Customer Reviews

Without: Poems

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I heard Donald Hall read passages of Whitman's Leaves of Grass at the 2005 National Book Festival on the Mall in DC. I knew nothing of him, his work, or his love of Jane Kenyon. I did know his voice rang true to the soul I possess. I can still here his voice over the sound of helicopter blades that plagued the readings in each tent. Compelled to read his work I finally gave into the need to buy one of his works and so I bought three.

"Without" is a journey of loss. Each poem is a step during the journey of Jane Kenyon's illness, passing, and Donald Hall's experience of loss. His pain, confusion, and helplessness are mirrored in every line and in every word with in the pages of "Without".

By the time I got to page nine I was crying, not for Jane Kenyon but for Donald Hall. The book doesn't show case only loss but devotion. The memories he shares of Jane are clouded with the simple things that brought him contentment and careless pleasure. How often do you see the simple things in your life and overlook the pleasure that exists in the act of observation? Donald Hall looks back on the pleasure of contentment watching his wife taste the sauce that will be served with dinner and the act of bringing in groceries. He tells us of the ravishing beauty she grew into in her 40's. Donald Hall reminds us of hope with in the pages of "Without".

girldiver:)

I discovered Jane Kenyon when her poem "Otherwise" and her beautiful presence aired on Bill Moyers' "The Language of Life". It was the year I found I could no longer tolerate my depression and set about creating a new life that I learned of her depression. I learned that she had been born one year earlier, and in her poetry I found us kindred spirits. Then I found she was dying of leukemia, and indeed died that next year after the research center across the street had once again made promises it could not keep. My best friend's husband had heard the same promises and suffered the same fate. Last week Seattle's beloved school superintendent had those same promises fail him. When I heard Donald Hall had written poems on her death, I had a mixed reaction. I did not want her death minimized or exploited. Yet, I wanted her remembered, her courage and victory over herself. So it was some months later when I picked up "Without" and began reading of the journey Donald and Jane made together, a journey not unfamiliar to those who have taken the path before them. I felt their pain, their love, and their courage. It was difficult reading, I felt as though I knew her personally, and I grieved her more than others. But he wrote with grace, love and truth. Jane is there in the poems, and in all the works she leaves beind. If only we had had her for a little longer.

Without constitutes my first experience with Donald Hall's poetry, need I say it was not my last? This collection reads like a novel, it is really a fluid sequence of accounts of his wife's death, either in devastatingly ironic and witty snapshots or extended odes and elegies such as the harrowing "Letter With No Address," written to his dead wife, nearly all of which will grab you by the throat and suck you into the spaces in between the words. Hall knew that if he was going to try and rip a vein of life from his soul and convey its contents to his readers, he could only do so by immersing them within the poems themselves. Few poets ever develop the kind of authenticity of voice required to achieve such a feat. It is surely a standard to which any poet aspires.

Donald Hall approached this project perfectly. This is not a collection that stammers with captivating imagery or the kind of unfathomable metaphorical connections that are found in the work of our best American poets such as Hart Crane or Walt Whitman. Hall knew that in devoting a collection of poems to such a personal and painful experience, one that obviously left its fang marks on his heart, he risked committing some of the cardinal sins of poetry, such as mawkishness and self-pity.

Hall avoids those pitfalls at every conceivable instance. His ability to blend sentimentality with dry irony and compelling wit, compounded by his successful effort to keep himself out of the poems despite his inevitable relation to them, make this the finest collection of his career, and indeed the work of a man who just may be ranked among our very top American poets somewhere down the line. Without stands among the most riveting documents of love, desire and loss to be found throughout the history of American Poetry.

In his book of poems "Without", Donald Hall weaves a lexicographic tribute to his late wife, and fellow poet, Jane Kenyon, and in turn, leaves the world a legacy of grief and honor.

I first heard of this book by listening to NPR's "This American Life" on a featured story about the couple. Donald himself read some of these poems, and I knew within a minute, I had to have this work.

As poets so meekly and admirably do, Donald Hall captures the moments of his wife's last days through her battle with leukemia. The poems are simple, attainable, and direct. He minces no words as he describes Jane's downfall. He poetry is both pure and chilling; you feel her loss, you feel her impact, you feel.

If you are considering purchasing this book, I may recommend you purchasing Jane Kenyon's final book of poetry called "Otherwise". In a sense, they are companion pieces to each other, and in reading both you hear her voice, along with his, to make it theirs.

I highly recommend this book if you have ever lost someone, or want to understand the not understandable impact of losing someone.

Donald Hall has taken his greatest pain and laid it out in verse so touching, so unsentimental, and so clear, that the reader shares. And cries. This book is a powerful testament to love and to poetry, and ultimately has a healing effect on the poet and the reader. Exquisite.

Everyone tells you, that you must walk the lonely road of caretaker-grave opener-survivor alone. Donald Hall's Without is the companion you never asked the heavens to bring you. The poet's recount of his beloved's bodily devastation through leukemia and his first year of mourning is detailed with genuine fortitude and veracious love that no movie, play or song could portray. Without transcends and reaches every audience.

"You know now whether the soul survives death. Or you don't. When you were dying you said you didn't fear punishment. We never dared to speak of Paradise".

Poetry reaches across boundaries that no other media dares to express itself. If you haven't read poetry since your high school years, purchase Without.

I wanted to read this collection of poems because I was so moved by Mr. Hall's memoir of his life with Jane Kenyon, The Best Day The Worst Day. The poems here are inspired by the same sequence of events; that is, Ms. Kenyon's death from leukemia. This unity of purpose alone, so rare in poetry collections, gives the book incredible power. Of course, this unity is not enough. Fortunately, despite the sad theme, there are a number of wonderful poems here.

I found the poems in the first half of the book--those leading up to Ms. Kenyon's death--the best. "Song for Lucy," "The Porcelain Couple," "The Ship Pounding," and, especially, "A Beard for Blue Pantry" and "Blues for Polly" very moving, filled with great images like "Jane made bread so honest/it once went blue in the pantry//overnight in a heat wave" (Pantry) and "She sang blue: soulful, erotic,/skeptical, knowing everything/turns out bad in the end." Not surprisingly, blue is a linking color here.

Mr. Hall also intersperses a poem, "Her Long Illness," throughout the first half of the book. It's a risky strategy but it works well. Some of the best lines in the book come in this poem.

I didn't feel the second half of the book, which focuses more on Mr. Hall's loneliness, stood up as well as the first. The title poem, the first of the aftermath poems, is the weakest in the book. There are some passages in the various "Letters" poems that make up most of the second half that are very nice (my favorite, from "Letter in the New Year": "If someone had told us then/you would die in nineteen years,/would it have sounded/like almost enough time?") but, for the most part, they are very uneven. I was also put off by some of the semi-profane and sexual language in some of these poems. Not that these experiences aren't appropriate but they didn't ring true with the rest of the work.

It may be that the first half has the advantage of the tension of Ms. Kenyon's illness which dissolves into a less satisfying depression and loneliness in the second half. Perhaps my knowledge of the memoir interfered somewhat with my reading of some of the poems. Still, as a whole, this is definitely an excellent collection.

I remember first reading this book last summer. I usually read books of poetry not front to back, but here and there, allowing each poem to conjure up its own world apart from order in relation to other poetry. But with this book - I began at the beginning and followed through. Reading "The Snow Leopard" by Peter Matthiessen right now has reminded me of "Without" - this stunning collection from Hall sits alongside particular passages from the Matthiessen - they are the only literature I've ever experienced to immerse me so thoroughly in suffering and heartbreak as to be incapable of anything other than a paralysis of weeping...

This book calls up emotions that no other book can. It is wonderful. It makes you assess your own relationships and stop taking them for granted. I suggest this book to everyone who is mature. It takes a strong person to read it, so if you have just lost a loved one to cancer it may help you cope or it may just make it harder. It made me cry but it also gave me an inner peace. You won't be able to put it down once you start, so set aside some time for it.

Without a doubt the most perfect, most human example of poetry I have ever read. I could not make it through this very slim volume in a months time. I both ached for and feared the next page. I love my Wife more than I love my next breath. This is how that love feels. This is what it is like to live without.