William Stafford's new book, A Glass Face in the Rain, contains six introductory poems set in italic type, one standing at the beginning of each individual section and one placed at the very start of the book. The best actual introduction to the volume, however, may be found in the concluding stanza of the first "real" poem in the book, "Tuned in Late One Night":

             Now I am fading, with this ambition:
             to read with my brights full on,
             to write on a clear glass typewriter,
             to listen with sympathy,
             to speak like a child.

The passage recognizes the position of the writer—as an aging man, he is "fading," able to see his own death in the not so distant future—and indicates his desires as a poet: he wishes to confront the truth without blinking and to express it exactly as he sees it; he wishes to write beautifully, clearly; he will continue to approach to world with love, even when it errs; and he will not fear his own innocence.

James Wright once spoke of William Stafford as a natural poet, a man with a sensibility so lyrical that virtually his every utterance becomes poetry. One thing that makes writing such a spontaneous activity for Stafford is that he developed the characteristic form for his poems early in his career and has rarely strayed from it. Almost a sonnet, the typical Stafford poem is short and sounds chatty, the lines are neither precisely metered nor free; lyricism and relaxation balance one another on the page…. Indeed, his poems really do not form into sequences and, despite thematic clustering, his books remain collections of individual lyrics rather than becoming cohesive, unified structures. Because of the intimate, chatty voice in which they are spoken, Stafford's poems seem simple on a first reading; only closer attention shows the carefulness of their crafting. (pp. 911-12)

Despite the presence of death in these poems, Stafford's gaze is not turned upon any world other than this one. His emphasis is on being, the process of life itself…. His outlook is, however, basically religious, morally and mystically. The moralistic appears in several poems which contemplate the apocalyptic end of the world, most likely through war…. More prevalent is the mystical concern; many poems express a sense of something—a meaning, a sanctity—beyond and within the world we live in and see. What this is is never defined, only hinted at; the form it takes is of an instant which seems, by one avenue or another, to open into eternity…. (pp. 912-13)

Perhaps the weakest area of this book is called up by Stafford's desire to "speak like a child." When he discusses the creative process in interviews, Stafford customarily emphasizes how the poet must avoid becoming his own censor by cultivating too strong a critical sense of his own work. Surely this is good advice for the poet to follow as he writes, and it has obviously served Stafford well, judging from the great freedom of his own output. But one often wishes that the critical sense were stronger when it comes to the point of the poet's selecting poems to include in a book. Writing good lyrical poetry is a sophisticated undertaking; occasionally Stafford is so concerned to achieve a childlike tone that he seems to abandon poetry altogether and lapses into flatness and literality…. [The] introductory poems to the sections in this book often have a childlike defensiveness to them, as Stafford both answers his critics and attempts to direct our reading of his work. For example, the opening lines of "A Tentative Welcome to Readers": "It is my hope that those who blame / these tentatives may find some other / reading and be supremely matched / by pieces worthy of them."

I will conclude these words on William Stafford by [mentioning] a wonderful, though not entirely typical, poem. "Incident" has an apocalyptic tone to it, and that is familiar, but what makes it so appealing is its teasing inexplicability…. Some kind of allegory, I suppose, and much of the phrasing is Biblical. The talking box reminds me of Stephen Crane; but as for what the whole thing may mean, I confess that I am as puzzled as John Berryman professed to be by John Crowe Ransom's "Captain Carpenter." Some poems work best this way. (pp. 913-14)