Letter to Allen Dugan, October, 1974

sometimes in the ridges
the wild dogs sing
tame as monks, and
can be called like the months
of the year to come

Dear Alan,

If you were me, here alone, walking through the meadows and mountains, having a vision not too unlike the ones Whitman, Blake, and the singers in the Bible had, not thinking at all in terms of the literary world - but rather cells of inner worlds, almost audible in their movement - or of ever publishing all that you were sensing, would you undertake such a lengthly vision at this time in vour life - if you were me?

It was begun years ago, but never had the accompaniment of a mature pen.

It will, if I busy (?) it, be a sung tournament of poems, a sequence.

I'll call it - as it moves now in my womb - BLUE YODELS. Blue Yodel of this, Blue Yodel of that, etc. Blue Yodel of a man crossing the road with an old rope and new string, Blue Yodel of the Recluse Spider, etc. & other, etc.

Are you familiar with how the A. Saxon Ballad & Negro Blues spilled into the same body of water!?

Yours,

Frank

I DREAMED ANOTHER POET SWINGING a few days later: Last night I could not sleep. I walked until it got dark. Even the day was crazy. I don't know if I had a vision, or what, but I saw a girl ride by. For some reason beyond my control. I got in a fit of depression - the kind where you write poetry. I typed up some old things but lost interest; went to something new: "BLUE YODEL OF STINKWEED", and "BLUE YODEL OF THREE INDIAN SISTERS." I DID NOT SLEEP. THE NEXT DAY, news came that an old companion of mine. a poet manque, hung himself in his bed. Immediately I began a very long poem, it turns out, BLUE YODEL OF POETS OF TIME PAST. Almost a gentle war song of the poet warrior battling to stay alive. It is over 1,000 lines already. Too long. A very bad storm knocked the lights out, so I had to write it in the dark. I'll be sending you new poems as soon as I can have them typed. Cheryl wants to come here, and I might let her. The poet's name is Neil Spearman (Frank means spear!); you met him, I believe. I've read your "Fall" poems for solace. Another poet. unknown. bites the dust. Writing his name into little chug hole of backwater of ARKANSAS-WE ARE ALONE.

words, once again, a little sweeter to taste.

Allen Dugan