a trip to the Rhine River Valley. That was their inspiration, high castles and walls built by Charlemagne. Lancaster says, “ The Italian laborers built their very souls into these walls as they sang their native songs and thought of the homeland. "J.K. Gill’s brought out several special editions of The Columbia, America’s Great Highway, with beautiful plates and text by Lancaster. The poet graciously took time out in his Finis hectic schedule to visit an invalid of some poetic reputation. At her home. Hazel must have been ecstatic! She wrote a poem in his honor which was read that night. Years later, he would include her po ignan t “Three Girls” in The Book of American Poetry. How happy Hall was to meet the grizzled, white-haired and- bearded elder statesman of American literature. As Hall’s career blossomed, J.K. Gill’s—Portland’s prestigious book store—opened The Poets’ Corner. A book stamp, blue and gray, shows fireplace and armchair. The date—23 April 1923—was Markham’s birthday, and he had just been declared Oregon's poet laureate by Governor Walter Pierce. The Oregonian noted that Hazel Hall’s second book of poetry, Walkers, would be introduced to the book-buying public. Lucy Rodd Ramberg painted a portrait of Hall Tor the occasion. Utes Hall there? he literary community—poets such as nthony Euwer, Mary Carolyn Davies, Grace Hall (not a relative), and Mabel Holmes Parsons—participated. How much did Hall get around? Outside of her home. The physical matter perplexes me! Wasn’t there money for a taxi? Was it that difficult for her wheelchair to be transported? Was she so easily enervated? Damnit! It’s frustrating to think of her in isolation, yet having such an established reputation. Hazel Hall's Selected Poems are available from Ahsahta Press of Boise State University. They specialize in Western Imprints. Beth Bentley of Seattle deserves credit for writing a good introduction and for choosing the only inprint selection of Hall’s poetry we have. Bentley explains: “ There was little literary activity in Portland after World War I compared to that burgeoning in such cities as New York, Chicago, and San Francisco. ” She describes Hazel’s reticent and modest correspondence with editors and friends. Well-intentioned as the introduction is, Bentley’s commonly held assumption that Hall never left her upstairs room, or her home, is incorrect. Lancaster Camp amuel Lancaster was a great visionary of the Oregon country, a man of indomitable spirit, but also a lover of outdoor beauty. Reading about him the other day, Iwas surprised to learn that as a young man he was crippled by infantile paralysis, but overcame it. He was the chief engineer of the scenic Columbia River Highway. The old one which was dedicated on June 7th, 1916. Possibly the most beautiful highway of its time, called a modern-day “wonder of the world,” it winds above the river, literally blasted out of the sides of basaltic mountains. Cutting through the Cascades. Past waterfalls, with breath-taking vistas, guarded by Italian dry masonry walls. Most persons reading this will have driven by such places as Crown Point, Shepperd’s Dell, Bridal Veil and Multnomah Falls, Oneonta Gorge, Larch Mt. and St. Peter’s Dome—and take these spectacles for granted. Not back then, when it had to be surveyed on foot. The maximum highway grade could not exceed five percent! Lancaster writes how he and Sam Hill, the railroad and highway magnate, took >* s w Lancaster was also a patron of the poets! Bookscouting, I found a copy of Oregon laureate Ethel Romig Fuller’s White Peaks and Green. Inside was a yellowing photo of Ethel beside her gingko tree, taken by Lancaster in 1932. Before that— praise be to the Muses—I stumbled upon an inscribed copy of Curtains. When I touch the brown ink, I shiver! Apparently the gentleman—once crippled—decided a certain party was in very much need of an outing. It would put roses in her cheeks! To Samuel C. Lancaster In memory of unforgettable days spent worlds away at Lancaster Camp, Columbia River Gorge. Hazel Hall September 1922 Being a literary sleuth, one is not always so lucky. Clues are offered, and the curtain closes. A year of so ago, I had Laurence Pratt on the phone—a poet of the thirties who was a teacher at Jefferson with Ruth Hall—in a nursing home. He died subsequently. Dr. Walter Evans Kidd told me he thought he had letters from Hall. No one answers his phone! “ Ruth’s best friend,” in her nineties, passed away within a month of my hearing about her! Elderly persons have great long-term memories. Living “ informants” in the Hazel Hall story are almost gone. Her poems may well be her only biography. As a poet and writer, I am earning points in my literary karma. I admit I have become obsessed with Hall! There are still “ leads” to be checked out. Visiting the house the other day, the upstairs tenant told me that two preservationist s the penis finis in American poetry and letters? Women are having their day and say. Why not? Men for too long have ruled the literary roost. There is another side to human nature—women’s point of view, feelings, concerns, nurturing and sanity. A true humanism is not sexist, but it does recognize the differences between men and women. It celebrates them. Especially in literature and poetry. Although Hazel Hall was doomed by her disability to be a seamstress and a spinster, she went far beyond those stereotypes. “ The three vestal virgins” —a man mockingly suggested at a lecture I gave on her. Yes, you could say that—however, it was a cheerful, caring, productive household. May Garland loved her poet daughter enough to see that their ashes were mixed together. There is a purity and transcendental quality in her work which goes beyond mere physicality. It is somewhat odd for a lyric poet not to sing the praises of love for someone. Anyone! Male or female, isn’t it? There are no “ romantic” poems, in the usual sense of the word, in Hall’s oeuvre. I call Hazel Hall a feminist because she cares about other women, describes their work, feels empathy for their lives and their deaths. Their loneliness— almost more than her own. Living her life around other women, she was given affection and support, mainly of the intellectual kind. Walkers is dedicated simply to “ R.H.” This was real sisterhood. Without Ruth’s help, I am certain Hashould be reprinted in its entirety. The introduction by Louise Townsend Nicholl is as informative as one might desire. Nicholl makes several points. “ There is a consciousness in Hazel Hall’s poems which transcends self-consciousness. . . . She is conscious of herself only in an impersonal way, almost as though she were someone else. ” Hall becomes “ any woman” confronting the mystery of death. In these poems, as “ a woman,” Hall meets her own death calmly and lucidly—but without pleasure. Reading The Cry of Time is like drowning. Most males are windbags and blowhards when it comes to facing the inevitable. They struggle and fight back. Women are used to pain and stoicism. Quietly, Hall meets the rhythms of her own death, like childbirth, and transforms the experience into mystical poetry. Her poetic style is impeccable. Yet I can see why her career fell out of favor. Death is hardly a popular topic! Human beings live today as if there’s no tomorrow. They promiscuously make love, inject and snort drugs, jog 20 miles a day, swallow megavitamins, drive cars reck® lessly, jet-set around. Death is when tomorrow stops. For everyone reading this, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Hazel Hall just happened to be alert and r taking notes when that day c a h ^ ^ g v * ^ My favorite early Hall poem is called “A '^ Falling Star.” I know it wasn’t meant to be “ heavy.” But it ends that way. She just can’t help herself! The last line is prophetic of her early death and cremation, but it echoes Shakespeare and Sir Thomas Browne—of the theological and “She had developed a techniqu by means of which she could tormented her mind. . . he ears of effort neanings that forced him to approach in the rhythms of poetry. Yet at the last she realized that there was a wordlessness about Death, into zel’s career never could have been as active and as successful as it was. All the groups had been documenting the Hall ■penetrate.” 5 somber essay-poem “ Urn Burial.” Here u u u i iu o O U U L C O O I U I o l l vvao , n i l u i c i H U a Qz 7e Ol I t fl a a nl k r u e o o s c aa u c mu i tu eo sy, c sa a c r r chha arriin na e Q s ce oG n nin t ti i r - . correspondence, the typing of poems— mentalism like “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Ruth literally gathered from the deathbed Hazel’s last poems which became The Cry of Time. Ruth compiled that final volume. Did she “ edit” any of them? No one knows, for sure. What is true—as an act of love, Ruth made certain the collection came into being Ruth tells of her sister’s final days: “About three weeks before she died, and before she was critically ill, she said that she had dreamed that she was going to die. But life had offered her too many ideas in all contrasting moods, for her to put them away with anything but reluctance. She had developed a technique through years of effort by means of which Star” and turns it into a cannot be denied. i i Ki un i fatalism which* I hope I shall remember, The day I come to die, The welcome of this morning’s down, This evening's good-night sky. I hope I shall remember The kindly little star, Caught in tonight’s mist-matted hair, Which greeted me afar. And how as I was watching, . » Loving its little light, v jX s ngffir Fleet as a dream it dropped and fell Into the urn of That star is gone forever. And so is she.* home. He was shown an album of early s h e could express the meanings that tor- * m R n f e t H f a n r r V u n r t h n r o r f o H n H t a r l photographs of the street, house, and Hall family. One group was from Washington state and the other from the National Archives in D.C. Many of us are eager to see the house, in which Hazel mented her mind. . . her art adopted Death. . . and forced him to approach in Walt Curtis, long a CSQ contributor, is fast U V U U I . . . U H U l u i u e u H U H IU c t / j p r u d u n I I I becoming a m liter i a i ry M hi is at i M or i r ian u u oif n u u ot c e. i H nis the rhythms of poetry. Yet at the last she CSQ story on poet-journalist John realized that there was a wordlessness about Death, into which no language had Reed was praised by Reed scholars around Hall lived and died, be designated a national landmark. the right to penetrate. The Cry of Time is a masterpiece; it the world. Gus Van Sant’s film Mala Noche, winner of the Los Angeles Screen Critics Best Independent Feature Award, Is based on Curtis’ novella by the same name. FOR ALL YOUR CATERING NEEDS CALL (503) 274-9750 KATHLEEN A. YOUNG & PENELOPE A. MICK PROPRIETERS 907 S.W. GIBBS, PORTLAND. OR 97201 Clinton St. Quarterly—Fall/Winter 1988 47
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