Not Diamonds
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CutBank Volume 1 Issue 71 CutBank 71 Article 7 Summer 2009 Not Diamonds Frances McCue Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/cutbank Part of the Creative Writing Commons Let us know how access to this document benefits ou.y Recommended Citation McCue, Frances (2009) "Not Diamonds," CutBank: Vol. 1 : Iss. 71 , Article 7. Available at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/cutbank/vol1/iss71/7 This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks at University of Montana. It has been accepted for inclusion in CutBank by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks at University of Montana. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Frances M cC ue Not Diamonds Old M ill site in Walkerville, 2007 by Mary Randlett. Letter to Levertov from Butte By Richard Hugo Dear Denise: Long way from, long time since Boulder. I hope you and Mitch are doing OK. I get rumors. You’re in Moscow, Montreal. Whatever place I hear, it’s always one of glamor. I’m not anywhere glamorous. I'm in a town where children get hurt early. Degraded by drab homes. Beaten by drunken parents, by other children. Mitch might understand. It’s kind of a microscopic Brooklyn, if you can imagine Brooklyn with open pit mines, and more Irish than Jewish. I’ve heard from many of the students we had that summer. Even seen a dozen or so since then. They remember the conference fondly. 16 So do I. Heard from Herb Gold twice and read now and then about Isaac Bashevis Singer who seems an enduring diamond. The mines here are not diamond. Nothing is. What endures is sadness and long memories of labor wars in the early part of the century. 1 his is the town where you choose sides to die on, company or man; and both are losers. Because so many people died in mines and fights, early in history man said screw it and the fun began. More bars and whores per capita than any town in America. You live only for today. Let me go symbolic for a minute: great birds cross over you anyplace, here they grin and dive. Dashiell Hammett basedRed Harvest here though he called it Personville and “person” he made sure to tell us was “poison” in the slang. I have ambiguous feelings coming from a place like this and having clawed my way away, thanks to a few weak gifts and psychiatry and the luck of living in a country where enough money floats to the top for the shipwrecked to hang on. On one hand, no matter what my salary is or title, I remain a common laborer, stained by the perpetual dust from loading flour or coal. I stay humble, inadequate inside. And my way of knowing how people get hurt, make my (damn this next word) heart go out through the stinking air into the shacks of Walkerville, to the wife who has turned forever to the wall, the husband sobbing at the kitchen table and the unwashed children taking it in and in and in until they are the wall, the table, even the dog the parents kill each month when the money’s gone. On the other hand, I know the cruelty of poverty, the embittering ways love is denied, and food, the mean near-insanity of being and being deprived, the trivial compensations of each day, recapturing old years in broadcast tunes you try to recall in bars, hunched over the beer you can’t afford, or bending to the bad job you’re lucky enough to have. How, finally, hate takes over, hippie, nigger, Indian, anyone you can lump like garbage in a pit, including women. And I don’t want to be part of it. I want to be what I am, a writer good enough to teach with you and Gold and Singer, even if only in some conference leader’s imagination. And I want my life 17 inside to go on long as I do, though I only populate bare landscape with surrogate suffering, with lame men crippled by more than disease, and create finally a simple grief I can deal with, a pain the indigent can find acceptable. I do go on. Forgive this raving. Give my best to Mitch and keep plenty for yourself. Your rich friend, Dick. Where the Poor Look Down Upon the Rich and Some People Dance the Cool-Water Hula What Denise Levertov Has to Do With It It turns out that the lifelong Northwesterner and photographer Mary Randlett knew Denise Levertov. “At first she kind of brushed me off,” Mary tells me. “We were at a party. Denise had just moved to Seattle and she was inundated with people.” Mary and I are sitting in a coffee shop in Butte. Together, we’re visiting towns in Montana, Idaho and Washington that Richard Hugo wrote about so that Mary can take pictures and I can write about them. Hugo, Levertov and Randlett were all born within a year of each other Levertov and Hugo, both dead now, were born in 1923 and Mary Randlett in 1924. But, it’s as if Mary was always younger. “You know,” M ary says, “I drove Denise around. She didn’t have a car. She’d never learned how to drive because she’d lived in London and then in the East.” Hugo had driven his Buick around the Northwest, visiting towns and writing poems about them. At home, Mary drives a Subaru with the license plate “Nuance.” For this trip, two weeks on the road, I’ve taken a rental car and Mary has tugged on my sleeve from the passenger side, saying “Pull over, Pull over.” She has an enthusiasm that rivets your attention to the landscape. Mary gets up and goes over to a little shelf, where she takes down a creamer and pours milk into her coffee. “When I read Denise’s poems about Mount Rainier, I couldn’t believe it,” she says. “They were beautiful short poems, like paintings. I offered to drive Denise up Mount Rainier so she could see it up close. ‘“No thanks,’ she’d 18 said. 1 don’t want to see how man has touched it.’” Mary shakes her head and sips her coffee. “She was something else, Denise was.” Hearing this reminds me of how strange it would be to imagine Denise Levertov in Butte, Montana. Though she was the same age as Mary Randlett and she loved visual art, I can’t see her in this run down old mining city the way I can see Mary here. Mary just fits into places. She’s the photographer who assumes nothing and engages in everything. Placing Levertov in Butte was an odd choice for Hugo. Clearly he had wanted to dedicate a poem to her, but this town wasn’t where any reader would expect to find a poet who was more of a fine art poet than, say, a street poet—a British woman who lived in New York for many years, summered in Maine, who then lived in San Francisco and finally in Seattle— all the while writing exquisite lyrics in which her persona, the first-person “I,” was graciously, urbanely, staged. Levertov’s prose explained the experiments of her verse, illuminating the poems as if they were delicately laid out by hand, upon velvet, the line breaks twisted together with tiny pliers, the gilded fastener of one pinched into the shimmering link of the next. Envisioning her in the sooty world of Butte, a town littered with mining detritus—old tools discarded along the hillsides, enormous cages that once served as underground elevators and gears the size of small houses and leftover carts from the shafts—is an exercise in juxtaposition. Hugo must have felt the distance between them both as writers and as people. He, the shambling “fat man,” as he sometimes described himself, from a poor town to the south of Seattle, and she, the scholarly poet whose father was a parson in England. While Hugo was serving as a bombardier over Italy and Yugoslavia during the Second World War, Denise Levertov was working as a nurse in London. Hugo was making one mess and she was cleaning up another. After the war, for the sweep of her career, Levertov committed herself to social causes, to progressive politics, and to bringing literature into places outside the academy. Levertov and Hugo had met at the University of Colorado, where they both taught briefly at a conference in the summer of 1975. “Dear Denise,” he writes after returning West, “Long way from, long time since Boulder.” Even a university town in Colorado was upscale for Hugo. For Levertov, it must have been a trip into the hinterlands. Whatever their acquaintance, clearly, Hugo admires his colleague. “Letter to Levertov...” denigrates his whereabouts in comparison to her more glamorous existence: You’re in Moscow, Montreal. Whatever place I hear, it’s always one of glamour. I’m not anywhere glamorous. I’m in a town where children get hurt early. Degraded by drab homes. Beaten by drunken parents, by other children. He’s in Butte. And, perhaps more than most towns, this one tells the story of his own past—he could be one of the children who is beaten, degraded, and gets “hurt early.” In the poem, perhaps as in life, Hugo aspires to be a “writer good enough / to teach with you...” At the end, his parting line after a tour of Butte and of poverty itself is “Your rich friend, Dick.” He’s richer, the poem indicates, for his experience of being poor.