Belzoni, Mississippi,

18. iv. 1938.

Dear Warren:

I don't want to be annoying, by persisting in sending you manuscripts that you can't use and have no intention of using. But I wonder if you'll mind taking another look at the poetry essay? You see, I have revised it pretty thoroughly, making it more direct (less an answer to Ransom's article) and shortening it a great deal. ~~Andy~~
The *Virginia Quarterly Review* pleads that it is committed to three poetry essays already, and doesn't like to carry more than one per issue. So I'm reduced to the alternatives of throwing this piece away or letting you-all see it in the revised form, with a possibility of summer or autumn publication.... If you still don't want it, it's perfectly all right, of course. And if you don't want to bother with re-reading it, that's all right too.

You'll find a new poem in this package, too. Since it is seventy-two lines long, I thought you might be interested in printing it by itself-- if you think it good enough. I remember your using Tate's "Fragment of a Meditation", which is not much longer, and a poem of about the same length by Winters, I believe.... I haven't enough things to make up a group, and I'm pretty keen on this poem right now, and anxious to see it in print.

Regards to all. And let me hear from you soon.

Belzoni, Mississippi,

9. vi. 1938.

Dear Warren:

Thank you for your letter of May 10th. I am really glad, in a way, that you couldn't use the essay; for I have re-read all of Ransom's essays together, in his book, and the acuteness of his theory as a whole so far overshadows all of the minor errors (as in the Shakespeare piece, which is certainly an error) that I should not like to go on record as attacking him, even on minor points. If I should ever print the essay, I think I should omit a great deal that is now in it.

I was a little bit astonished that you didn't like the poem. But here, once more, you are probably right about the first third of it, etc. I don't see any similarity to Tate's "After Dinner Speech" except that both poems are in the form of speeches and that both poems allude to night's falling-- though in different terms. However, the writer's judgment on this sort of thing is necessarily less accurate than the reader's, and I'm glad to have the criticism.

Although I almost despair of appearing in *The Southern Review* again (since my work seems to be degenerating pretty consistently), I am sending along a short story. I'd appreciate it very much if you'd let me know what you think of it just as soon as you can. You know, this is the lean season for cotton farmers, as far as finance is concerned. And if you-all can't use the story I'd like to try it somewhere else very soon, with the hope of getting a little much-needed cash.

Incidentally, I've meant for some time to tell you that I'm pleased to see an announcement of a group of poems by John Berryman. I saw some of his work a year or so ago, and I liked it very much; doubtless he is even better now.... I'm also glad to see that Prokosch is among those to contribute....

My very best wishes to you-all, to the Brooks family,
and to Albert.

Robert Penn Warren, Esq.,
The Southern Review,
Baton Rouge,
Louisiana.

31

120 Church Street,
Belzoni, Mississippi,
11. viii. 1938.

Mr. Cleanh Brooks, Jr.,
*The Southern Review*,
Baton Rouge,
Louisiana.

Dear Brooks:

I've heard that Red is vacationing in Italy, so I reckon you are
holding the *f*** fort by yourself these days. I hope you aren't
completely swamped with work.

I'm sending along in this letter a group of five poems. "Prothalamion" and "Song: To Exiled Art" are brand new; the others are *XXXX* reasonably new.... I thought this would be enough to make up a group, if you-all like them. Or, if you should like "Prothalamion" but not the little songs, then "Prothalamion" is long enough to stand by itself.... It seems likely that I'll get to bring out a book this winter at long last. Arrangements are practically complete with Laughlin, of the New Directions Press; and I don't think Laughlin is the maniac that Latimer of Alcestis was/. I think, accordingly, that the book is certain; but, after the Latimer affair, I can't be sure of anybody until the book is actually in print. I'm telling you all this in order to lead up to the statement that I'm trying to get as many things in print, in magazines, as I possibly can, before book publication bars them. But the book probably won't be out until after your winter number appears, so the winter number wouldn't be too late. *If*, of course, you should happen to like any of the new poems....

By the way, what about that short story I sent down to you-all in
early June? I suppose you won't be able to tell me anything definite
until Red gets back from Italy. But did the manuscript arrive?

The summer issue of the magazine was one of the best you've ever
put out, I thought. It is one of the finest single issues that I've
seen of *any magazine*, anywhere.... I enjoyed your analysis of Yeats'
*Vision* very much; you hit just the right notes, I think. And I am
looking forward to that book of criticism of yours (Allen told me
about it when I was visiting him in May)....

Laughlin was to have come down here this month, to visit me, and I
was planning to bring him over to Baton Rouge. But my grandmother has
been ill, and I've been out of money; accordingly, I had to cancel
the trip. I'm hoping, though, that he'll get down here in the fall
and that we'll be able to come to Baton Rouge. If he doesn't come,
I hope to get over myself, anyway. It seems ages since I've seen
you-all.

Best regards to Mrs.Brooks, and to Albert, if he is around.... And
let me hear from you soon.

As ever,

*O'Donnell*

Greensboro, North Carolina,

21. ii. 1939.

Dear Cleanth:

Since the publication of my book has been delayed once
more, I'm free to submit another group of poems for you and
Br'er Warren to consider. One of the poems is an old one,
entirely re-written; the rest are completely new, though I
think you may have seen one of them before. In all, they
make up a group of 190 lines.

I am hoping that if you like the poems you may be able
to work them into the next issue; but there is no hurry this
time-- the summer issue would do as well. I wish, however,
that you would give me a report just as soon as you can.

Belzoni is still my permanent address. I have just
stopped off here with Allen and Caroline on my way home from
New York, where I've been seeing publishers. Farrar and
Rinehart is interested in the poetry; and Lambert Davis
talks turkey about the poems and the novels as well, so I
feel that the trip was worth while, though, of course, nothing
may come of any of the prospects in the long run.

Allen tells me that the North Carolina Press is doing
your book of essays after all. That is good news to me, and
I look forward to the sight of the book itself.

Remember me to Mrs.Brooks, to Red and Mrs.Warren, and
to Albert and Miss Katherine Anne. And my regards to you,
in which Allen and Caroline join me.

GEORGE MARION O'DONNELL • 2122 WEST END AVE. • NASHVILLE, TENN.

4.xi.1939.

Dear Mr. Brooks:

I certainly do not want to be unreasonable or bother-
some, but I am wondering what has happened to the
group of poems of mine that you have had since last
March. As a writer, you understand how inconvenient
it is to have one's work tied up in an editorial
office for eight months, entirely unavailable for
possible sale elsewhere, while the editors give no
indication at all of their possible acceptance or
non-acceptance of the work submitted. I am sure
that you understand, too, that the money one gets
from his writing, however small the amount may be,
is mighty helpful, even necessary.

As I have written you before, I believe that the group
of poems you now have is much superior to the group
that you printed in *The Southern Review* three years
ago; and since the earlier group appeared in the
magazine, I should like to see the later group come
out there-- if only as some sort of evidence that I
have not stood still during the past three years. But
if you can't work on this, send the poems into the magazine any time soon, please
send them on back to me, for I should like to try to
place them somewhere else....

Forgotson is here, as you know, and I have been seeing
a good deal of him; he is extremely keen, I think, and
he is very well liked around Vanderbilt. He's quite
an addition to the graduate student body.

Best wishes to Mrs.Brooks and to you; and please, please
let me have some word about the poems.

Mr.Cleanth Brooks, Jr.,
The Southern Review,
Louisiana State University,
Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

DESCENT OF LEAF

The leaf will cradle downwards, rocked by wind;
The leaves lie round his feet. This severance
Must be in autumn. And he too has known
Bite of the sole through leaf on frosty earth.

The leaf will rasp the shingles; Ellen will laugh
Against his midnight breathing; the cat will fold
And telescope himself beside the chimney;
The possum's eye will shine through cold north rain.

But there is matter nearer to the heart
Than joy in the season's death. For one might come
And knock upon his door, and he would say
"Come in, come in to the fire." Not having seen

The face this decade, still he would recognize
The caverned grey of eyes, piled gold of hair.
And as he talks through autumn afternoons,
Hears horns of autumn sound on cold, bare fields,

He knows how little may be said and knows
He must say nothing of what might be said.

We do not know the rule for games of death.

Leaf breaks from twig; descent is a slow curve.

George Marion O'Donnell

LETTER FROM THE HILLS

For G.B.R.

Cassandra bent to our ear in a windy arch,
And we took warning of the ancient voice.
Dead branches watched our cheeks in the north wind
Turn white, then laughed and gibbered at our fear,
Hearing no oracle blown on the windy dusk
Where mules breasted together by the fence,
Hoofing the mud, impatient for the snow.

Maybe profile were best; the laddered pines
Bowing to impudent wind.

We rose at dawn
To read illegible calligraphy
Of trees, feet rude in ice-stemmed riven boughs;
No wind; the trees still nimbussed; silver grass.

Now there are other columns than the pines
Fingered against your going down to death,
To death downgoing dreamless. Yes, I know
The strength of marble, how the towers bear
Noiseless the static blast, stone upon stone.

Yet augury is tenable. The mind
Knows and in knowing disbelieves; but still
Look to your hearthstone for an oracle.

Wood ash is best, and if the ash be spread
Loose on the stone and scattered on the floor
Know us in mist and darkness, know that here
The wind has knifed our pines, scraping the hills.
Here, Ratcliff, is our symbol; this alone
May be our genesis. Remember well
Cassandra, how her words chopped by the wind
Required no exegete though from a mouth
Toothless unfleshed of time and mad with knowing.

George Marion O'Donnell

LACKING ART

The mind conscious of power may require
More than a single instance of a fact
Before it makes decision. Say the fire
Mining the walls disturbs you but no smoke

Walled in the nostrils yields corroboration:
The mind refuses cognizance, and well,
For this is but a dream. In mitigation
Thus offering an instance, recognize

Mind's error is more plausible. No mind
Need claim supernal power to invoke
The structure of your body; hands designed
Chartless the figuration on our bones.

But mind utters sound to the mind; this is the core
Of speech. Remember now the yellow hound
That bayed atop the levee, crying north
Against the threat of water or the moon's

Paralysis of shadow; cry of hawk
Elliptical and ominous; the sparrow
Giggling from fenceboards in his tightrope walk;
Dreamfathered growls of dogs beside the fire:

THE NEGRESS AND THE ASTROONOMER

Mattie the wicked negress had a wish
To to te her breasts upon a china dish
And mock our savant with the twin eclipse.
He shifts his hump and bites his bloodless lips
That twin dark moons upon a white, white sky
Should have no planet to be governed by
When he meets Mattie humo ring her wish
To to te her lunar breasts upon a dish.

George Marion O'Donnell