Donald Hall
LET MANY BAD POETS
Let many bad poets praise the Grand Canyon, the Panama
Canal, the Statue of Liberty, Mount
Hood, the Napa Valley with its products of fermentation,
Sicily, Connecticut, and themselves.
Some of us spend our whole lives praising Danbury, New Hampshire,
or Mount Fuji: Praising our places, we
praise ourselves while pretending to look outward. We build Tu Fu’s
Chengdu cottage as a shrine for ourselves
in every Poetry, by printing reflections, in free verse
without noticeable attention to
line breaks, on snapshots of the poetic mother and father,
in their weird clothes, on vacation, before
the poet was born: How poignant it is, how remarkable
that one’s parents were older than oneself!
Then they died. Oh. Because I have nothing to say, and nothing
deeply pitiable to whine over,
I program my poem-processor for irony, malice,
envy, loathing, and the decent pleasure
of breaking anyone’s Mont Blanc who disturbs my solitude.
While others probe an already sore place
with the pickaxes of guilty ululation, I relax
with a good book on the soul’s wooden porch,
or, as they advised Amos some ages ago, I eat bread
and prophesy. It happens I predict
myself, praising my villa as Horace did, praising Ragged,
Camilla, Eagle Pond, and Max the dog.
I prophesy the country I invent by shutting the door;
I praise citizenship in the nation
of myself. You too can withdraw into a granite valley
defended by the troops of history,
learning, sexual luxury, diligence, and narcissism.
Just remember: Never knock on this door.
"Let Many Bad Poets" is excerpted from White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems, 1946-2006, by Donald Hall. Copyright (c) 2006 by Donald Hall. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Rebecca Pittore
SHINING LAUGHTER
two little girls,
giggling,
ran across the classroom
to meet each other.
they matched.
green dresses,
with big buttons,
and tights that were once white.
but one was taller,
with sparkling green eyes
and there was a tiny one,
with golden locks
and eyes so blue.
and a smile
that was too big for her.
they laughed at everything.
and they laughed at nothing.
the classroom was calm and dark,
lit only by bland lights,
with deep clouds outside,
that screamed rain.
but the girls still giggled,
as they brightened the room
and ran to their teacher
to ask her to tell them apart.
she got it wrong.
on purpose.
but they didn't know that.
and they kept laughing
forever.
until they made the sun
peek out from behind the clouds
and shine on them.
as they ran outside to play,
and laugh,
together
Poetry and prose © 2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
Donald Hall
THE PROFESSION
As a Boy Scout
I never owned a uniform. At fourteen
I went to Scout meetings
as a way to get out of the house.
Talking one night
with David Johnstone-uniformed, ironic,
sophisticated, First Class,
sixteen-we proved ourselves members
of the Teenage Ambition
Club, in whom "the desire to be
extraordinary,"
as the Autocrat of the Breakfast
Table put it, "is
commonplace." I bragged that in my high school
study hall that morning
I had written a poem. Dave’s eyes
quickened with passion.
"Do you write poems?" he said. "Yes," I said.
"Do you?" Pulling
himself up, he uttered a noble sentence
that dictated the rest
of my life: "It is my profession."
"The Profession" is excerpted from White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems, 1946-2006, by Donald Hall. Copyright (c) 2006 by Donald Hall. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Jacob Friedman
THE VARSITY JERSEY
It is why we go to every practice
It is why we work our hardest in every drill
It is why we never quit
It is why we live with the ups and downs
It is why we keep our heads up
It is why we stick our chests out
It is why we train in the off-season
It is why we are always watching
It is why we are always learning
It is why we play on rainy days
It is why we take every charge
It is why we dive for every loose ball
It is why we work harder than anyone else
It is why we love the game
Poetry and prose © 2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
Donald Hall
EDIT
On the Advocate
in nineteen forty-eight, we argued all
night about whether
a poem was decent enough to print.
John Ashbery sat
in a chair, shelling pistachio nuts;
Robert E. Bly wore a three-
piece suit and a striped tie; Kenneth
Koch was ever sarcastic.
Once as we pasted an issue
together we discovered
a blank page and teased Ashbery
to give us a new poem.
John disappeared to Dunster House.
When he dawdled back
with his lines about fortunate Alphonse,
we admired it
and pasted it up. Later he admitted
that he had gone back
to his room and improvised the poem
on his Olivetti.
When I told him the story forty
years later, John laughed.
"Yes," he said, sighing. "I took longer then."
"Edit" is excerpted from White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems, 1946-2006, by Donald Hall. Copyright (c) 2006 by Donald Hall. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Elizabeth R.
TRAMPING IN CIRCLES
Heavy smells of rotted leaves,
A deadening silence
Surrounded by thick fog,
Which confuses all movement
Through the soggy brush.
Tramping in circles.
Cold runs through my bones,
And my clothes are damp,
But I do not shiver.
Although this road is dreary,
I may never be able to enjoy it again.
Tramping in circles.
The thick clouds split apart.
A small ray of sunshine creeps through the canopy,
Illuminating my face and taking away my worries.
Content with this gloomy day,
I will follow wherever my feet take me
Tramping in circles.
Poetry and prose © 2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
Donald Hall
THE CHILD
He lives among a dog,
a tricycle, and a friend.
Nobody owns him.
He walks by himself, beside
the black pool, in the cave
where icicles of rock
rain hard water,
and the walls are rough
with the light of stone.
He hears low talking
without words.
The hand of a wind touches him.
He walks until he is tired
or somebody calls him.
He leaves right away.
When he plays with his friend
he stops suddenly
to hear the black water.
"The Child" is excerpted from White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems, 1946-2006, by Donald Hall. Copyright (c) 2006 by Donald Hall. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
James Russell
BASEBALL
Pitch the small white ball with red seams on the sides to the batter.
Hit the ball and sprint around the bases to score.
Field the ball and throw it to the right base.
Seem easy?
Throw the ball 80 MPH or harder, put movement on it, and change speeds drastically to fool the batter.
Hammer the fastball blazing across the plate.
Snag that ball shooting at you.
Now maybe baseball seems harder, butÉ
Imagine the feeling of hearing the crack of the bat and seeing the ball arc into the sky, over the fence.
Make a diving catch as a dust cloud forms around you.
Throw a twelve to six curveball like Barry Zito,
Hurl a 100 MPH fastball like Billy Wagner,
Deliver an unhittable cutter like Mariano Rivera,
Or dance a knuckleball like Tim Wakefield.
Men playing a boys’ game.
Players earn their millions,
Few can play ball the way they do.
Think of Major League Baseball as being an easy boys’ game,
But playing baseball allows you to imagine what it would take to be in the Majors.
Appreciating the game is what many neglect,
A little kid lobs the ball up like a rainbow to be hit,
A fast white blur blows by you,
The same game?
Poetry and prose © 2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
Donald Hall
OX CART MAN
In October of the year,
he counts potatoes dug from the brown field,
counting the seed, counting
the cellar’s portion out,
and bags the rest on the cart’s floor.
He packs wool sheared in April, honey
in combs, linen, leather
tanned from deerhide,
and vinegar in a barrel
hoped by hand at the forge’s fire.
He walks by his ox’s head, ten days
to Portsmouth Market, and sells potatoes,
and the bag that carried potatoes,
flaxseed, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose
feathers, yarn.
When the cart is empty he sells the cart.
Whe the cart is sold he sells the ox,
harness and yoke, and walks
home, his pockets heavy
with the year’s coin for salt and taxes,
and at home by fire’s light in November cold
stitches new harness
for next year’s ox in the barn,
and carves the yoke, and saws planks
building the cart again.
"Ox Cart Man" is excerpted from White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems, 1946-2006, by Donald Hall. Copyright (c) 2006 by Donald Hall. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Laura Kishimoto
THIRTEEN POINT SEVEN THOUSAND YEARS
Thirteen point seven thousand light years from
the edge of a spiraling galaxy,
tucked carefully away within one of
the infinite folds of the universe,
flickers the insignificant flame of
life; Nearly invisible among the
flaming stars, enveloped by the blackness.
Would anyone, or anything, notice
if the spark was suddenly extinguished?
Would there be anyone to even care?
Each passing day another star winks out -
forever. Would this be any different?
Clinging to existence, collapsing from
within... We walk the path to destruction:
Wars are fought over now rare resources,
weapons are built to wipe out whole nations.
What was once precious has been forgotten,
buried by violence, smothered with revenge.
Poetry and prose © 2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
Donald Hall
SUMMER KITCHEN
In June’s high light she stood at the sink
With a glass of wine,
And listened for the bobolink,
And crushed garlic in late sunshine.
I watched her cooking, from my chair.
She pressed her lips
Together, reached for kitchenware,
And tasted sauce from her fingertips.
"It’s ready now. Come on," she said.
"You light the candle."
We ate, and talked, and went to bed,
And slept. It was a miracle.
"Summer Kitchen" is excerpted from White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems, 1946-2006, by Donald Hall. Copyright (c) 2006 by Donald Hall. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Dhyan Adler
TRAPPED IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT
Lying still upon the table
the page was calling for my thoughts
like the song of a lonely siren
luring ships upon the rocks
With my pen I soaked the paper
in a seamless flow of words
like the movement in the air
of a million flying birds
Not far away from where I sat
the ocean clashed against the shore
like slaves condemned to torture
Enduring, evermore
So immersed was I in thought,
so deep in contemplation
that time had slipped away
without my realization
Beside me stood the candle
that protected me from darkness
yet its time was running out
every minute dimmed its brightness
Startled by the melted wax
that had slid onto the sand
I faced the dying candle
shouting: this, I had not planned!
My worst fear was to be trapped
by the darkness of the night
and no longer see the glowing light
that allowed my hand to write
I closed my eyes
trembling…
quivering…
shivering...
Until darkness fell upon me
Like a demon on its prey.
Poetry and prose © 2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
Donald Hall
TO A WATERFOWL
Women with hats like the rear ends of pink ducks
applauded you, my poems.
These are the women whose husbands I meet on airplanes,
who close their briefcases and ask, "What are you in?"
I look in their eyes, I tell them I am in poetry,
and their eyes fill with anxiety, and with little tears.
"Oh, yeah?" they say, developing an interest in clouds.
"My wife, she likes that sort of thing? Hah-hah?
I guess maybe I’d better watch my grammar, huh?"
I leave them in airports, watching their grammar,
and take a limousine to the Women’s Goodness Club
where I drink Harvey’s Bristol Cream with their wives,
and eat chicken salad with capers, with little tomato wedges,
and I read them "The Erotic Crocodile," and "Eating You."
Ah, when I have concluded the disbursement of sonorities,
crooning, "High on thy thigh I cry, Hi!"-and so forth-
they spank their wide hands, they smile like Jell-O,
and they say, "Hah-hah? My goodness, Mr. Hall,
but you certainly do have an imagination, huh?"
"Thank you, indeed," I say; "it brings in the bacon."
But now, my poems, now I have returned to the motel,
returned to l’éternel retour of the Holiday Inn,
naked, lying on the bed, watching Godzilla Sucks Mount Fuji,
addressing my poems, feeling superior, and drinking bourbon
from a flask disguised to look like a transistor radio.
And what about you? You, laughing? You, in the bluejeans,
laughing at your mother who wears hats, and at your father
who rides airplanes with a briefcase watching his grammar?
Will you ever be old and dumb, like your creepy parents?
Not you, not you, not you, not you, not you, not you.
"To a Waterfowl" is excerpted from White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems, 1946-2006, by Donald Hall. Copyright (c) 2006 by Donald Hall. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Diane S.
THE MYSTERIES OF LIFE
At all the sunsets that have come and passed,
I’ve wondered if my life has gone by too fast.
Sparkling, the blue sea is a sapphire.
My eyes are in a trance as I admire,
as if the sea holds something we don’t know;
All of life’s secrets are way down below.
No one has the key to these mysteries.
All we have is our thoughts and memories.
Some of them we hold so dear to our hearts,
some tear our soul and may rip us apart.
Yet the ocean still sparkles and is blue,
while wind releases dreams we could pursue.
What happens in life comes for a reason,
as fireflies glow at a time of season.
Life will always have its ups and its downs,
putting a smile on us or a frown.
Either one will eventually come our way,
causing us to learn something every day.
As the clock keeps on ticking and time turns,
I look at my life and what I have learned.
Poetry and prose © 2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
