June 26, 2018

Lynne Knight

IN MEMORIAM

white apples and the taste of stone
—Donald Hall, “White Apples”

The old master is dead,
his gravestone already marked
with lines from a poem

by his wife, whose peonies
blossomed and toppled outside
while he lay in hospice.

Soon his granddaughter will live
in the ancestral house looking out
at blue Mount Kearsarge.

The curved ribs of old horses
buried in the field will again yield
their crop of goldenrod.

Dark clouds over Eagle Pond
turn white as the taste of stone,
white as white apples.

from Poets Respond

__________

Lynne Knight: “I spent much of Sunday mourning the death of Donald Hall, who taught me much of what I know about poetry when I was his student at the University of Michigan. Much later, we had a correspondence over twenty years that sometimes included the exchange of poems. I’ve been re-reading some of his letters, and I came upon this: ‘I want the poem to be as hard as a piece of sculpture, and as immovable, and as resolute, and as whole. I want every word in it to be absolutely inevitable … but another part of the requirement, by and large, is that it should not seem so.’ Then he quoted Yeats: ‘A line will take us hours maybe; / Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought …’ His letter begins: ‘I love talking about this stuff.’ Donald Hall gave so much to the world of letters that I wanted to mark his death with a small poem that evokes his life and work, borrowing his image in the last two lines (“white apples and the taste of stone”). I don’t know if this poem does evoke him, but among many, many other things, he taught me to be persistent.” (web)

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December 29, 2015

Donald Hall

PLAYING AROUND

At spring training—
forty-four years old, two-hundred-and-fifty
pounds, with a full beard
and hair hanging to my shoulders—I tried
out for the Pittsburgh
Pirates. For seven days I ran bases,
did infield, and took
BP while the real ballplayers hee-hawed.
My body turned red, swole,
and stiffened. At the end of the week
it took me an hour
to get out of bed. Jane observed my play
from the stands—larky,
amused, but nervous about heart attacks—
and heard her grandfather
explain to a puzzled eight-year-old
with outfielder’s glove
and scorecard that I was some old catcher.

from Rattle #5, Spring 1996

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December 28, 2015

Donald Hall

PICNICS

The first three years
of our marriage, we picnicked with Benjamin
and Edward: Beaujolais
Village, Brie, pâté, and sourdough bread
on the softsward
We took pleasure in these friends from Toronto
who loved food and literature
as we waited for Shakespeare,
Shaw, or Chekhov
at eight o’clock in Stratford, Ontario.
The plays were rapture,
better our companionship in gossip,
theater, and poetry;
in goose liver, grapey wine, and cheese.
When Edward and Benjy
split up, we had moved to Eagle Pond.
We missed them, Stratford,
and picnics; we settled down to Kearsage,
red flannel hash,
pond summers, radio baseball, each other.

from Rattle #5, Spring 1996

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