Donald Hall Poems
|1.||Her Long Illness||4/24/2015|
|2.||The Seventh Inning||10/5/2015|
|6.||Ox Cart Man||3/16/2012|
|8.||The Painted Bed||3/16/2012|
|11.||The Alligator Bride||1/3/2003|
|12.||Je Suis Une Table||1/3/2003|
|15.||Christmas Party At The South Danbury Church||1/3/2003|
|16.||The Man In The Dead Machine||1/3/2003|
|17.||Mount Kearsarge Shines||1/3/2003|
|20.||Name Of Horses||1/3/2003|
|21.||An Old Life||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
Je Suis Une Table
It has happened suddenly,
by surprise, in an arbor,
or while drinking good coffee,
after speaking, or before,
that I dumbly inhabit
a density; in language,
there is nothing to stop it,
for nothing retains an edge.