Letters Between Poets

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Dear Don,

I am very glad you like the present
version of “Seeing Cooch.” The Atlantic
has published “Shorty Towers,” the only poem
I know of that was pending (April issue).
Does he have others?

Wes

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Dear Don,

Will you please write and
tell me whether your
“investment” as NH Poet
Laureate is on for this
month – and if so, when?

Love,

Wes

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June 14, 1984

Dear Don,

Enclosed, a revision of the last poem I sent.
Please let me know if you doubt anything.
Otherwise, it’s Joey’s. Thanks very much for
all your help, as usual. As usual, you were right!

I’ve also enclosed a copy of “The Shooting.”
I’d like you to send both to The Atlantic
now, forgetting The New Yorker, if that seems OK.
Only, though, if “Seeing Cooch” seems OK.
How odd to think it two unrelated Communist
McNairs in this area at roughly the same
time! Thank you for the sleuthing!

Love,

Wes

P.S. Went to lunch with Mike Pride yesterday-
I paid in his honor. He sure is excited about that
Nieman! And I am excited for him. One of the great
benefits of that interview was I got to know him!

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Dear Don,

I enclose When Paul Flew Away and
The Fat Enter Heaven. If Joey
thinks its OK, I’d like to have
these sent to Robert Wallace, for
his annual anthology, Light Year.
The anthology accepts poems that have
been accepted or printed elsewhere–
The address is:

ROBERT WALLACE
BITS PRESS
DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH
CASE WESTERN RESERVE UNIVERSITY
CLEVELAND, OH 44106

Many thanks!

Wes

P.S. I don’t mean to burden Joey,
only to avoid confusion . If you
want me to send the poems, I’d
be glad to!

THE FAT ENTER HEAVEN

It is understood, with the clarity possible only in heaven,
that none have loved food better than these.
Angels gather to admire their small mouths and their arms
rouns as the fenders of Hudson Hornets. In their past
they have been among the world’s most meek,
the farm boy who lived with his mother, the grade-school teacher
who led the flag salute with expression, day after day.
Now their commonplace lives, the guilt about weight, the ridicule
fade and disappear. They come to the table
arrayed with perfect food, shedding their belts and girdles
for the last time. Here, where fat itself is heavenly,
they fill their plates and float upon the sky.

–Wesley McNair

(printed in Poetry)

WHEN PAUL FLEW AWAY

It was the same as always,
Paul opening the big, black lung
of it with that worried look
while the cats watched
from under the stove,
but when he closed
his eyes and begun 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 hanging over the sink. God,
he was happy, and I
and the kids was laughing
and happy, when all
at once it come to me,

2—WHEN PAUL FLEW AWAY

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 that 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.

–Wesley McNair

(accepted by Ironwood)

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Thanks for that news about Tilton School!
I look forward to whatever additional
discoveries you may have!

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Dear Don,

Thanks for the call. Wednesday is fine!

I learned today I got the first Honorable Mention
in poetry from the Great Lakes Colleges Association New
Writers Contest (for a first book). Somebody from the
Association says that’s the second place award of
the contest. Anthony Petrosky, I believe the Walt
Whitman Award winner for 1983, also got an
Honorable Mention. Since the first place prize was
won by a book which had not already gotten
an award (US, published by the Cleveland
State University Press), I am wondering if they
prefer to give this prize to an awardless book–?
–A way of consoling myself for not being first.
I want it all!

No letter has come about all this yet
(the announcement is sent to the nominating
publisher first). I was told by Joseph Parisi,
the new editor of Poetry, who was kind enough to
send me a note of congratulations, having
received a news release. More of this

2/

world-stopping news on Wednesday!

Love,

Wes