The Painted Bed: Poems
By Donald Hall
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About this ebook
Donald Hall’s fourteenth collection opens with an epigraph from the Urdu poet Faiz: “The true subject of poetry is the loss of the beloved.” In that poetic tradition, as in The Painted Bed, the beloved might be a person or something else—life itself, or the disappearing countryside. Hall’s new poems further the themes of love, death, and mourning so powerfully introduced in his Without (1998), but from the distance of passed time. A long poem, “Daylilies on the Hill 1975-1989,” moves back to the happy repossession of the poet’s old family house and its history—a structure that “persisted against assaults” as its generations of residents could not. These poems are by turns furious and resigned, spirited and despairing—”mania is melancholy reversed,” as Hall writes in another long poem, “Kill the Day.” In this book’s fourth and final section, “Ardor,” the poet moves toward acceptance of new life in old age; eros reemerges.
“More controlled, more varied and more powerful, this taut follow-up volume [to Without] reexamines Hall’s grief while exploring the life he has made since. The book’s first poem, ‘Kill the Day,’ stands among the best Hall has ever written.” —Publishers Weekly
“A compelling, sometimes shocking, and certainly deeply moving depiction of bereavement.” —Poetry
“Hall has continued growing as a poet, and his steady readers may consider this his finest collection . . . Bleakness and beauty characterize the reminiscent lyrics that follow, too, joined by a breathtaking bluntness.” —Booklist
Donald Hall
DONALD HALL (1928-2018) served as poet laureate of the United States from 2006 to 2007. He was a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a recipient of the National Medal of the Arts, awarded by the president.
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Book preview
The Painted Bed - Donald Hall
Contents
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Epigraph
Dedication
THE PAINTED BED
I. Kill the Day
II. Deathwork
1. The After Life
2. The Purpose of a Chair
3. Her Garden
III. Daylilies
IV. Ardor
Acknowledgments
About the Author
First Mariner Books edition 2003
Copyright © 2002 by Donald Hall
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
hmhbooks.com
ISBN 978-0-618-18789-8 hardcover
ISBN 978-0-618-34075-0 paperback
eISBN 978-0-547-34705-9
v2.0421
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
and acknowledgments appear on page 89.
The true subject of poetry
is the death of the beloved.
—Faiz Ahmed Faiz
Joyce
Caroline
Alice
THE PAINTED BED
"Even when I danced erect
by the Nile’s garden
I constructed Necropolis.
Ten million fellaheen cells
of my body floated stones
to establish a white museum."
Grisly, foul, and terrific
is the speech of bones,
thighs and arms slackened
into desiccated sacs of flesh
hanging from an armature
where muscle was, and fat.
"I lie on the painted bed
diminishing, concentrated
on the journey I undertake
to repose without pain
in the palace of darkness,
my body beside your body."
I. Kill the Day
…
Work, love, build a house, and die.
—The One Day
Kill the Day
When she died it was as if his car accelerated
off the pier’s end and zoomed upward over death water
for a year without gaining or losing altitude,
then plunged to the bottom of the sea where his corpse
lay twisted in a honeycomb of steel, still dreaming
awake, as dead as she was but conscious still.
There is nothing so selfish as misery nor so boring,
and depression is devoted only to its own practice.
Mourning resembles melancholia precisely except
that melancholy adds self-loathing to stuporous sorrow
and turns away from the dead its exclusive attention.
Mania is melancholy reversed. Bereavement, loss,
and guilt provide excitement for conversion
to dysphoria, murderous rage, and unsleeping joy.
When he rose from the painted bed, he alternated or cycled
from dedicated hatred through gaiety and inflation
to the vacancy of breathing in-and-out, in-and-out.
He awakened daily to the prospect of nothingness
in the day’s house that like all houses was mortuary.
He slept on the fornicating bed of the last breath.
He closed her eyes in the noon of her middle life;
he no longer cut and pruned for her admiration;
he worked for the praise of women and they died.
For months after her chest went still, he nightmared
that she had left him for another man. Everything
became its opposite and returned to itself.
As the second summer of her death approached him,
goldfinches flew at her feeder like daffodils
with wings and