The Selected Poems of Donald Hall

by Donald Hall

The essential poems, selected by Donald Hall:  “The hard-won achievement of a lifetime” (Wall Street Journal)

  • Format: Hardcover
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780544555600
  • ISBN-10: 0544555600
  • Pages: 160
  • Publication Date: 12/01/2015
  • Carton Quantity: 24

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About the Book
About the Author
Excerpts
  • About the Book
    Former poet laureate Donald Hall selects the essential work from a moving and brilliant life in poetry. 

     

    Long-Listed for the 2016 National Book Award 

     

    Donald Hall is an American master, one of the nation’s most beloved and accomplished poets. Now in his eighties, having taken stock of the body of his work—rigorous, gorgeous verse that is the result of seventy years of “ambition and pleasure”—he strips it down.  

     

    The Selected Poems of Donald Hall reflects the poet’s handpicked, concise selection, showcasing work rich with humor and eros and “a kind of simplicity that succeeds in engaging the reader in the first few lines” (Billy Collins). 

     

    From the enduring “My Son My Executioner” to “Names of Horses” to “Without,” Donald Hall’s best poems deliver “a banquet in the mouth” (Charles Simic) and an “aching elegance” (Baltimore Sun). For the first-time reader or an old friend, these are, above all others, the poems to read, reread, and remember.

     
    “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). 
     
  • About the Author
  • Excerpts
    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 Giant 

    a 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.

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