Photo of the fire in the village of Gort na gCapall, one of the 10 participating villages on the island, June 23rd, 2018
Donald Hall passed away on the eve of St. John’s Feast, a sacred time for many around the world. I myself in years passed have celebrated singing and praying through the night, and this year was traveling from fire to fire, connecting with elders, mothers, youth – all parts of this small island community on Inishmore, all parts equally important in a way Mr. Hall might have appreciated. Horse drawn carriages, rich violet and white orchids that surprise and delight in a barren landscape, any risk of boredom from the mundane relieved simply by the changing colors of the sky. I was not so familiar with Donald’s work, though I used to read lots of sappy poetry and luxurious prose (sometimes with collaborator, choreographer Hillary Blake Firestone) into the wee hours of the night.
For Donald Hall, words were important. And I am inclined to agree. Words are powerful tiny creatures that give birth or light or definition. They give form and color to the way we perceive the world. In my youth I attached to language like a lifeline, needing to tear apart or at least untangle into manageable cords, a world that did not make sense. People did not say what they meant or tell the truth. This I had little patience for. I wanted the true essential nature of things – things I often felt in poems I read or in the choreography of Pina Bausch, or in Bach.
I remember finding the writing of Mina Loy and the thrill of having to use a dictionary to read her work. I also remember when my friend and colleague Steve Tremble, a few years later told me about his love of Donald Hall… who he admired deeply. I don’t remember what poems he shared with me but I do remember it reminding me of Mina’s work somehow… if only our shared admiration of their genius or the companionship of minds that craft language with exceptional intellect and emotional resonance. Soon after, a copy of A Hundred White Daffodils came into my life, a book authored by Donald’s wife, Jane Kenyon. I discovered in one of her earlier collections, easily and quickly, one of my favorite poems: Let Evening Come. It seems appropriate to share this poem in honor of Mr. Hall’s passing.
To add, I do wish I could find a way to contact my friend, a kinesthetic and creative writer himself – wherever he is – to offer my condolences on the passing of his teacher and inspiration. Since I cannot, in that spirit I will share another poem, this by one of my favorite authors, Marge Piercy. I found Marge’s work in high school – a gift from a best friend growing up (Amy Elizabeth Scott) – a drawing of a dancer and a quote from one of Marge’s poems I still have firmly committed to memory:
“I cherish friendship and loving that starts in liking but the body is the church where I praise and bless and am blessed. My strength and weakness are twins in the same womb, mirrored dancers under water, the light and dark side of the moon. I know how truly my seasons have turned cold and hot around that lion-bodied sun.”
Ms. Piercy’s book, The Moon is Always Female was a storehouse of information and emotional support even when I could only digest half of what she’d said or meant. And it was years before I realized the gift she had given to me (and all women) for writing this book and getting it published. It was likely my first book of things about Strong Women and the Lunar Year. I went nowhere without it, gave many copies away, and always replaced it in the next used book store where I could find it again. These days I do the same with the Magdalen Manuscript by Tom Kenyon and Judi Sion.
I used to make Steve read her work, so much so, for my birthday he had a copy of Circles on the Water autographed for me. To this day, it’s one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever received. Her poem Bridging (below) speaks of what it means to be connected across the ethers in a way that time and space cannot erode or depreciate. It makes me smile, thinking fondly of the poetry book I wrapped up and gave him for Christmas bursting with colorful ribbons marking the pages of every poem I wanted to ensure he read. Or the cook book I got for him for some occasion or another. I wonder if he still has it. It had a wonderful recipe for white bean soup and purple potatoes.
And this is why we celebrate the lives of such devoted poets. Words are important. Powerful gestures that enable romances with Mother Nature, with one another, with ourselves and with the Divine. Let Evening Come…
Let Evening Come
BY JANE KENYON
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
***
Bridging – BY MARGE PIERCY
Being together is knowing
Even if what we know
is that we cannot really be together
caught in the teeth of the machinery
of the wrong moments of our lives.
A clear umbilicus
goes out invisibly between,
thread we spin fluid and finer than hair
but strong enough to hang a bridge on.
That bridge will be there
a blacklight rainbow arching out of your skull
whenever you need
whenever you can open your eyes and want
to walk upon it.
Nobody can live on a bridge
or plant potatoes
but it is fine for comings and goings.
meetings, partings and long views
and a real connection to someplace else
where you may
in the crazy weathers of struggle
now and again want to be.
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