Wesley McNair

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Dear Don,

I have finally finished typing the “book-book,” as you
once called it, and I am scared as hell. All the time I was typing
it, I was convinced no one had written a book this good. Now, I am
convinced it is no good at all.

In my off-moments, I think that section 2’s “porno poems,”
through which I recall the wildly male-chauvinist world of
adolescence, are not the right thing. And then I begin to think
that these and some of my other earlier poems are not tight enough
in their form. It gets worse.

Help! Please let me know what you think! Could it be that
a miracle has occurred, and I am done?

Yours in desperation,

Wes

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Dear Don –

I am sorry to have not written to you since my
return – and that I’ve written so little to Jane. I have had
a crushing work load during the past two months. I’m not
out from under it yet.

But I must tell you about your book. It is just
wonderful! Diane bought me a copy at the Dartmouth bookstore
last week. My particular favorites are “Kicking the Leaves”,
“Flies”, “The Black-Faced Sheep”, “The Ox Cart Man”
& “Names of Horses”. We have both read the book over
and over, savoring it. It is an awfully good thing.

We have also enjoyed Remembering Poets. The Raynos
lent me their copy, and I read it straight through,
stopping only once when Diane asked me to do some errands
and began reading it herself. We were both sorry when
we had no more book to read.

My own book – the volume of poems – 1) almost ready.
I figure I have only 2-3 poems left to do. I
plan on a count of 24 or so. If you are still
interested in seeing it, I’d like very much to show it
to you sometime up ahead.

In any case, would like to see you both sometime soon –
when the “wild” schedule to which Jane refers quiets down.

In the meantime, thanks for so much truly
pleasurable reading.

Wes (& Diane)

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Dear Don & Jane —

Here in Iquique, on the way to
Tacha, Peru, it’s hard for me to believe
we will be in the U.S. a week from
today.

Needless to say, we look forward
to seeing you. Until then, muchos
saludos,

Wes

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Dear Don & Jane –

As you have already discovered, the
man on the front of the card is myself,
mounted and dressed in C.U.C.
academic regalia, accepting the
“white horn” award for my lectures
on sexuality in American culture.

“But seriously, folks” – I am still
working on the translation of N.
Parra’s “Christo de Elqui” book
Though I have begun to doubt the
worth of the project. I have gone
through it now almost 3 times,
each trip w/ a different translator,
and the thing just doesn’t seem that
impressive. Since “anti-poetry” goes
back at least as far as dada,
the book cannot claim to be original,
so it had better extend the
“anti-poetic” mode in some interesting

2/

way. I’m not sure that it does this.

Briefly speaking, Parra’s book – whose full
title is Sermones Y Predicas del Christo
de Elqui is a sort of found poem, which
features the life/works of an actual evangelist
of the late 1920’s in Chile. In fact, the
man was pretty much crackers. Deriving
many of his “Christo’s” Sermons (each
of the book’s poems is a sermon or [preachment?])
from the real man’s own words, Parra
creates a speaker who sounds alternately
like a prophet and a lunatic. Parra says
about his Christo : “Sometimes I am his
ventriloquist, sometimes he is my ventriloquist
and sometimes we both talk together.” (We
are left to question whether the ultimate
ventriloquist in this arrangement is “God
Himself”.) Seems interesting stuff, no
cierto? – This in spite of echoes of Beckett,
Ionesco, Duchamps, etc. If it worked, the poem
might offer a rich parody of the Christ
myth, engaging its readers in a critical
evaluation of the meaning/relevance of Christianity.

But at this point what one might say
about the work is more interesting than the work –

Back August 25, 1978. Look forward to
seeing you both —

Saludos,

Wes

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Dear Don-

It worked out the way you – and I – wanted it: Ohio Review rejected
“Beggars”. Therefore, I am sending it to you for possible publication in
Harvard Magazine.

American Studies work is filling up my days – and my nights –
as we near the end of our stay here. What with responsibilities as
lecturer, designer of new A.S. courses & programs for other universities,
A.S. conference planner and, last-but-not-least, teacher, I have
lately had no time to breathe, to say nothing of writing. In fact “not
to write” is so similar to “not to breathe” that I am quite down at
the moment. Fortunately, I will be able to get back to 2 poems in progress
that I have sorely missed this weekend.

Hopefully, the Parra translation will resume next week – Maybe
I’ll even get a chance to write you a letter for a change.

For the meantime, Saludos to you & to Jane,

Wes

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On the flip side, please find recent poem.

Have belatedly discovered, through CSC Calendars
that friends have mailed, about the readings you
both did in Alumnae Lounge. Colby is lucky. I’m
sorry I missed them.

All is well here, Classes have started once
again, but I seem to have time withal to
write. Am still working on translations of
poems by Gonzalo Rojas – Also have been helping
Miriam Diaz w/ Adrienne Rich translations.

Won’t be long now, Don, before I teach
“Stone Walls” – which, as I say, I like in revision
(it seems more coherent, among other things) – still,
I miss some of the images in the earlier version
that I’ve dug out & reread. It’s painful
sometimes, isn’t it, what one has to throw away?

Jane, how’s the book going? Hope all
is well with you both in your respective
enterprises. Oh – forgot to mention, Don, how
very much I liked your Frost chapter of
Remembering Poets, whose I recently read in
Commentary. I walked around with it in my head
for days (should I say daze?). I will write more about it later, but honestly it was just
wonderful. For now, I am compelled to finish this up so it’ll make the Sat. afternoon mail-

Best to you both,

Wes

BEGGARS

the one without legs reaches
up as if he would have us pull him
out of the sidewalk

we cannot pull him
our money will not help
the big-chested man whose legs
are folded in front of him
like socks

when we turn an old man
is making an earnest expression
with half of his face
two sisters remember songs
behind their white eyes

where do beggars go when the streets
are full of rain
the man in a cart rowing
his half-body away
with his hands

the girl on wood crutches
doing her slow breaststroke
into our dreams