by Anne Sexton
If nothing pans out I know I’m going SOMEWHERE ANYWHERE AWAY FROM HERE. Quick.
Got a letter from Knopf. Harry Ford seemed luke-warmishly encouraging about the book. And asks me to submit it when I’ve done all I can. (I asked him to send it back as it wasn’t THAT ready for submission) … A friend at Houghton Mifflin is dying to get his hands on it … Oh well—who cares. A book is a book is a book and if it isn’t really good who wants it on the reviewer’s desk. Not I. Not till I’m strong enough to take it. You are right. I run around begging everyone to approve and like me and then sneak back to my desk and write this stuff that people either adore or detest. It don’t make sense. Ford did say he would be interested. But, he didn’t say how much—I guess that’s the trouble. I want everyone to hold up large signs saying YOU’RE A GOOD GIRL …
Have got my money out to buy your book.
And my mother is dead. I’m in a state of shock. It will wear off, in time. Don’t worry about me. Be your own night clerk … I don’t want you to worry about me, just to be you. just like you are—stubborn, oaf … I wish I could make your reading. I will think of you. Fred wrote and asked if I could come. What large friends I have.
What think you of Yaddo?
I adore you (I door you, as Joy says)
Annie Pants
[To Carolyn Kizer]
[40 Clearwater Road]
APRIL FOOL [1959]
Dear Carolyn,
May I write you a long diffuse, misspelled letter? Here I am liking you so much and feel indeed as if we are kindred spirits. I do not think you will really like and approve of my poetry once you get a real gander … but I think You’d like me. There is such a slight, small band of lady poets with guts that it is impossible not to want to draw closer and form a band of understanding although we all play different notes on our own horns.
What I mean by all this is that since last writing you I was constantly tripping over your name in print, your poems in print and find that I must have sounded like a goop to say I didn’t know your work. Now I do—a little anyhow. There is no reason for you to know mine as most of it has been accepted within the last year and isn’t out yet. I’m the most about to be published poet around I think. Tho Hudson is due soon, I hope. Then people (poets) will know my work and now that I think on it, I am afraid. The stuff I write is so controversial. NO ONE WILL LIKE IT. Of course, you don’t write to have poets like it. I don’t. But I wish they would anyway. And they won’t. The whole trouble being that my writing has guts, but I do not.
I like your work. Your poems are well coordinated effects of texture and emotion. They do not seem like attempted rape. In fact, for me, they need more goose left in to take away my breath. DO NOT CHANGE THAT LINE. If you do, you have nothing left of Kizer, but a rather commonplace thought. You do not slug too hard for me. I rather like being slugged; to walk away from the poem with old wounds reopened and … let the poem bruise me. Without the damn goose I walk away unchanged and even bored.
To get to what will really interest you, Carolyn, I will forgo the rest on my bits and ends of by-the-way thoughts. I received your letter yesterday and as I was about to see Cal Lowell in the afternoon, took it with me. I gave him the copy of “A Muse of Water”, saying, as I tucked it into his pocket, “Here is a poem written to you by a lady poet.” There were several people standing around and he bent his head over, the way he does, (the crooked man by the crooked house) and fumbled awkwardly for it. I told him that you had written it after seeing him at a party a year ago. Still fumbling the pages he smiled and said, “Carolyn Kizer is a beautiful girl.”—(How do you like that!) I told him that I did not know you but that we had a slight pen pal going. And amidst the people and all—we parted. And now there are several more people who know C.K. is a lovely creature.
But this morning he called to ask me what’s the scoop. So I told him mildly how we had written a couple of letters and that you had written this for him after hearing his remarks on “lady poets”. He likes the poem. I said that I couldn’t imagine “A Muse” would come in for that kind of crit. I mean, it seems a careful poem to me, no rape or danger and still not the usual weakness displayed by the female poet. He agreed. I told him (I hope it was okay?) that at first there were more references to him, but that now all that was left was the “Charles River” … We laughed at this. It strikes me funny that all that is left of Lowell is a river, running through a water poem. Of course, there is more, only you’ve generalized him.
But the main things I caught from our phone conversation is that: he likes the poem better than others of yours; that when you come into a room you change the entire atmosphere of room (a real dynamic kid) … I am not sure if Cal is a good judge of poetry. I wish I could make up my mind about it because he is influencing me to such an extent. I probably am making a mistake to let him be my super ego (or critic) as my stuff seems to unhinge him and then he ends up thinking it is good tho violent. But I have talked quite a bit with him about various poets […] and he dismisses so many so lightly, with some remark like “accomplished but slight”—or so forth. If he BOTHERS to criticize someone it means MORE than if he thinks they are mildly adroit. And he has bothered to be bothered by you. If so it means something. […]
I am just not sure about Lowell. He has been very kind to me and gone to bat for my work at great lengths and showed it to Jarrell and such, much to my surprise. But he is very shy. We hardly speak when we meet publicly. Then he will call me up and we will both enjoy a frightfully stilted conversation as he tells me he has shown some poem of mine to this one or that one and they concur with his high opinion … It is so strange that I can’t explain it. I think he may like my work because it is all a little crazy or about being crazy and it may be that he relates to me and my “bedlam poetry”.
However, when De Snodgrass was here in Boston he stayed with Cal for half the time and with us the other half of the time. And this was early fall and Cal acted as if he couldn’t stand me. (or was I being paranoid?) … But I think that the woman is a direct threat to the man-man friendship. Maybe? And at that time Cal expressed open hostility to my work … and then, later, seemed to convert to it. This is just by-the-by guessing and for your added information and insight … Cal has been so kind to me that I cannot think of him un-kindly.[…]
My two children keep interrupting my train of thought for a cookie, girl scout variety. I have two girls, age 5 1/2 and 3 1/2, and a good husband who is not the least a poet, and very much a business man—but all in all a happy marriage in the suburbs. I have only been writing for a little over a year. But have really put great energy into it and would be no one at all without my new tight little world of poet friends. I am kind of a secret beatnik hiding in the suburbs in my square house on a dull street.
I read your letter to a good friend fellow poet who really related and is sending you some poems for P.N. I hope you don’t mind. She has published almost everywhere and is pretty good. […]
This is a jerky letter as I’m in a lousy mood but I did want to write and tell you Lowell’s reaction. […] I think I will apply for poet in residence at the local summer hotel (institution) as it is so fashionable and all. Cal and Snodsy both have books appearing this April. Tho I haven’t seen Cal’s, I hear it is full of personal poetry and think that he is either copying me or that I’m copying him (tho I haven’t seen his new stuff) or that we are both copying Snodsy! and that is true enough …
If this letter is awful, please forgive. I have wrenched it out of a clearly depressed day. I am having the dry heaves over a poem I don’t want to write, but must write. It is too personal and not good enough and still I keep trying. I will muster the strength to type out some copies of my stuff which requires no thought and will soothe me perhaps, tho I’m sick of all of them. It does get that way with long much worked poems. Please send me copies if you can bear it. I would enjoy seeing what you’re doing.
All Best Regards,
[To W. D. Snodgrass]
[40 Clearwater Road]
April in Wednesday [1959]
Sweet De,
I am glad that you wrote me. I thought I had died or something.
I understand your letter in kind. In all kind. You are right, I think, I must shuck off my poetic parents. But I have. Didn’t you know that? “The Double Image” [TB] was written this fall. Of course it shows your influence. And this IS difficult, but not unsurmountable (how do you spell that!) … It is funny—the line Lowell thought most like you is “watching the yellow leaves go queer” and you say it is most Anne-like. I think the main trouble is the theme of the child as a visitor. And a few other tricks of yours that I incorporated into my technique. But different, essentially, because mine is a wrenched story … I don’t know. I really don’t. The trouble is that we (you and I) are alike in a funny way. I feel we are simpatico. In many ways.
But that was the fall. Now it is spring and summer gains on me and the ground changes itself like a perfect machine. And I will continue to change myself like a wrenched machine. “Some Foreign Letters” [TB] (soft white lady of my heart) was a Christmastime poem. And I have written dozens since. Tho one of late that is reminiscent of “Double Image” [TB] in its personal quality. But a common theme (not special like the visiting child) but the commonplace of the dead mother (mine, not me) … O Snodsy, I love you; what’s the use. We are trees glued to the same forest. I ask you Snodsy, what’s the use/to even think of other trees/when we can see lots more of these/good spruce … That’s a poem too.
Yale Review took a poem of mine for the June issue. It is getting so that I have almost no unsold poems. The mail gets thin and dull and only your letters cheer. Still, I am writing—but I don’t think I like any poem of mine as well as “The Double Image” [TB]. Maybe that is only because it was so wretchedly hard to write. I am trying to gather up a group to send to Poetry mag. since the publishers tell me the credit looks good for a book. How silly! How silly it all is. I am beginning to think poetry is some sort of racket. I would personally rather send everything to Fred Morgan (he is such a fine soul … I really like him a whole lot … not in THAT way, but in a real-kind-for-special-folk) (you too of course) but I guess you are supposed to add credits like some sort of badge to wear.
So I will take your advice. At least I think I will. I am so changeable and all. Nolan (to my surprise) nominated me for a fellowship to Bread Loaf. Maybe I’ll go there. No one interests me to study with … I mean so few poets really fire me with enthusiasm. I suppose I will never recapture the terrific thrill I had when I read “Heart’s Needle” and became your fan and went to Antioch just to meet and speak with that great poet man, W. D. Snodgrass. There are no new Gods to find. So I must convert to myself. Or Christ. Or whatever. And now I meet young poets and they think I am someone to copy. I find this is threatening. (a WHO ME!) Ouch! My head is in the mixmaster just as you said. And I’m being sorry for myself because my poet parent is pushing me out of his warm safe arms and into the cool street.
OUCH! But, okay, because you is you and I do understand. Only one thing, De dear, let me return sometimes for a visit. Good idea?… And I know we will be uncomfortable until we are on a like level of growth. So I’ll just get me up and grow taller. I am a bean sprout stretching toward you. (You see, you can’t make me be angry. I do not know how.) Will you send me one visitor’s permit in the next mail. I hereby apply for a permit to visit your soul, on and around the date of need. I am a soft lady and will not bristle nor mar the atmosphere of said soul and will, in fact, honor its scars and shine its perfections. If you will award this permit, I will accept it without specific obligations on your part and hereby promise not to be influenced, comprimised (can’t spell it), or reminded that this soul is the biggest rooming house, with the softest feather beds. In fact, Kind Sir, if you can allow me the honor, I will be a level lovely loving friend … so much for that. It is a fine thought. The trouble is that I love you and I just WON’T be thrown out. In the first place, I did kind of walk out on my own and you didn’t even know it. (I mean you haven’t been reading the other poetry of mine carefully enough to see it has changed) …
Why don’t you write the Yaddo people about me or something. John Holmes received an invitation to go there. And he is going to go when he can get the time. It would be easier if I thought I could get in. I mean, if suddenly, I found I did have the time to get away sometime—then I wouldn’t have to go through the rigamarole of getting passed. (or is this never done with unknowns such as I???) Whatever you think best.
Ted Hughes and his wife (Sylvia Plath) are in Boston this year (he is an english poet) and they are going to Yaddo for 2 months next fall. She wants to know what it’s like if you can drink and etc. She is going to Lowell’s class along with George Starbuck (poet) (and publisher at Houghton Mifflin) and we three leave the class and go to the Ritz and drink martinis. Very fun. My book is at H.M. now. Tho only in a half way sort of way. I don’t think it is ready to be a book quite yet. It is tempting to go to Antioch and then Nolan and others, you and people, could see the book and advise me. But, in the end, I think I will know when it is good enough. And Lowell is a great help and very kind to me. […]
I forget what poems I’ve sent you but will send some along. I guess this is a lousy letter. I’m depressed. God knows why. I’m sick of figuring me out. My head is in the mixmaster.
HOORAY FOR YOUR BOOK. IT LOOKS GOOD. DAMN GOOD. I will write more about it when I’ve had a full chance to digest it. As a matter of fact you are the greatest.
love among the mixed metaphor and mixedmastet.
Annie
[To W. D. Snodgrass]
[40 Clearwater Road]
[April 1959]
the next day
Hello again,
I wonder if I wrote you a horrid letter? Gosh—I didn’t mean to. I mean I mean I mean, I forget what I said or how it sounded. I just must begin to censor my letters—they are getting out of hand. No super ego in them … or something. And too, I write very fast.
In the first place I’ve got you all mixed up in my mind with father-psychiatrist and god like folk. You mustn’t mind me, really De, I’m too mixed up. I mean to be straight and simple. But I’m not.
I think I am too mixed up to ever be a good writer.
What I want to say is that yesterday I did (you warned me but it did no good) feel kind of rejected. Fool! Fool that I am. Grrr, at myself … and whatismore, Snodsy dear, you don’t owe me anything so don’t let me make you ever feel guilty. I think, unconsciously, that I was trying to. So cancel it. Youse is a good boy. Even with a great dane which doesn’t prove much (I mean having such a BIG dog) but if it was free who could resist a free BIG DOG. Not I. Not even a free little one.
Do you know Carolyn Kizer? She has converted to my poetry I think. Lowell says she is beautiful. I have never met her.
The trouble is that I am crazy and the room, ah, my own room drinks me,
and youse is such a good boy that I don’t know how to blame you …
O dear, this letter is getting THAT way again.
Maybe I’m just frustrated. There is a rather nice poet in Boston who is in love with me. I guess I’d better give up and sleep with him. Then I’ll have something concrete to fret about. But then, lust is so inadequate. And loving exhausts me.
I guess that small success (i.e. acceptances from lots of mags) is like taking dope. At first it worked wonders. Now it is never enough. And have no mana with which to get more.
Frankly, De, I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
Tear this letter up too. Even my letters are incoherent. I meant to write a sensible note. But can’t. I’m not in love with you but I seem to keep acting that way. If I ever figure it out I’ll let you know.
yours without comprehension,
Anne
[To W. D. Snodgrass]
[40 Clearwater Road]
April 11th 195
9
Mr. Dear De Snodgrass,
Because such things only happen once and because it happens again, a twice of admiration, of a being struck down dumb with the poem … because I hadn’t EXPECTED to be found out again … because your book [Heart’s Needle] is the loveliest book in the whole world, because the words in your book are new, never discovered, never seen pieces of language and living … I am your ardent fan.
The god damn splendor, the just right simplicity—It is a needle in anyone’s heart. You will be great and famous, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is the book. You have done a perfect thing. I hold the red cover in my hand and the pages are as full and sweet as a first child. If I ever have borrowed your voice, I have done nothing but improve my own. By god man, you have it!
You know I said that I would never recapture that first experience of reading your ten part poem. But I was wrong. Tho I know the poem well (at least the parts in the anthology) it comes new in the book. It is the finest printing job I’ve ever seen. Three cheers for Knopf, they did you justice.
Whatever I have written you, disregard. I have no right to offer you my mumblings. They mean nothing—just the miasma of madness. I’m just writing as a poet. And as a poet, and person I’m bonged on the head. And even this is unimportant. The thing that matters is that anyone wrote it ever.
As I linger over the poems, I think to myself, “I must not read this. I like it too well. I am being influenced.” … But truly, De, I love this book more than I love myself. I don’t care about my poetry. I just don’t care. Zillions of us writing the damn poetry. It means little. But what you have done! I am richer because I read it and love it.