Donald Hall Poems
|1.||Her Long Illness||4/24/2015|
|2.||The Seventh Inning||10/5/2015|
|5.||The Painted Bed||3/16/2012|
|7.||Ox Cart Man||3/16/2012|
|11.||The Alligator Bride||1/3/2003|
|12.||Je Suis Une Table||1/3/2003|
|14.||The Man In The Dead Machine||1/3/2003|
|16.||Christmas Party At The South Danbury Church||1/3/2003|
|17.||Mount Kearsarge Shines||1/3/2003|
|21.||An Old Life||1/3/2003|
|22.||Name Of Horses||1/3/2003|
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 April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields,
dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats.
All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine
clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning;
and after noon's heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the...
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