The Things, Donald Hall

By Donald Hall

When I walk in my
house I see
pictures,bought long
ago, framed and
hanging—de Kooning,
Arp, Laurencin, Henry
Moore—that I’ve
cherished and stared
at for years,yet my
eyes keep returning to
the mastersof the
trivial: a white stone
perfectly round,tiny
lead models of
baseball players, a
cowbell,a broken
rocker,a dead dog’s
that my children will throw
awayas I did my
mother’s souvenirs of
tripswith my dead
father, Kodaks of
kittens,and bundles of
cards from her mother

2 responses

  1. Michael, I’ve spent a rich hour exploring your beautiful website. I’ve been reminded of how much I once thrilled to Montaigne’s takes on living well, how he valued his own thoughts and conclusions and shifted my own sense of my individual choices and views during college days in the sixties. I am reminded to read Zadie Smith, whom I haven’t yet read. I find a poem I’ve loved by Donald Hall, that mountain of a poet exploring the personal and everyday that add up to a life. And so on, learning about your interesting art passion, so very deliberate and creative, about the origin of your postcard project. I thank you for pushing my little head right outside my familiar box this morning. I’ll go stretch now. Really stretch.

    • Such a nice email, Georganne. Thanks for the kind words. So pleased that you, too, love Donald Hall. I will miss him. Be well, Michael

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