Burning a Book by William Stafford


The Poem:


Protecting each other, right in the center


a few pages glow a long time.


The cover goes first, then outer leaves


curling away, then spine and a scattering.


Truth, brittle and faint, burns easily,


its fire as hot as the fire lies make—


flame doesn’t care. You can usually find


a few charred words in the ashes.



And some books ought to burn, trying for character


but just faking it. More disturbing


than book ashes are whole libraries that no one


got around to writing—desolate


towns, miles of unthought in cities,


and the terrorized countryside where wild dogs


own anything that moves. If a book


isn’t written, no one needs to burn it—


ignorance can dance in the absence of fire.



So I’ve burned books.