The Back Chamber: Poems

By Donald Hall

The former US poet laureate has crafted poems full of “unexpected insights, charms, droll observations, self-mockery, and well-earned wisdom” (Rain Taxi).

In The Back Chamber, Donald Hall illuminates the evocative, iconic objects of deep memory—a cowbell, a white stone perfectly round, a three-legged milking stool—that serve to foreground the rich meditations on time and mortality that run through this remarkable collection. While Hall’s devoted readers will recognize many of his long-standing preoccupations—baseball, the family farm, love, sex, and friendship—what will strike them as new is the fierce, pitiless poignancy he reveals as his own life’s end comes into view. The Back Chamber is far from being death-haunted, but rather is lively, irreverent, erotic, hilarious, ironic, and sly—full of the life-affirming energy that has made Donald Hall one of America’s most popular and enduring poets.

“For the reader boiling in triple-digit SoCal heat at the end of the summer, Donald Hall’s The Back Chamber: Poems arrives like a sudden cloudburst and shower of cooling rain . . . A former U.S. poet laureate, Hall has always had this elemental power—to vividly evoke his particular New England climate and geography so that it can’t be mistaken for any other—but what is more unexpected in this new collection of poems, his 16th, is passion.” —Los Angeles Times

“The former U.S. poet laureate reaches his 20th book in unmistakably honest form, aggressively plain and unfailingly open about sex, old age, suicide, recovery, the friendship of poets, the business of poetry, dogs, New Hampshire, and baseball.” —Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9780547646459

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.

Book preview

I

MEATLOAF

The Things

When I walk in my house I see pictures,

bought long ago, framed and hanging

—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—

that I’ve cherished and stared at for years,

yet my eyes keep returning to the masters

of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,

tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,

a broken great-grandmother’s rocker,

a dead dog’s toy—valueless, unforgettable

detritus that my children will throw away

as I did my mother’s souvenirs of trips

with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,

and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.

Love’s Progress

When love empties itself out,

it fills our bodies full.

For an hour we lie twining

pulse and skin together

like nurslings who sigh

and doze, dreamy with milk.

Showtunes

After their tumult, as they quieted,

          She breathed into his ear

           The tunes she loved to sing,

Measuring out the songs of Fred Astaire.

           After she left, he slept

             Deeply, except

To wake from a dream that brought back everything.

Now on the chest of drawers beside the bed

           The candle stays unlit

           That cast its flickering

Over her face as she sighed in wanton secret.

           He cannot go to sleep,

             Needing to keep

His ears tuned to the phone that does not ring.

The Ruins

Snow rises as high as my windows. Inside by the fire

my chair is warm, and I remain compounded of cold.

It is unthinkable that we will not touch each other again.

As the barn’s bats swoop, vastation folds its wings

over my chest to enclose my rapid, impetuous heart.

It is ruinous that we will not touch each other again.

Ten miles away, snow falls on your clapboard house.

You play with your children in frozen meadows of snow.

Conclusion at Union Lake

We walked in a comfortless quiet

to sit on the shore of Union Lake

an hour in July, as light struck up

white-green from lilypads, motionless

in the steady sun of afternoon,

while loons uncannily wailed

at lake’s end, and we watched

mallards drifting two by two.

We sat without speaking, until

the chainsaw rattle of a lightplane

ripped and concluded our silence.

We’d better be going, she said.

We folded the plaid blanket,

picked up our things, and walked

to the clapboard house, not looking

at the lake we’d never go to again.

Oaks and red maple overhead

gathered as if to