1982

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Dear Don,

Thank you for your card. After receiving it and
learning about your up-coming play, I promptly
forgot about going to see it. Which pained me
because I very much wanted to see it. It is not
easy, living in this head.

I appreciate your suggestion about getting
together with you and Joey to try to plan
strategy for the Most Famous Little-Known
Unpublished Manuscript of Our Times.

Whenever you say (before school starts up),
I’ll be there.

Love,

Wes

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Dear Don,

Thanks for the card about Pittsburgh, Carnegie-Mellon
and the anecdote.

The bad news I expected, but didn’t really, came
yesterday from Pittsburgh. “Now there was one: Carnegie-
Mellon.

You’ll remember I told you Costanzo wrote me
a good letter about my book last October–thus, after
I had unwittingly mailed my manuscript to him
too late for last year’s competition. Since he was
writing his letter before the last revision of the book,
I think I have an outside chance there for more
than a “yes rejection”–the note of praise saying
no, of the sort I received from Pitt yesterday.

I did send Costanzo the last revision, by the
way, saying that I knew he couldn’t do anything about
it at that time, but that I wanted him to
see it in its new form. (No answer from him

2/

about that.)

If Constanzo doesn’t take it, I guess I will
just stop sending it to the places I’ve been trying
for the past four years. More of the same would
be all that would happen.

Which brings me to my question: Are there
alternatives beyond the ones I’ve been trying?
I am reluctant still to send the thing to small
presses because such publication often does not
lead to exposure, jobs or grants for new writing
time. But there’s always Greywolf, I suppose
(assuming they’d be interested), and maybe
there are others…

Well. Please let know about this whenever
you can. In the meantime, I will continue
to write. I hope you and Jane will too!

Love,

Wes

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Dear Don,

Heard you tonight at Colby and wanted to tell you
I enjoyed your anecdotes, but you were surrounded
and busy autographing, so I tell you this way.

I also enjoyed the nice little volume of Ploughshares
you edited and am glad Joey was willing to give you
poems for it. The cover is great, and I liked
several of your choices.

No word yet from Pittsburgh, though word
is overdue. While I can’t help expecting the
worst, though I admit to peeking through
hands as I hold them over my eyes
in case something wonderful happens. Incidentally,
I’m working now on several things, but completion
of each still eludes me. I will try to send
more poems for “the fall campaign.”

Now I have an anecdote for you. A
student from UNH who is taking a summer
course on critical analysis from me at

2/

Merrimack Valley College told me the other night
that he is trying to get an English minor–may
even get a major in English–mainly because
of a book that got him interested in poetry,
which he had never considered seriously before.
The title of the book is Kicking the Leaves.

Take this letter out the next time you have
any doubts about your work!

Love,

Wes

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Dear Don,

I have a feeling I left a word out
of that poem, “When Paul Flew Away.”

On page 2, it’s “the whole enormous weight/
of him hanging over the sink.”

Please insert that word, if necessary–

Thanks–

Wes

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Dear Don,

Will you please let me know
if you think the enclosed is
ready?

Thanks–

Wes

WHEN PAUL FLEW AWAY

It was the same as always,
Paul opening the big, black lung
of it while the cats watched
from under the stove,
but when he closed
his eyes and began to sink
down between the straps
of his bib-overalls,
it was like he died. Except
the accordion was still breathing
a waltz between his hands,
except he called back
to us every so often
from wherever he was, shit.
Which meant everything
he had ever known
in his life up to that
moment, but this song.
Not some sock-drawer
music of getting a tune out
and then rummaging
for the chord to match,
but together, exactly like
he was breathing the thing
himself. No stomping
either, just Paul twisting
like he was after some deep
itch, only right then
he was starting to lift
out of his chair. Slowly
at first, like flypaper
in a small breeze, then
the whole enormous weight
of him over the sink. God,
he was happy, and I
and the kids was laughing
and happy, when all
at once it come to me,
this is it. Paul is leaving
the old Barcolounger
stuck in second
position, and the tv on top
of the tv that don’t
work, and all my hand-paintings
of strawberries as if he never
said this would be Strawberry Farm.
Hey! I said out in the yard
because he was already going
right over the roof
of the goat-shed, pumping
that song. What about you
and me? And Paul
just got farther and smaller
until he looked like a kid
unfolding paper dolls over
and over, or like
he was clapping slowly
at himself, and then
like he was opening up the wings
of some wild, black bird
he had made friends with
just before he disappeared
into the sky above the clouds
over all of Wisconsin.