Another poem by Donald Hall. Curiously enough, I have never enjoyed enjoyed his earlier poetry. After he lost his wife, the poet Jane Kenyon, however…his poetry turned into something, into a heart that spoke to me, that I could understand. I always return to his words, his images. He and Jane both have consistently been the two poets that inspire me the most when it comes to my own work. I feel fortunate that I live so close by to the farmhouse they shared. I see the same mountain every day that they woke to; I drive down the same roads. He is still alive; she is long gone. I remember the day I discovered her work; I remember the day she died. The two events are forever joined in my mind.
Along with Hall reading his poem Without, here is a great article where he talks about the ‘poetry of death’–a bit about their life together and how death continuously crept into their writing.