Daybreak until nightfall,
he sat by his wife at the hospital
while chemotherapy dripped
through the catheter into her heart.
He drank coffee and read
the Globe. He paced; he worked
on poems; he rubbed her back
and read aloud. Overcome with dread,
they wept and affirmed
their love for each other, witlessly,
over and over again.
When it snowed one morning Jane gazed
at the darkness blurred
with flakes. They pushed the IV pump
which she called Igor
slowly past the nurses’ pods, as far
as the outside door
so that she could smell the snowy air.
This is a perfect poem, and it's obviously sad, but it's also just a little bit funny. The jarring combo of the profound and the banal: That's life, it's absurd, and it could make you giggle. You get the sobering reference to liquids "dripping into the heart," followed by the quotidian observation about drinking coffee and reading the paper. You're then pushed, abruptly, back into the realm of the ultra-dramatic: "Overcome with dread, they wept and affirmed their love....witlessly..." Ultimate mysteries paired with sitcom reruns: If you've spent time in a hospital, you know what Donald Hall is talking about. (And that merciless adverb, "witlessly," is a highlight of the poem.)
The entire story exists for the final image, which has Jane Kenyon pushing her IV pump, "Igor" down a hospital hall. She has been bewitched by snow. She wants to pass the "nurses' pods," reach "the outside door," smell "the snowy air." Hall's language becomes enchanted. The reference to pods, to Igor, to a portal, an "outside door," makes us feel as if we were in a fantasy realm, crawling through the wardrobe to discover there's no back; there's no wooden wall approaching. Jane is on a threshold; she is at the outside door, and she is getting near to death. And she wants to smell snow: Death, and our proximity to death, reminds us that something apparently pedestrian can be magical.
Grief-stricken and overcome with wonder: The two old poets stand and look up at the sky.
Great poem. Donald Hall lived past ninety, and in one of the final things he published, he mentioned, "You know you're old when friends mention a planned event in the coming year, then look at you with a sense of unstated guilt in their expression." This was a brave writer! Enjoy and have a good weekend.
P.S. The title makes me think of "His Dark Materials." It creates a sense of intimacy right away; the narrator is having us make an inference about the identity of the "her."
P.P.S. Reading "The Globe" seems to have metaphorical weight. A poet reads the newspaper. A poet also "reads the globe" -- interprets the world that surrounds him.
he sat by his wife at the hospital
while chemotherapy dripped
through the catheter into her heart.
He drank coffee and read
the Globe. He paced; he worked
on poems; he rubbed her back
and read aloud. Overcome with dread,
they wept and affirmed
their love for each other, witlessly,
over and over again.
When it snowed one morning Jane gazed
at the darkness blurred
with flakes. They pushed the IV pump
which she called Igor
slowly past the nurses’ pods, as far
as the outside door
so that she could smell the snowy air.
This is a perfect poem, and it's obviously sad, but it's also just a little bit funny. The jarring combo of the profound and the banal: That's life, it's absurd, and it could make you giggle. You get the sobering reference to liquids "dripping into the heart," followed by the quotidian observation about drinking coffee and reading the paper. You're then pushed, abruptly, back into the realm of the ultra-dramatic: "Overcome with dread, they wept and affirmed their love....witlessly..." Ultimate mysteries paired with sitcom reruns: If you've spent time in a hospital, you know what Donald Hall is talking about. (And that merciless adverb, "witlessly," is a highlight of the poem.)
The entire story exists for the final image, which has Jane Kenyon pushing her IV pump, "Igor" down a hospital hall. She has been bewitched by snow. She wants to pass the "nurses' pods," reach "the outside door," smell "the snowy air." Hall's language becomes enchanted. The reference to pods, to Igor, to a portal, an "outside door," makes us feel as if we were in a fantasy realm, crawling through the wardrobe to discover there's no back; there's no wooden wall approaching. Jane is on a threshold; she is at the outside door, and she is getting near to death. And she wants to smell snow: Death, and our proximity to death, reminds us that something apparently pedestrian can be magical.
Grief-stricken and overcome with wonder: The two old poets stand and look up at the sky.
Great poem. Donald Hall lived past ninety, and in one of the final things he published, he mentioned, "You know you're old when friends mention a planned event in the coming year, then look at you with a sense of unstated guilt in their expression." This was a brave writer! Enjoy and have a good weekend.
P.S. The title makes me think of "His Dark Materials." It creates a sense of intimacy right away; the narrator is having us make an inference about the identity of the "her."
P.P.S. Reading "The Globe" seems to have metaphorical weight. A poet reads the newspaper. A poet also "reads the globe" -- interprets the world that surrounds him.
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