Phil Hall
Phil Hall
An Appeal
Let the stone go—says little a—merely a lower case letter is asking—the first...
I know it is stupid and a waste of time but I am here pleading for the stone’s freedom.
All of the coin sorting machines at the grocery stores have been hauled away.
No one is supposed to be poor enough now to have to bring a heavy sock of coins to a store.
Beside a Mason jar of buttons / a Mason jar of coins—unsorted attachments.
And beside these—a few interesting stones found—fossils pink quartz moss on granite.
Poor Theatre—with a fistful of coins buttons and stones—try to pay for a coffee in a busy line-up.
Counting out your money slowly on the counter—separating out buttons and stones...
They must have named it a “counter” for a reason—see if anyone behind you laughs.
The lowest coin this coffee giant will accept—the smallest word this poetry giant will accept...
You will of course remember those one letter poems Schwitters wrote—for instance w.
Those sorting machines used to kick out any foreign coins—wrong royalty—wrong profile.
All I have—Sirs—is one letter—a—many instances of one letter—the first...
I intend to say each a—until there are enough of them said to pay for the stone’s freedom.
If I begin to sound like an animal with its one repeated cry—a—a—that is my nature.
I was powerless when I was eloquent—I was powerless when I got the grant.
Let the stone go—says little a...
Florida
It was only by luck I survived
now years later how dare I begin to call luck grace
with luck there is no slot to ask why me
hiding wary stoned under bandstands on beaches
my sisters & brothers prayed for grace
they begged for luck they are inside crocodiles
ask or not & you shall receive or not obliteration ad libitum
an old drunk in a Rescue Mission in Rochester
gave me his sweater as I hitched north in February
we don’t owe our details anything
the landfill drummers are chanting toward remains
but how I want to owe something something
to risk the thought that I was maybe watched over
& not rush to deny it in the next breath
The Twisted Fork
I don’t miss the city
no one wants to ever let go of the dead baby
each day a few more streets disappear
piled in folds the homeless
but there are fewer eccentrics
Kurt Schwitters takes his red suit off when told to
his ankle monitor beeps
a frog with an egg cracked over it
each tirade a trinket
the sacred wild ones we all protect around here
still live with their elderly parents
they eat free rice pudding at The Twisted Fork
same time each day
their spoons exact & unapologetic
tangled up far away yet obsessively oval
they invent & preserve revelries
we won’t ever dance
we like to think we won’t
in low fog after midnight
shifting gears warily
a truck with one headlight
is unicorn enough
______
PHIL HALL is from near Bobcaygeon, Ontario. He attended the University of Windsor, and began publishing poetry in 1973. His most recent books are Vallejo's Marrow, The Green Rose (with Steven Ross Smith), and Devotion (all in 2024). He has also recently published, with Margaret Miller, a children's book, Searchers (2025).
Guthrie Clothing—the Poetry of Phil Hall (2015) is available from Wilfrid Laurier University Press. His book of essay-poems, Killdeer, won the 2011 Governor General's Award for poetry in English, and Ontario's Trillium Book Award. He has been twice nominated for the Griffin Prize, and twice for the bpNichol Chapbook Award.
He is the founder of Flat Singles Press, and of the Page Lectures at Queen's University. He lives near Perth, Ontario.