Thursday, October 11, 2012

Today's poem by Donald Hall

 Kicking the Leaves


Kicking the leaves, October, as we walk home together
from the game, in Ann Arbor,
on a day the color of soot, rain in the air;
I kick at the leaves of maples,
reds of seventy different shades, yellow
like old paper; and poplar leaves, fragile and pale;
and elm leaves, flags of a doomed race.
I kick at the leaves, making a sound I remember
as the leaves swirl upward from my boot,
and flutter; and I remember
Octobers walking to school in Connecticut,
wearing corduroy knickers that swished
with a sound like leaves; and a Sunday buying
a cup of cider at a roadside stand
on a dirt road in New Hampshire; and kicking the leaves,
autumn 1955 in Massachusetts, knowing
my father would die when the leaves were gone.


Each fall in New Hampshire, on the farm
where my mother grew up, a girl in the country,
my grandfather and grandmother
finished the autumn work, taking the last vegetables in
from the cold fields, canning, storing roots and apples
in the cellar under the kitchen. Then my grandfather
raked leaves against the house
as the final chore of autumn.
One November I drove up from college to see them.
We pulled big rakes, as we did when we hayed in summer,
pulling the leaves against the granite foundations
around the house, on every side of the house,
and then, to keep them in place, we cut spruce boughs
and laid them across the leaves,
green on red, until the house
was tucked up, ready for snow
that would freeze the leaves in tight, like a stiff skirt.
Then we puffed through the shed door,
taking off boots and overcoats, slapping our hands,
and sat in the kitchen, rocking, and drank
black coffee my grandmother made,
three of us sitting together, silent, in gray November.


One Saturday when I was little, before the war,
my father came home at noon from his half day at the office
and wore his Bates sweater, black on red,
with the crossed hockey sticks on it, and raked beside me
in the back yard, and tumbled in the leaves with me,
laughing, and carried me, laughing, my hair full of leaves,
to the kitchen window
where my mother could see us, and smile, and motion
to set me down, afraid I would fall and be hurt.


Kicking the leaves today, as we walk home together
from the game, among the crowds of people
with their bright pennants, as many and bright as leaves,
my daughter’s hair is the red-yellow color
of birch leaves, and she is tall like a birch,
growing up, fifteen, growing older; and my son
flamboyant as maple, twenty,
visits from college, and walks ahead of us, his step
springing, impatient to travel
the woods of the earth. Now I watch them
from a pile of leaves beside this clapboard house
in Ann Arbor, across from the school
where they learned to read,
as their shapes grow small with distance, waving,
and I know that I
diminish, not them, as I go first
into the leaves, taking
the step they will follow, Octobers and years from now.


This year the poems came back, when the leaves fell.
Kicking the leaves, I heard the leaves tell stories,
remembering, and therefore looking ahead, and building
the house of dying. I looked up into the maples
and found them, the vowels of bright desire.
I thought they had gone forever
while the bird sang I love you, I love you
and shook its black head
from side to side, and its red eye with no lid,
through years of winter, cold
as the taste of chicken wire, the music of cinder block.


Kicking the leaves, I uncover the lids of graves.
My grandfather died at seventy-seven, in March
when the sap was running; and I remember my father
twenty years ago,
coughing himself to death at fifty-two in the house
in the suburbs. Oh, how we flung
leaves in the air! How they tumbled and fluttered around us,
like slowly cascading water, when we walked together
in Hamden, before the war, when Johnson’s Pond
had not surrendered to houses, the two of us
hand in hand, and in the wet air the smell of leaves
in six years I will be fifty-two.


Now I fall, I leap and fall
to feel the leaves crush under my body, to feel my body
buoyant in the ocean of leaves, the night of them,
night heaving with death and leaves, rocking like the ocean.
Oh, this delicious falling into the arms of leaves,
into the soft laps of leaves!
Face down, I swim into the leaves, feathery,
breathing the acrid odor of maple, swooping
in long glides to the bottom of October —
where the farm lies curled against the winter, and soup steams
its breath of onion and carrot
onto damp curtains and windows; and past the windows
I see the tall bare maple trunks and branches, the oak
with its few brown weathery remnant leaves,
and the spruce trees, holding their green.
Now I leap and fall, exultant, recovering
from death, on account of death, in accord with the dead,
the smell and taste of leaves again,
and the pleasure, the only long pleasure, of taking a place
in the story of leaves.

Donald Hall
from Kicking the Leaves, 1978



  1. Wow. What a poem. So joyful and yet so sad and poignant at the same time. It sure brings back memories of scuffling along through the leaves after school and kicking them in little piles. It brings back memories of burning leaves, too. We can't do that anymore here. Now they are sucked up by a giant vacuum sweeper. I liked the part about raking the leaves against the house and covering them with pine boughs for insulation. Didn't Gladys Taber do that at Stillmeadow, too?

    1. I'm sure she did. We use plastic. Not so pretty, but it also doesn't harbor little creatures, though the house has plenty of mice anyway. Maybe we should go back to the old, more aesthetically pleasing way.
      I was so taken with this poem. I haven't read it for a few years, and this morning read it out loud maybe five times.
      I like your word 'scuffling.' Just right.

  2. This reminds me of visiting the family farm in Munsonville, New Hampshire, right outside of Keene.
    A simple old farmhouse built in the 1700s and still in the family. I went in the basement and it was granite on all sides. It was also fall so the leaves from the old maples were flying by; I took a little piece of granite that had fallen from the foundation and keep it by my bed. Its always fall when I pick it up~
    and I'm right back outside the house, watching the woods encroaching nearer. Fall makes us think deep, yes?

    1. A wonderful story. I've not heard of Munsonville, but have only been in the Keene area once. No east-west highway you know, so it takes forever. :<)
      I keep meaning to do a blog entry on my cellar. The foundation stones are giant.
      Fall doesn't make us 'think deep' - I love that.

  3. What a great fall poem you found to share. Paints a picture, tells a bittersweet story. Love it.

  4. I am such a Donald Hall (and Jane Kenyon) fan. Thank you for this.

    1. You are so welcome. It is one of my favorites. He says so much here.

  5. Reading this post yesterday prompted me to pull out 'String Too Short To Be Saved'--perfect for a cold and rainy afternoon.
    I don't read a lot of poetry--a frustration left over perhaps from the years in school when we were meant to read a poem while searching out hidden meanings--more as an exercise than for enjoyment of the imagery and flow of words.
    I find that both Donald Hall and Mary Oliver offer poetry that I can enjoy both for their careful wordcraft and for the deeper meaning--maybe its simply that I 'get' them.

    1. I've been thinking about String a lot too.
      And I studied a lot of poetry in college with all that imagery stuff, and while I enjoyed it immensely, it isn't the poetry I read now, for myself. I think if the reader doesn't 'get' it, what's the point. If you click on the poetry tab, I think you'll find a lot of poems you can connect with. Many of them say the things the rest of us barely know we feel, if that makes any sense.

  6. Here is a nice piece in the New Yorker by Donald Hall:

    1. Thank you SO much for leading me to this great piece. I've saved it. The last paragraph was sad. I'm happy though that something new is coming out for the Christmas season. Thanks again. I must read that New Yorker book section online more often.


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