Thanks for the straight talk
about the poem–even though in
this particular case, it hurts.
I find that I (stupidly enough)
forgot to mention my pleasure
at seeing your poem in the Atlantic. Always liked that one!
Will hang onto “The Faith Healer”
until the end of the summer &
then have another go at it for
new submissions.
Best,
Wes
A note from McNair about this letter: In the opening paragraph I refer to Don’s “straight talk” about “The Faith Healer.” His criticism hurt because in that poem, I felt I had found a way to deal with a father’s violence toward a son, violence that I knew from my relationship with my stepfather. As it turned out, this poem opened the way to my later poetry about that violence.
Just wanted you to know, while you are toting up
tributes for your special issue of Ploughshares,
that “Old Trees” was requested the other day
for The Anthology of Magazine Verse & Yearbook
of American Poetry, 1984.
Will see you (if you’re there when we go)
in Peterborough!
Love,
Wes
A note from McNair about this letter: I refer in my second paragraph to attending the new production of Don’s play, Ragged Mountain Elegies, in Peterborough, New Hampshire.
Just got news that my manuscript made the
final round for the Devins Award in the U.-
Missouri Breakthrough Series. I am supposed to
learn who won later this month. Here we go
again! I am trying to “expect nothing”.
Thank you, thank you for your note about the Poetry
acceptances. You’ve made my day.
Your note arrived just as I heard (belatedly)
about your being chosen for the Hale medal.
I am very pleased for you, especially since Frost got
it first. There’s nobody who deserves it more.
The poem Iowa took is “The Longing of the Feet”…
About the definiteness of the CMU connection. All
I can say is that Jerry Costanzo seems serious,
but has himself mentioned that I should
continue sending it elsewhere until September.
What good news about Iowa Review! Thanks.
I have sent the bio notes in, as you requested.
I enclose a copy of “The Portuguese Dictionary”,
as I believe your copy has a cross-out
on it. Please use the enclosed as the
“official” version.
I imagine, somehow, that Peter Davison
might like “When Paul Flew Away” and “Mute”.
Did Joey imagine the same thing, by any
chance?
I have gotten a new letter from Jerry
(we are now “Jerry” and “Wes”) Costanzo,
who for some reason speaks no “if’s” now
in discussing publication of my book.
Printing it through Carnegie-Mellon seems even
more likely.
Which is OK with me–for more reasons
than the obvious one. I do not wish to be at
Colby more than two years longer. The old
girl now seems certain to founder. If she
doesn’t, there will be no fun on deck.
Diane and I are already preparing ourselves–
psychologically, right now–to push off.
Thanks again for the invitation–I do
hope we can work something out (pen died.)
for that Saturday, or maybe for a
Friday sometime soon.
I’ve just discovered something I should have
thought of before I responded to your dinner
invitation. I will be teaching a class at New
Hampshire College (the first class of a 2-month
course) and therefore will not be able to get to
your house until 7:00.
If the delay does not matter that much to
you and Jane, we’d of course be glad to
come anyway. But I assume the delay does
matter, and that we’d better come at some other
time. In either case, I apologize for my
absent-mindedness. (Someday I will trade my
head in for one with fewer spaces.)
Editorial note about this letter: The poem referred to is “The Portuguese Dictionary.”
Here is the text of “The Portuguese Dictionary” as sent to Hall:
Each morning Charley
the house painter
went to work, he left
his clenched face
holding its unlit
cigar, and his old hands
moving in their dream
of painting pastel colors
on new houses that stood
in cow pastures. He
was selling sewing machines
in Brazil, just as if
thirty-five years
had never happened. This
was why each afternoon
he looked right through
the baffled landowners,
come to imagine
their twiggy sticks
would soon be trees.
Why when he got home
he never even saw
his wagging, black
habit of a farm dog,
or thought about his mother
nodding in the far room
among the water-stained
explosions of roses. Already
Charley was at his desk
down in the cellar,
waiting for his slow
legs and hands to come
and get the index cards
out from the shelves of dead
pickles and jams. Already
he was thinking
of the name for sky
with no clouds in it.
Or of the happy words
the women of Brazil said,
working the treadle.
Or of the lovely
language of the face
and legs and hands he learned
from a boy one night
beside the dark sea,
in some other life
of his lost body.
