by and large, speak very fondly of this place nor of his time at the U-M, where he returns for a reading at 5 p.m. today in the U-M Museum of Art's Helmut Stern Auditorium.
The place Hall does write about obsessively and often brilliantly is that farmhouse in New England, about the land around it and the people who have lived and worked there. His recent, massive book of selected poems, White Apples and the Taste of Stone, which picks from sixty years of work, circles round and about that farm. In one of the very early poems, Hall elegizes his ancestor: "Against the clapboards and the window panes / The loud March whines with rain and heavy wind, / In dark New Hampshire where his widow wakes." Four hundred pages and sixty years later, the poet, now in his eighties, hears the same wind: "In October the red leaves going brown heap and scatter / over hayfield and dirt road, over garden and circular drive."
The close observation of that place has created a unified vision that moves through all of Hall's long life, one that has been devoted to his art. He has tried lots of different forms, both in poetry and prose; he has adopted different voices, some purely narrative, others meditative, or for a short period almost surrealistic; but he has always come back to that house and his memories of it. That unity allows the reader to move through White Apples and the Taste of Stone from beginning to end, almost the way one would read a novel or memoir.
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