Biography of Donald Hall
Donald Hall was born in Hamden, Connecticut, the only child of Donald Andrew Hall, a businessman, and Lucy Wells. He was educated at Phillips Exeter Academy, then earned a bachelor's degree from Harvard in 1951 and a B.Litt, from Oxford in 1953. Hall received a honorary PhD, Lit. from Bates College in 1991.
Hall began writing even before reaching his teens, beginning with poems and short stories, and then moving on to novels and dramatic verse. Hall continued to write throughout his prep school years at Exeter, and, while still only sixteen years old, attended the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, where he made his first acquaintance with the poet Robert Frost. That same year, he published his first work. While an undergraduate at Harvard, Hall served on the editorial board of The Harvard Advocate, and got to know a number of people who, like him, were poised with significant ambitions in the literary world, amongst them John Ashbery, Robert Bly, Kenneth Koch, Frank O'Hara, and Adrienne Rich, whom he dated briefly.During his senior year, he won the Glascock Prize that Koch had won 3 years earlier.
After leaving Harvard, Hall went to Oxford for two years, to study for the B.Litt. He was editor of the magazine Oxford Poetry, as literary editor of Isis, as editor of New Poems, and as poetry editor of The Paris Review. At the end of his first Oxford year, Hall also won the university's Newdigate Prize, awarded for his long poem, 'Exile'.
On returning to the United States, Hall went to Stanford, where he spent one year as a Creative Writing Fellow, studying under the poet-critic, Yvor Winters. Following his year at Stanford, Hall went back to Harvard, where he spent three years in the Society of Fellows. During that time, he put together his first book, Exiles and Marriages, and with Robert Pack and Louis Simpson edited an anthology which was to make a significant impression on both sides of the Atlantic, The New Poets of England and America. While teaching at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, Michigan he met poet Jane Kenyon, whom he married in 1972. Three years after they were wed, they moved to Eagle Pond Farm, his grandparents' former home in Wilmot, New Hampshire. Hall and Kenyon were profiled at their home in a 1993 PBS documentary, "A Life Together," which aired as an episode of "The Bill Moyers Journal."
In 1989, when Hall was sixty-one, it was discovered that he had colon cancer. Surgery followed, but by 1992 the cancer had metastasized to his liver. After another operation, and chemotherapy, he went into remission, though he was told that he only had a one-in-three chance of surviving the next five years. Then, early in 1994, it was discovered that Kenyon had leukemia. Her illness, her death fifteen months later, and Hall's struggle to come to terms with these things, were the subject of his 1998 book, Without.
Another book of poems dedicated to Kenyon, Painted Bed, is cited by Publishers Weekly as "more controlled, more varied and more powerful, this taut follow-up volume 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. It examines mourning in 16 long-lined stanzas, alternating catalogue with aphorism, understatement with keened lament: 'How many times will he die in his own lifetime?' "
In 2005, he published the memoir The Best Day the Worst Day: Life with Jane Kenyon -- an intimate record of their 23-year marriage.
Hall has been closely affiliated with the Bennington College's graduate writing program since 1994, giving lectures and readings annually.
To date, Hall has published fifteen books of poetry, most recently White Apples and the Taste of Stone (2006), The Painted Bed (2002) and Without: Poems (1998), which was published on the third anniversary of Jane Kenyon's death. Most of the poems in Without deal with Kenyon's illness and death, and many are epistolary poems. In addition to poetry, he has also written several collections of essays (among them Life Work and String Too Short to be Saved), children's books (notably Ox-Cart Man, which won the Caldecott Medal), and a number of plays. His recurring themes include New England rural living, baseball, and how work conveys meaning to ordinary life. He is regarded as a master both of received forms and free verse, and a champion of the art of revision, for whom writing is first and foremost a craft, not merely a mode of self-expression. Hall has won many awards, including two Guggenheim Fellowships and a Robert Frost Medal, and has served as poet laureate of his state. He continues to live and work at Eagle Pond Farm.
When not working on poems, he has turned his hand to reviews, criticism, textbooks, sports journalism, memoirs, biographies, children's stories, and plays. He has also devoted a lot of time to editing: between 1983 and 1996 he oversaw publication of more than sixty titles for the University of Michigan Press alone. He was for five years Poet Laureate of his home state, New Hampshire (1984-89), and can list among the many other honours and awards to have come his way: the Lamont Poetry Prize for Exiles and Marriages (1955), the Edna St Vincent Millay Award (1956), two Guggenheim Fellowships (1963-64, 1972-73), inclusion on the Horn Book Honour List (1986), the Sarah Josepha Hale Award (1983), the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize (1987), the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry (1988), the NBCC Award (1989), the Los Angeles Times Book Prize in poetry (1989), and the Frost Medal (1990). He has been nominated for the National Book Award on three separate occasions (1956, 1979 and 1993). In 1994, he received the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize for his lifetime achievement.
Hall was named the fourteenth U.S. Poet Laureate, succeeding Ted Kooser. He served from 1 October 2006, and was succeeded by Charles Simic the following year. At the time of his appointment, Hall was profiled in an Oct. 16, 2006 episode of The News Hour With Jim Leher.
Donald Hall currently resides at Eagle Pond Farm in Wilmot, New Hampshire, a small town in Merrimack County in the vicinity of fellow poet and author Maxine Kumin.
Donald Hall's Works:
Fantasy Poets Number Four (1952)
Exiles and Marriages (1955)
The Dark Houses (1958)
A Hundred Thousand Straightened Nails (1961)
A Roof of Tiger Lilies (1964)
The Alligator Bride (1969)
The Yellow Room: Love Poems (1971)
The Town of Hill (1975)
A Blue Wing Tilts at the Edge of the Sea: Selected Poems, 1964-1974 (1975)
Kicking the Leaves (1978)
The Toy Bone (1979)
The Happy Man (1986)
The One Day (1988)
Old and New Poems (1990)
Here at Eagle Pond (1992)
The Museum of Clear Ideas (1993)
The Old Life (1996)
Two by Two (2000, with Richard Wilbur)
The Painted Bed (2002)
White Apples and the Taste of Stone (2006)
The Back Chamber (2011)
Henry Moore (1966)
Dock Ellis (1976)
Remembering Poets (1978)
The Ancient Glittering Eyes (1992)
An Evening's Frost (1965)
Bread and Roses (1975)
Ragged Mountain Elegies (1983)
Andrew the Lion Farmer (1959)
Riddle Rat (1977)
Ox-Cart Man (1979)
The Man Who Lived Alone (1984)
I Am the Dog, I Am the Cat (1994)
Summer of 1944 (1994)
Lucy's Christmas (1994)
Lucy's Summer (1995)
Old Home Day (1996)
When Willard Met Babe Ruth (1996)
The Milkman's Boy (1997)
The Ideal Bakery (1987)
Willow Temple (~2003)
String too Short to Be Saved (1961)
Seasons at Eagle Pond (1987)
Life Work (1993)
The Best Day the Worst Day: Life with Jane Kenyon (2005)
Eagle Pond (2007)
Unpacking the Boxes: A Memoir of a Life in Poetry (2008)
To Read Literature (1981)
Writing Well with Sven Birkerts (1994)
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Donald Hall Poems
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,
To grow old is to lose everything. Aging, everybody knows it. Even when we are young, we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads
Name Of Horses
All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer, for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range.
In a week or ten days the snow and ice will melt from Cemetery Road.
when my father had been dead a week I woke with his voice in my ear I sat up in bed
Christmas Party At The South Danbury Chu...
December twenty-first we gather at the white Church festooned red and green, the tree flashing green-red lights beside the altar.
The Man In The Dead Machine
High on a slope in New Guinea The Grumman Hellcat lodges among bright vines as thick as arms. In 1943,
A storm was coming, that was why it was dark. The wind was blowing the fronds of the palm trees off. They were maples. I looked out the window across the big lawn. The house was huge, full of children and old people. The lion was loose. Either because of the wind, or by malevolent human energy, which is the same thing, the cage had come open. Suppose a child walked outside! A child walked outside. I knew that I must protect him from the lion. I threw myself on top of the child. The lion roared over me. In the branches and the bushes there was suddenly a loud crackling. The lion cringed. I looked up and saw that the elephant was loose!
In the mid August, in the second year of my First Polar Expedition, the snow and ice of winter almost upon us, Kantiuk and I attempted to dash the sledge
Je Suis Une Table
It has happened suddenly, by surprise, in an arbor, or while drinking good coffee, after speaking, or before,
Mount Kearsarge Shines
Mount Kearsarge shines with ice; from hemlock branches snow slides onto snow; no stream, creek, or river budges but remains still. Tonight we carry armloads of logs
The Alligator Bride
The clock of my days winds down. The cat eats sparrows outside my window. Once, she brought me a small rabbit which we devoured together, under
If he and she do not know each other, and feel confident they will not meet again; if he avoids affectionate words; if she has grown insensible skin under skin; if they desire only the tribute of another's cry; if they employ each other
Up, down, good, bad,' said the man with the tubes up his nose, ' there's lots
when my father had been dead a week
with his voice in my ear
I sat up in bed
and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door
white apples and the taste of stone
if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes