Ben Nikpour- Week 3: "The Things" by Donald Hall

The poem "The Things" by Donald Hall touches on the idea of sentimental items. I feel like this was such an interesting title for the poem. While the title is very simple, it makes sense and feels complete once you read through the poem. By giving the poem such a vague title, Hall allows the reader to imagine what they want for their sentimental items as he is trying to point out that there are no criteria for what can or cannot be a valuable possession. This is further proved through the content of the peice. 

The poem starts by setting the scene as he writes, "When I walk in my house I see pictures." This draws the reader in and makes them feel like they are in the speaker's home. Once Hall sets the scene, he starts to list things that catch his attention. He talks about seemingly random items like a cowbell, a dog's toy, and other goods, but when he describes them, he uses vivid imagery to keep the reader hooked and connected. 

By writing about the items that catch his attention, Hall is able to develop a theme. He is able to say that the personal goods we acquire shape our lives. He also builds the theme of how items can store memories and allow people and situations to live on eternally. All of the items Hall lists hold some sentimental value and have shaped his life differently. When he talks about the items he sees, like the "tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell, a broken great-grandmother's rocker, [or] a dead dog's toy," he is reminded of his past. Hall views these items and remembers experiences with his deceased parents. 

I find this poem to be ironic as he uses words like "detritus" to describe the sentimental items. Even though he calls the possessions trash and useless, each object seems to have a strong emotion or memory tied to it, making it seem like he doesn't actually believe they are worthless. Overall, I liked this poem. I found it to be quite powerful as Hall is able to say a lot in just a few words.

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.