another letter to M --

[circa 1959]


Dear M --

I saw Irving read in New York the other night, and I was disappointed there weren’t more people in the audience but Irving seemed relieved there were at least some in the audience. I went with Carolyn. He read from his new novel and he gave a good reading though I could tell at one point he wished he’d worn his sweat band as he was having trouble under the hot light. I believe his wife was with him. Before his reading Irving told me about the wonderful thrift shops in the Village, and that I didn’t know how good I had it – in terms of thrift shops. And then Harry showed up and he and Irving chatted. And then some woman who was very pleased with herself gave the introduction, I thought she was very enamored by the sound of her own voice. She seemed to go on a little too long, first talking about how she felt ‘betrayed’ or something like that when she learned Irving had written a memoir as she was such an admirer of his fiction. Then she proceeded to talk about Irving’s index card method,and how greatly she admired this method, and I thought but that is pure fiction, everyone knows it is, so what are you going on about. Irving looked as if he’d lost weight, he looked healthier certainly than the first time I saw him up close, which was on the plane back from Vermont as he headed to Minneapolis, we shared the flight to Detroit where we would then go our separate ways. Irving looked to be in considerable discomfort, flushed and his breathing slightly labored. But when I saw him last week he looked, as I said, so healthy. And in high spirits. People asked questions. He answered buoyantly. He laughed, was self-deprecating. He told how easy it was for him to give up characters once the book was over. During the writing of his book, however, he could think of nothing else but his characters. His immersion was that deep into their lives, their psyches. Another question was asked. He told how he hardly ever reads Nabokov anymore as he spent so much time on his work for many years, read all of it and at such a level of intense involvement, so that he now felt no need to return. He was pleased that Nabakov had gone on posthumously to have such a fine writing career. Everyone laughed at that. There were other questions. A tall man with a scraggly beard, long hair and floppy hat asked some stupid question that people ask when they simply want to hear their own voices: “What time of day do you prefer to compose sentences in?” Or something like that. I didn’t like him as I often see him around town, mostly in the Café House; he smells badly, and slurps his tea very loudly. He sprawls his long legs in a way that disgusts me. He isn’t good looking at all, though he has the arrogance of someone who is. I don’t remember exactly what he asked. I wish I did. No, no. I don’t. It wasn’t that bad a question because Irving gave a good answer and made it seem like the best kind of question someone might ask. You know the kind of wonderful grace that Irving can display, suddenly and unexpectedly; he is such a wonderful speaker. Then it was over and Carolyn bought a book for Irving to sign, I had my own copy of the book which he also signed. Irving said to Carolyn, “But you don’t have to buy a copy, James already bought one.” And Carolyn said to Irving, “I know. James doesn’t like to share his books”. Irving replied, “Really! So James doesn’t like to share books? I find that very interesting!” Carolyn: “No, no he doesn’t like to share his books.” Of course I am standing right there, “That isn't entirely fair." Carolyn says to Irving: “He has a lot of secrets like that.” Or something to that effect. Irving chuckled to himself as he wrote a very nice comment in Carolyn’s book. Then it was time to leave I asked where they might be going, and Irving invited us along but for some reason I thought he’d prefer to be alone with Harry and their guests. Now I wish I’d accepted the invitation. It was cold that night. Kind of gloomy. I hate leaving people behind. I hate not knowing what to do. The next day I was in the store and Alice came up to me and asked if Irving was disappointed with the poor turn-out. “No. I don’t think so. Maybe a little. Irving was happy for the chance to visit the city.” This seemed to confuse Alice, for some reason she thought Irving lived in the city and had a place in the country. Then Alice had to answer a telephone call. Conversation over.

I wish I had more to tell. But I live so quietly. Like a church mouse. Or a mole. However, this you might find of some interest, from a psychological perspective. I was in the backyard, doing yard work. There is always so much to do. I had been clearing brush, using a machete. I paused and saw something moving in the grass. I went up close. To inspect. Thinking it might be a snake or even a cat. It was only a mole. For no reason I kicked at it hard with the toe of my work boot. Just like that I killed it. Then I went back to chopping as if nothing had happened.

Someone should send me a big sack of money. I worry about money a lot these days. I worry about my teeth.

Best wishes,

J.

letter to M --

August 27, 2009

Dear M--,

It has been raining these last two days, everywhere it is wet and there seems no place to go that is dry. Even what is dry in its bones is wet. I wanted to write you a letter for the longest time. Then I thought I’d save something special for you but that wasn’t working because nothing special seemed around. I went outside and picked up Biscuit and brought him in and said, “Such a handsome cat.” That was it. One day was like that and the next day, too. And then it was night so there. You can see I have my little boat in the pond but it is tied to the dock and anyone who rows it will stay in that place, close to shore, rocking uselessly against the rope. I told Nora I was going to write you a letter and she said she was jealous and I said you should write M--. Really, Nora asked. I said, yes, just don’t mention poetry. Nora said, that is good to know. After I felt badly because I thought, you don’t know that. You don’t know that M-- wouldn’t like to hear from Nora and moreover you don’t know she wouldn’t like to hear Nora talk about poetry, because after all Nora is a prose person and she is deeply intelligent and interesting and so might have fine things to say about poetry, plus she is Nora so M-- would like that right off the bat. I will write her and tell her she should write you and that anything I said about what should or should not be said should be discarded. I have a red history of saying things I shouldn’t have said. Oh well. Right this moment in the kitchen I am eating Swedish almond cookies that C-- made. They are very simple as the ingredients are simple: butter, one egg white, sugar, flour and almond extract. They are small round domes dusted with confectionery sugar. I made tea. It is quiet here. C-- is in the living room. J-- is up stairs. The cats are out for now. (They’ll be in soon.) The washing machine is churning quietly away. It would be nice if you were here. Drinking tea. Eating cookies. Well, it would be.


Next moment seemed
Remarkably like
The previous.


I was deeply touched you gave me erasures at the graduation, deeply. I think I love them, in my way, and after my own fashion, as much as any set of words I have ever seen. They are quiet and beautiful, and sad. Which is fitting. But wonderful for being all of those things. Notice I said, things. That is what I meant. For I feel qualities of life at times to be things, made, material. Anyway what question did I ask?

How deeply moved I was by the erased poem that in its entirety goes like this:

Our hearts were
Death-stones of the
Voice
Unborn.*

Those words found under what text I do not know, but those words suggest to me the voice of Paul Celan. I think about those death-stones when I read those words and I think I see them they are beautiful and sad and quiet. They might be stones on a beach or, more likely, in a creek.

I have saved everything you gave me. The cardboard, the envelope, the typewriter ribbon. All of it. I have saved it. It all seems special to me. All of it is the gift.

Some days I wake up and I want to say “Fuck poetry!” or “Poetry is bullshit! “ and think maybe we should just hand-write notes to one another and that would be all the ‘literature’ we need. ‘I saw a bird today.’ ‘Look behind you. Sunset.’ ‘Your shoelace is untied. Tie it, please. I don’t want you to trip.’ ‘Come to my house. We have almond cookies. They’re delicious.’ And so on. Maybe this would’t satisfy anyone but there are days when it would satisfy me. Maybe the notes could be in French. “Je suis … partout …’

Late at night I love to hear the sound of trains. In my boyhood I heard them all through the summer. My mother had a thing for open windows. There was a hand crank that opened the window in my room. I slept with my feet outside the covers. The breeze felt nice.

Here is a story I heard that instantly I thought you would love. Someone told me they saw all these dogs swimming in a pond together. One of the dogs was wearing a small life jacket. She didn’t understand. When the dogs came out of the water, she understood: the dog with the life jacket had only three legs.

True.

Three legs. The three legged dog is a marvel. She sprints in waltz time.

Poetry. Sometimes maybe it should be tossed in the river. Other times I think it would be best if we saved it and held it close and kept it in a quiet place.

I have hardly written anything though I find myself not at all concerned because while some people have told me about how they are rushing around trying to get their poems and manuscripts published I believe what will happen will happen in spite of our best intentions seldom because of. This might be delusion on my part, who knows. When it is fall there will come additional energies.

M-- I hope everything is going well for you. We – by that I mean C-- and I – might visit Vermont in the fall. We must wait, finances are terribly difficult these days. My job pays poorly and I have debts from dental work and automotive repairs that seem to cling forever to our poor factory of a household. Don’t worry though, somehow we’ll weather the storm.

Your friend,

J.

----------------------------------------------

* From an erasure sent to the author by Mary Ruefle.

epigram

I always feel less anxious when I recognize that the collision is already well under way.

Joe Wenderoth, Letters To Wendy's (2000).

poem poems

no. 1


Your letter-bomb arrived.
The worm is a busy animal,
Heavily armed, like a Wal-Mart end-cap.


no. 2

Seven crows in a tree.
A dog nosing nearby.
Two cats on a porch.
I carry a pitchfork
For no apparent reason.

fiction as an open letter

for Mohammed Mrabet and Paul Bowles

Amigo Mrabet,

You don't know me. That doesn't matter. Last night someone placed a dead dog on my door step. I do not know why they would do such a thing, why they would be so cruel. A man who would kill a dog for no reason but to answer to hatreds deep in his soul is a wasted man, a man gone wrong. The police came and banged on my door as I was getting ready to go to work. It was cold and black out. I had not even had a chance to drink my coffee. Come with us, the police said. All right, I'll come, let me get my shoes and coat. No shoes or coat, they said. All right, I said. The police are the same everywhere in the world. They took me to a gas station. Is this the man? No. Are you sure? I'm positive, he's not the man. Thank you, I said to the gas station attendant. I am an innocent man and whatever they say I've done you should know that I did not. I know, he said. You aren't the criminal. At the back of the gas station as I was being taken home, I saw the shape of a body beneath a white light. The body was covered in a white sheet, the edges of the sheet dark with blood. So, I thought to myself, they think I am a murderer now. What next? They left me at my door step. The dog was gone. It was nearly time for me to begin work. I would certainly be late. I started running. A man of forty-five running to work in the early hours. I am strong but my lungs are weak. When I got to work my boss called me into his office. Look, you're late, your getting old, I don't think you can do this work anymore. What, I said. Someone killed a dog and placed it on my doorstep. The police came and took me away and questioned me. There was a murder down at the gas station. I had nothing to do with any of these things and now that I am late you tell me I am too old. But I work hard and fast, as hard and fast as those other men who are much younger. They will tell you. They will say, he works hard don't fire him. My boss looked at me sadly, shaking his head. It isn't what you think. I'm going to have to fire you. All right, I said. I'm fired now. I'll just have to get another job. Good, he said. And take this with you. He reached under his desk and handed me a sack. In the sack was another dead dog. I took the dog with me into a field behind a dark building. It was nearly morning. I found a shovel and began to dig. I buried the dog. Then said a prayer for the poor dog and for all men. You say a man has no price, but there is a cost to being a man in this world. There are stones and there are the dead walking about with stones in their mouths. There are good men and women but one must spend one's life looking for them, in the unforgiving dark.

Adios.

letter to a murderer

Drifting is difficult because

directly into the face of winds which feel polar,

coming at me from out of the north

where blood is a rare compass.

Driving country roads I pull

onto the gravel shoulders the better to admire barns,

but it is the fallen barns that present themselves
most powerfully to me.

Some quality they possess

in their disintegrating marrow.

Perhaps they conduct themselves out of love. Or lack of love.
Where seas go forth

we know intermittently. As light is in that plasma

of unborder where night ends

and day blah blah blahs.
Crossing these off my list

an actual list scrawled in
the last blank page of some cheap novel

or elsewhere

in the mind existing in the form of a sub-cellular map.
You mean almost nothing to me

in that way that nightmares
about my mouth filling suddenly with broken teeth do.
Here is your palm of cinder.