Donald Hall Poems
|1.||The Seventh Inning||10/5/2015|
|2.||Her Long Illness||4/24/2015|
|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|
|20.||An Old Life||1/3/2003|
|21.||Name Of Horses||1/3/2003|
Comments about Donald Hall
To grow old is to lose everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young,
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads
when a grandfather dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer
pond, ignorant and content. But a marriage,
that began without harm, scatters
into debris on the shore,
and a friend from school drops
cold on a rocky strand.
If a new love carries us
past middle age, our wife will die
at her strongest and most beautiful.
New women come and go. All go.
The pretty lover who announces
that she is temporary
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