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.


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