“However wrenching [Hall’s poems] may be from line to line, they tell a story that is essentially reassuring: art and love are compatible, genius is companionable, and people stand by one another in the end” (New York Times Book Review).
|Publisher:||Houghton Mifflin Harcourt|
|Product dimensions:||5.20(w) x 7.80(h) x 0.50(d)|
About the Author
DONALD HALL (1928-2018) served as poet laureate of the United States from 2006 to 2007. He was a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a recipient of the National Medal of the Arts, awarded by the president.
Read an Excerpt
My Son My Executioner My son, my executioner, I take you in my arms, Quiet and small and just astir And whom my body warms. Sweet death, small son, our instrument Of immortality, Your cries and hungers document Our bodily decay. We twenty-five and twenty-two, Who seemed to live forever, Observe enduring life in you And start to die together. The Sleeping Gianta hill in Connecticut The whole day long, under the walking sun That poised an eye on me from its high floor, Holding my toy beside the clapboard house I looked for him, the summer I was four. I was afraid the waking arm would break From the loose earth and rub against his eyes A fist of trees, and the whole country tremble In the exultant labor of his rise; Then he with giant steps in the small streets Would stagger, cutting off the sky, to seize The roofs from house and home because we had Covered his shape with dirt and planted trees; And then kneel down and rip with fingernails A trench to pour the enemy Atlantic Into our basin, and the water rush, With the streets full and all the voices frantic. That was the summer I expected him. Later the high and watchful sun instead Walked low behind the house, and school began, And winter pulled a sheet over his head. The Lone Ranger Anarchic badlands spread without a road, And from the river west no turned-up loam; No farmer prayed for rain, no settler’s horse But one time blundered riderless to home. Unfriendly birds would gather in the air, A circling kind of tombstone. As for the law, No marshal lived for long unless he could Defeat his mirror’d image to the draw. So now he rode upon a silver horse. He stood for law and order. Anarchy Like flood or fire roared through every gate But he and Tonto hid behind a tree And when the bandits met to split the loot, He blocked the door. With silver guns he shot The quick six-shooters from their snatching hands And took them off to jail and let them rot. For him the badlands were his mother’s face. He made an order where all order lacked From Hanged Boy Junction to the Rio Grande. Why did he wear a mask? He was abstract.