Donald Hall Poems
|1.||The Seventh Inning||10/5/2015|
|2.||Her Long Illness||4/24/2015|
|6.||Ox Cart Man||3/16/2012|
|7.||The Painted Bed||3/16/2012|
|11.||The Alligator Bride||1/3/2003|
|14.||Je Suis Une Table||1/3/2003|
|15.||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
The Alligator Bride
The clock of my days winds down.
The cat eats sparrows outside my window.
Once, she brought me a small rabbit
which we devoured together, under
the Empire Table
while the men shrieked
repossessing the gold umbrella.
Now the beard on my clock turns white.