognize as central to creation. . . . Out of all that could be done, you choose one thing. What that one thing is, nothing else can tell you--you come at it over unmarked snow.

