'Secret, dangerous . . . and delicious'

 

“Every afternoon, I would shut the door of my bedroom to write: Poetry was secret, dangerous, wicked and delicious.” – Donald Hall

 

Born on Sept. 20, 1928 in Hamden, CT, Hall (who died in 2018) wrote more than 50 books ranging from essays and short fiction to plays, children’s books and 22 volumes of poetry. 

 

A “master” of simple, direct language to evoke surrealistic imagery, he was not only a popular writer but also a popular speaker, teacher, and reader of his works.  Sometimes criticized for “the simplicity” of his poems, he responded, “Everything important always begins from something trivial.”   For this weekend's poem, here is Hall’s,

      An Old Life

Snow fell in the night.
At five-fifteen I woke to a bluish
mounded softness where
the Honda was. Cat fed and coffee made,
I broomed snow off the car
and drove to the Kearsarge Mini-Mart
before Amy opened
to yank my Globe out of the bundle.
Back, I set my cup of coffee
beside Jane, still half-asleep,
murmuring stuporous
thanks in the aquamarine morning.
Then I sat in my blue chair
with blueberry bagels and strong
black coffee reading news,
the obits, the comics, and the sports.
Carrying my cup twenty feet,
I sat myself at the desk
for this day's lifelong
engagement with the one task and desire.