Letters Between Poets

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Dear Don,

Thanks for your comments on the poem. I will put it far back
in the drawer with “The Wish” (the one about Bernice
Manchester). Both need much work, I see, but I don’t see
yet how to redo them. On to other poems!

I have not heard from Costanzo, though I did send
him the manuscript and a letter (I had sent him still
another copy of the manuscript and letters three months
earlier.) Since the judging must have been done some
time ago, I take it that Costanzo has singly forgotten
to contact me and say, “Sorry, pal,” or words to that
effect. Writing this, I’ve decided to write The Press
and see what happened to the manuscript.

I’ll let you know what I learn. I hope your “raids”
(Mark Twain’s word for his own readings and lectures)
are bringing you booty and satisfaction. Please congratulate
Jane on her New Yorker poem (read about it in the
Argus). She must feel great about that!

Love,

Wes

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Dear Don,

I am sorry that you two can’t come over
this month, but I understand why not,
and I will write you again about it
in late February March.

In the meantime, here’s a poem which
I hope you’ll look at sometime between
readings and trips.

My best Christmas present was two
books by Donald Hall—The Weather for
Poetry and Claims for Poetry. I am
still poring over them and enjoying them.
With all the talk about the lack of
poetry criticism today, I’m glad to

2/

have so much of it (the criticism) at once!

Incidentally, I recently read for the first
time, and liked, the essays in Living off the Country,
from the Michigan series. It made me
go back to Haines’ poetry—especially that
of Winter News, which I had never seen
before.

Thanks for all that good reading!
Hope to see you and Jane soon –

Love,
Wes

WHAT SLAUGHTERED ANIMALS CANNOT FIND

The chickens cannot
find their heads
though they search for them,
falling in the grass.

And the great bulls
are now on their knees,
having no idea
of how to stand.

The sheep cannot find
their voices. They run quickly
on their sides,
watching the sky.

–Wesley McNair

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Dear Don,

Hooray for Joey Amaryllis! In spite
of the sub-zero weather, I am going ahead
with my own January thaw!

Joey can relax about the social security
number. I will take care of that, and,
I hope, have his $10 soon—enough for
his monthly outing at Blackwater Bill’s—
dinner, dessert, tip & gas!

Thanks for the notice.

Love,

Wes

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Dear Don,

Could you and Jane come here for
dinner this month? – say, January
2! (a Friday), or maybe on the
19th or 20th? That would give us a
warm spot in a cold month—

7:00 PM—your choice of date, just let
me know—

Wes

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Here is another one for your collection.
If it seems worthy, please pass it on
to Joey.

And please tell Joey the reason
the tea is not helping his headaches
is that it’s ginger tea he should
be drinking, not the regular.

Love,

Wes

THE WISH

Bernice Manchester,
who exchanged the veil
for an apron, and wore it
on Frank’s farm for fifty years,
closing it each long summer
around hot canning racks,
each winter around reluctant
lids of jam,

who tied herself back
into it after bearing
each of his children,
and grew old lacing herself
into her black shoes
and walking to the same
places, stove, dining room
and chickenhouse,

who marched right through
five decades with string beans
and bread and apple pie
for his hired men, who carried
him eggs for breakfast
through the great hurricane
and windstorms no one knew
about within,

lay apronless at the end
beside the pink flush
toilet Frank installed,
and with a far-off look
announced that in her final
rest, she wished
to lie by him,
the salesman

everyone but Bernice had forgot
died just after she married him,
at seventeen.

-Wesley McNair