Donald Hall

I love this poem. The formatting is mucked up, but the kernel remains.

Letters without Addresses from White Apples and the Taste of Stone will kill you dead. I don't mind the topic at all, some might. They will think it is using disaster to feed the poet; I think I have read that about Hall. But I think, and know, that when you have stared such things in the face, and reappeared on the other side, using it for poetry isn't the worst of it. It is a means to be, to frame the unframable. And when Hall can do this with such grace, all the better. I especially liked Midsummer Letter. In Distressed Haiku he says:

You think that their
dying is the worst
thing that could happen.

Then they stayed dead.

That my dear readers is one of the truest statements I have ever read. No poetics, no imagery, just a few syllables, a style, broken.

The other is from Ardor:

Lust is grief
that has turned over in bed
to look the other way.

I took a moment after that one. Poetry demands you take the moment.

Take a moment and enjoy your day.

despite the tears

I hope to write something soon about The Road, new book by Cormac McCarthy. This book I started at the book store, but it wouldn't leave me be, so I ordered it and it came the other day. I only got to it today, and it was one of the most amazing novels I ever read. It is bleak beyond words, and McCarthy's sparse style works with these themes. I won't give anything away, but it isn't as unlikely a pre-Christmas read, as you would think.

This followed Donald Hall's poems this morning. This was grief typed into words. I will post short snippets later too I hope. Damn.

Vicky