April 21: Brain Dead, Donald Hall, "The Things"

It is raining a little tonight, with strong winds.  It's after 11 p.m., and I am pretty much brain dead.

That pretty much describes my state every Thursday.  I can barely string together two words for this post.  So, I am going to leave the work to the Poet of the Week to be profound.  Donald Hall has over eighty years of practice being wise and funny.  He never really disappoints.

Saint Marty needs to unplug his lava lamp and go to sleep now. 

The Things

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 masters 
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round, 
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell, 
a broken great-grandmother’s rocker,
a dead dog’s toy—valueless, unforgettable 
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother’s souvenirs of trips 
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens, 
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.

A lot smarter than me . . .