October 21, 1964

After all every one is as their                                              1519 48th Ave
land is                                                                                San Francisco 22
— G. Stein[1]                                                         21 Oct 64[2]

Ed —
             Thanks for yr card, esp. a Patchen one (its against the wall now where I can see it).
god knows where one goes finally — only finally goes — & I’m here, the fall mov’t west finally, even to living here (48th Ave), to hell & gone out west almost to the ocean, near nothing of the city, except that sea, & Golden Gate Park, just north of me (but then, those are of the real importance to me, not N. Beach or that area, scene, whatever). From here, where does one go? Having come here, I keep wondering (or at times, not “keep”) where that country, of Kansas most, I came from, is in all this mov’t now. Well, don’t we always. I met Don Allen the other day — he wants to use that photo of Olson I took, for the dust jacket of Human Universe[3] — & he said something abt a lot of people cracking up here — that, literally, it came to seem there was no place to go, once here. Jim Clyman[4] went back east, over the Sierras & then to (Ohio was it?) home, way east, in 1846 — but it isn’t an easy mov’t — I can go north (after all, to come to SF from Albuq isn’t finally a simple westward move — only so far as Los Angeles, & up to LA it’s as if the muscles moved w/o thought, toward the sunset — but from LA to SF, north, takes an effort of the will, a decision of the intellect (?) — & one wonders the why of that move, but not of the one to LA, as a direction), but to go back to the midwest now, no, or not at all easily. Oh well. I begin to feel, for real, at last, as a physical, palpable thing, the motion of the currents of this continent, ours — & do they, circling clockwise, west, to north, to east, to south, to west again, center, go down in a whirlpool, in Kansas finally? or never touch center, go round & round? idle conjectures. But I feel the mov’ts, as if an undertow under me.
                                                                                                                                               The ocean
fascinates & repels me, as it must always to someone from the plains. Calm? one knows across the plains, & cannot come to, w/ the sea, its endless restlessness (not at all the same as grass moving —). But fascinating, yes, & now, for the first time in my life really living near the ocean (in Cambridge it was miles away), worth coming to. It, and these hills of California, that are like no other landscape of the U.S. — bare but for the yellow grass & scattered few trees, rounded & steep. Why do they haunt?

Oh well. Its like coming to know a woman — not just the sleeping together, but the long contact day to day, intimacy, unconscious knowing of all habits, conscious knowing of them … that kind of knowing, not some silly symbol “the land is a woman” etc etc. Only recollections in the flesh, of how it’s lived before.
                                So I come, too, to total despair — & that’s been coming on a long time — the job in Albq held off — & now, free all day & night (as long as my little saved holds out), & knowing no one here but one friend out of the Army, come up straight against it — quiet & dull, the slough of Despair Despond did Bunyan[5] call it?, but mostly dull, inactivity, paralysis. In & out of, mostly lonely one figures. W/ all the work in the world to do, I can’t do anything — the Zukofsky book,[6] book reviews, an article, a prose thing on the Army, poems, wow. Slowly things crack — tonight (viz., this letter as evidence) coming out, maybe drinking quantities of strong black coffee — a cheap high, one I used to use broke in the Army — or the pitch reached re-reading War & Peace, listening to Bach’s B minor Mass & now the St. M. Passion  
                                                                   anyhoo! up & out — (of myself, toward at least the street outside & the beach & most of all G G Park)
                                                                                 So, wow, there are the mov’ts now. Vegetating mostly — soon maybe move to show.
                                                    The prose concern has been w/ me a long time — & now, feeling hung on what I was/wasn’t doing every time I tried to write a poem, its been a way to let loose, not care, do what the hell I like. I started describing coming to Albq in the Army, I went off for 5 pages describing the Army barracks, in detail. No one’s done that — that information, I mean — & the try at least stays with me. Only Jones has written anything abt the Army worth a damn (not war, you dig, but the life, way of it, in the Army). I don’t yet feel where the focus is in what I’m doing — where going? More what seems important to talk abt, include? It isn’t a “story” I’m telling — & yet recounts incidents — a form finally set only by the time involved — I went in 4 Aug 60 & got out 3 Aug 62. Where I move & how, w/in that, is my own predilection. It all happened. I’ve never read more than 10 pages of Proust, so I don’t know what he did. I’m not, whatever it was. Gertrude Stein, by god, seems closer to me than that — Bob’s stories & yr own — in that 1) they deal of the emotional instance(s) personal; 2) let themselves happen as they go, that form. (Again, no plotted “story”). Though if I wrote a novel I wdn’t do it like Bob’s (& I haven’t read more’n’ a chapter of yrs, so can’t say). But what I’m writing isn’t a novel, or not so simply? Damned if I know what it is. But goes. Very baldly (not badly), description mostly. 1st person w/ asides, senses of what happened, & the facts of the instances given pretty much in skeletal outline. Ah, lordy.
                                                                 I even plan to read James, yet, next (starting w/ darkest James, The Golden Bowl). What did you come to, reading him & then teaching that class? I’d like to know — I’ve avoided him except for a few stories, & they a long time ago — but it comes finally that he was American, his concerns & perceptions — & he was no fool, god knows. It’s always seemed to me his focus was totally on what I guess I’d call propriety — & that seemed to me finally only so deep, no matter how adroit you were in according all its angles, shades. I’m ready to. Last night I found EP’s article on James in the Literary Essays & read it w/ a good deal of interest. & I know Stein drew from him a lot. So I’m green, god knows. Wd like to know what you found.
                                                                                                                                             God, there is so much to do, if I only cd get my ass in gear, as they used to say. Energy simply — I want, or have wanted a long time, to do a study of the town I grew up in, as a place to focus on & draw in whatever, historically, 0f that whole area. Not a year by year acc’t, you dig, but a reckoning w/ what that town is, was, why, where, how, its mov’t. Literal reality of it — photographers (as I use in writing of the Army drawings, diagrams, sketches: of barracks, rooms where Inscription Rock is, etc). What wd one have, w/ all that (I mean really I guess, what the hell of me wd emerge — calculated or not, there) —

Malin has already written several articles on early theatrical entertainments in Ft Scott, & on several philosophers — two — who lived there — amateurs, of course, but significant of what was concerning people there, in that place, state, area, at that time (1870’s). Malin being very keen on such sense. Barbed wire, plays, grass, social darwinism, the railroad, why the library seems the center of town. The presence to me, w/ me, of that town is not at all (or that’s another thing altogether) bound up w/ the people, individuals I know, knew, there — but w/ its corporeal presence, as a body. & it isn’t WCW; “a city is a man,”[7] god knows, no. It’s extremely particular, houses, streets, smells, light, weeds, where vacant lots are (were, still are), where streets go when they run out of town, hills — all, on & on. The people change, or don’t — individuals come & go anyway — & a sense of that place, yes, means something as tangible in the town’s whole presence, as buildings. But I don’t feel any Spoon River Anth. or midwest Peyton Place acc’t (or Look Homeward, A.).[8] Me, except as relator, omnipresent then, don’t count. I don’t know that I cd ever summon to that acc’t the objectivity of resources & all history Olson does to Gloucester or anything now he turns to. I mean, a sense of my reactions to, evaluations of, perceptions of the place, wd always be on past specifics of history — always? I mean that the whole idea as it now is, is perception, & the reality of the bldgs, etc, not to illustrate or investigate some mov’t of human history — ?? The emotional, I’m hung on? God knows. It wd have to come out in the work of it, I can’t fore-guess now. God knows I’ve got to come to a pt where Olson doesn’t freeze me up in awe & frustration to ever do anything he hasn’t already seen, understood, & done long before — i.e. feel I’m w/ him, not down below & no where — & not against, who’s competing?
                                 Anyhoo. Enough of all this. How are you all there? Snow yet? All seasons blend here, but still the angle of the light is Fall, clearly. Is Idaho Out out yet? & that Wagnon,[9] in SLC, how’s he? I wrote twice, & asked for WD 10,[10] which I’ve seen, but no answer yet. Clammed up, pissed off, cracked, or busy? What’s become of that anthology on the West — god I cd ask questions all night, & that’s dull. / I liked yr various views from the N. side grocery in MATTER 2[11] (this is 1st I’ve had chance to say), only felt a generalizing in 6 I hadn’t before in others? Or am I full of shit? The lines’ mov’t is fine; very very fine — I admire so much that long sinuously, more adroit here than even The Newly Fallen. Yas. Damn, the moon’s near nigh full & it’s close on to Halloween — I’ll have to go & scare somebody. Barricade myself in w/ enough to drink, against the marauding kids that’ll come. Or turn on & laugh. Anyhow, write, when you can! One longs, almost, for that frost you must have already had up there — breath of it on envelopes, at least. Hang loose!


 — Ken

P.S. Peyote can be had by mail — maybe you already have the info, but if not — 100 buttons for $11 (ask for it cured & they’ll send it so w/o charge)! /

H. C. Lawson
Lawson’s Cactus Farm
1223 S. Alamo St.
San Antonio, Texas

 Abt 5 buttons — ground & put in capsules is easiest — seems a “normal” high.



1. Stein quote from Wars I Have Seen (New York: Random House, 1945), 250. Stein mentions Kansas on the previous page.

2. Irby to Dorn, 21 October 1964, Ed Dorn Papers, series I, box 1, folder 17, Courtesy of Department of Special Collections and University Archives, Stanford University Libraries.

3. Olson, Human Universe and Other Essays, ed. Don Allen (New York: Grove Press, 1967). The photograph now appears on the cover of Olson’s Collected Prose, ed. Don Allen and Benjamin Friedlander (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997).

4. James Clyman (1792–1881), ranger and explorer of the American West, explored the South Pass with Jedediah Smith, about whom Irby wrote a lengthy half-narrative poem, “Jed Smith and the Way,” which originally appeared in Caterpillar 17 (October 1971): 99–112, and was later collected in Catalpa (Lawrence: Tansy Press, 1977). Clyman went back to Ohio, as Irby recalls, after his missions out West, but thereafter returned to settle in Napa, California.

5. John Bunyan (1828–1888); the “Slough of Despond,” is a bog in Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress.

6. For a period of time, Irby planned to write a book on Zukofsky for the Twayne’s US Authors Series.

7. Williams’s author’s note to Paterson (New York: New Directions, 1946) begins: “Paterson is a long poem in four parts — that a man in himself is a city, beginning, seeking, achieving and concluding his life in ways which the various aspects of a city may embody — if imaginatively conceived — any city, all the details of which may be made to voice his most intimate convictions.”

8. Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology (New York: Macmillan, 1915); Grace Metalious, Peyton Place (New York: Julian Messner, 1956); Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward Angel (New York: Scribner, 1929).

9. Drew Wagnon, coeditor of Wild Dog, beginning with vol. 1, no. 3, in 1963, until the magazine’s final issue, vol. 3, no. 21, in 1966. Wagnon was a student of Dorn’s at Idaho State University, Pocatello, Idaho. For further info, see Clay and Phillips, A Secret Location on the Lower East Side.

10. Wild Dog 10; see endnote 11 (“April 30, 1963”).

11. Dorn’s poem “Six views from the same window of the Northside Grocery” appeared in Matter 2 (1964), and was collected in Geography (London: Fulcrum Press, 1965/1968).

January 16, 1963

16 Jan 63[1]

Your unexpected & very welcome letter got to me this morning, forwarded from NY — I want to get some sort of answer off to you right away, but there won’t be as much as I’d like to go into, with final exams breathing down my neck in abt 2 days & more to do than I want to even admit to myself. So, well, anyway — it is good to hear from you — god, I intended more than once during the more than year it’s been since I saw you last, to write — but first the army,[2] which ended up sending me to the Pacific on the atom tests for abt 4 months last spring & summer,[3] then this place have contrived to keep me from doing much of anything but drudgery — I seriously doubt I can hold out here past this year & god knows why I should really, but we’ll see what happens; for whatever, I’m just not an academic type & can’t be even enough to go through the motions here. Anyway, I have thought many times to write you, but like writing to Olson,[4] such a letter is not one I wanted to dash off without thinking a lot first abt what I wd say — the care, at any rate, the concern such a letter would mean — you know what I mean. So anyway, enough of apologies.

I’m glad Jones liked what I sent him — they look less impressive to me the more I reread them, but then, yeah — he asked me to send him some more, which I did — he said he wanted to use them for the April issue, if he can get it out.[5] It was a great thing for me, anyway — I mean, a tangible support at a time when it was needed. & just the week before the New Mex Quarterly took one poem too — so, wow, all at once a breakthrough.[6] I feel, I know there is so much work for me to do just as a beginning really, in order to ever write any even one thing worth a damn, that to stay here much longer seems impossible — all my energy going into learning Japanese & Chinese & the history — when I don’t have the real knack for language nor even the beginnings of the historical insight necessary to produce a great work (& god knows there needs to be one on China, yes). Anyway, though, not to go on abt this. The point is my increasing commitment to writing, that Harvard, nor any such place, can’t foster (or prevent). Clearly. But the commitment is there, for better or worse. I’ve got so fucking much to learn.

So — the Malin[7] books.[8] The name & address you’ve got is the man alright — his books are several, & for the most part only available from him. […] [T]he major book, I guess, the one I find I keep looking over & over again & again is called The Grasslands of North America,[9] which amounts to a commentary on all — scientific & historical — that has been written on the great plains as geographical area — from explorations to ecological treatises. The bibliography alone — abt 60 pages — is a great thing to have. That one is avail. from Malin — I think the cost is abt $4.00 or so. Winter Wheat in Kansas[10] was published by the Univ of Kansas Press, is still I think in print (pretty sure, I only got my copy last year). A book of essays mainly on late 19th cent in the mid-west, Confounded Rot About Napoleon,[11] is from Malin himself again, as well as some other things I figure. His earliest book, the one which made his reputation, so to speak, is titled John Brown & the Spirit of ’56, (? I think that’s it — put out by Am Philosophical Soc, or Am Historical Society, or something of that sort,[12] I don’t have my copy here & I’ve barely looked at the book since I got it in the summer.). So, I guess to write to Malin himself at that address you’ve got would be the best thing, & the Grasslands book esp. as what seems to me his greatest thing, & the most useful for coming to grips with what is there. […] [I]t seems to me he’s one of the few people writing about the land, the country there, the land, god, that you can go to & learn from, tangible things, directly & to the point.
                                                                                                                                                     Libraries might have his things —though the privately printed stuff like the Grasslands bit (new edition last year) might not be in them.  — Will write more about Malin when finals are over & I’m more or less free again, hopefully.

Maybe it’s only my feeling for my own country there, Kansas, but anyway, so it is. Bob[13] should still have somewhere a copy of the Kansas Historical Magazine I left with him, with an article in it by Malin on where the people came from who settled in Kansas, during different decades of the 19th cent.[14] Another point of concern. When you see him in February, you might ask him to try to find it.
        & say hello from me, too; I haven’t heard anything out of him for a while now, figuring he’s busy as hell on the novel[15] & school, etc. So, well.
                                                                                       I got up to see Olson once briefly in September, rode up to Gloucester on a Lambretta w/ a friend of mine[16] & nearly froze my ass off, but the trip was worth it — after finals are over next week I hope to get up again. He spoke abt yr prose in particular when I was up there, with a great deal of praise. Yr things in Kulchur & Yugen[17] lately have been greater to read than anything else prose-wise I’ve come into lately or for a long time — the more here in Boston & out of my natural country did they speak greatly to me. Well hell, I can’t say anything that will say more clearly, this damned Japanese clouds my brain completely. I hope the anthology of contemp. Am. Prose will be out before too long, & can get at more of yr stuff. Any hope for another bk of poems?
& what is the bit you’re doing on the West? I’d like to know more about that too …

So, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll stick in one thing, one of the poems Yugen took.[18] The thought in it is pretty loose & wobbly, too generalized, but that’s what to work out of, to go on away from. & the try, by god, the try I don’t give up on, yet.
Let me hear from you again, wish I could write more now, but no time. My best to Helene & the kids[19] — & wishing to hell I was there in Idaho instead of here in Cambridge next to the Hertz RentaTruck

  Hope the reading in Vancouver[20] goes w/ great things.                                  best, as always
                                                                                                                                                      — Ken

Elie Dorfman[21] also sends her best wishes, etc., when I talked to her briefly tonight. Her cat — named after Corso[22] — I’ve taken in because of her roommate, is crawling all over me as I write this — reason among others for the frequent mistakes & flubs — but a great cat.

 Till later —



1. Kenneth Irby to Edward Dorn, 16 January 1963, Ed Dorn Papers, series I, box 1, folder 17, Courtesy of Department of Special Collections and University Archives, Stanford University Libraries.

2. See the chronology included in this special issue, as well as Irby’s short account of witnessing the detonation of a nuclear warhead in his poem “For Round Dances,” in The Intent On: Collected Poems, 1962–2006 (Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2009), 50.

3. [Irby’s handwritten note:] got out of the Army in August

4. Charles Olson (1910–1970).

5. LeRoi Jones/Amiri Baraka (b. 1934), editor of Yugen from 1958 to 1962 (with Hettie Cohen, coeditor for nos. 6–8); coeditor, with Diane di Prima, of The Floating Bear from 1961 to 1963; founder of Totem Press, active from 1958 through 1962; and coeditor and critic for Kulchur from 1960 to 1965. Dorn’s correspondence with LeRoi Jones is extensive, see: Amiri Baraka and Edward Dorn: the Collected Letters, ed. Claudia Moreno Pisano (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2013), as well as “Edward Dorn, American Heretic,” Chicago Review 57, nos. 1/2 (Summer/Autumn 2012).

6. Irby’s poem “Madrid, New Mexico” was published in the New Mexico Quarterly 33, no. 1 (Spring 1963): 68–69.

7. [Irby’s handwritten note:] (“Barbed Wire” Malin he’s known as)

8. James C. Malin (1893–1979), historian and author of The Grasslands of North America, among much else, whose writing had a heavy influence on Irby’s poetics and sense of geography. See Irby’s prose pieces on meeting Malin (and Carl Sauer) elsewhere in this special issue.

9. [Irby’s handwritten note]: this must be the one Bob mentioned I’d shown him

10. Malin, Winter Wheat in the Golden Belt of Kansas: A Study in Adaptation to Sub-humid Geographical Environment (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 1944).

11. Malin, Confounded Rot about Napoleon: Reflections upon Science and Technology, Nationalism, World Depression of Eighteen-Nineties, and Afterwards (Lawrence: James C. Malin, 1961).

12. Malin, John Brown and the Legend of Fifty-Six (Philadelphia: The American Philosophical Society, 1942).

13. Robert Creeley (1926–2006).

14. Irby is referring either to Malin’s article “Housing Experiments in the Lawrence Community, 1855,” Kansas Historical Quarterly 21, no. 2 (Summer 1954): 95–121, or “The Turnover of Farm Population in Kansas,” Kansas Historical Quarterly 4, no. 4 (November 1935): 339–372.

15. Creeley, The Island (New York: Scribner, 1963).

16. Robert Grenier (b. 1941). See Robert Grenier’s essay in this feature.

17. See endnote 5, (“January 16, 1963”). Dorn’s seminal essay “What I See in the Maximus Poems” was published in Kulchur 4 (1961), and his “Notes More or Less Relevant to Burroughs and Trocchi,” as well as his review of Michael McClure’s The New Book of Torture, were published in Kulchur 8. Dorn’s prose reflection “Notes About Working and Waiting Around” was published in Yugen 8 (1962).

18. Jones’s involvement with Floating Bear ended before the issue containing Irby’s “Grasslands of North America” would be published; the poem was instead published in Robert Kelly’s magazine, Matter 1 (Jan 1964): 5.

19. Dorn married Helene Buck in Seattle on July 1, 1954. They had a son, Paul (b. 1954), and Buck had two children from a previous marriage — son Fred (b. 1949), and daughter Chansonette (b. 1952). From 1961 to 1965, the family lived in a refurbished chicken coop on Ray Obermayr’s ranch outside of Pocatello, where Dorn taught at Idaho State University. Dorn had met Obermayr in 1950, when he enrolled in the latter’s painting class at Eastern Illinois University. Dorn attended Eastern Illinois for two years before dropping out and, at Obermayr’s suggestion, enrolling in classes (initially as a painter, not a writer) at Black Mountain College in 1954. For further information, see Tom Clark’s Edward Dorn: A World of Difference (Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2002).

20. Dorn gave a reading at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, in February 1963 (recording available online at Pennsound and the Slought Foundation).

21. Elsa Dorfman (b. 1937) — Cambridge-based photographer.

22. Gregory Corso (1930–2001).

April 17, 1966

Kenneth Irby with son, Daniel.

2009 Rose
Berkeley, Calif.
17 Apr 66[1]

ED —

             I asked Mike Brodhead[2] to send on some more of the Red Cloud[3] photos to you but I haven’t heard from him, so don’t know if he has, or has more, or what. Hopefully there are some left he can send. [Brodhead is going to England in June — will you still be there? I’ll give him (or he has already) yr address — he’s a very pleasant man, a student of Malin’s & head of the Kansas Collection in the Univ. of Kansas Library now.] / Are you staying on another year? I’ve heard rumors of? The people at K.U., by the way, are very interested in yr possibly coming there at least as far as I can tell. Creeley will doubtless have more information after his 2 weeks there. /

     Anyway. Here it’s Sunday, grey & cold after almost 80 yesterday. Verdi’s Requiem’s on the radio & I’m reading Paul Metcalf’s new book GENOA,[4] very strange & compelling work “on” Melville & Columbus, as well as the blood & the body — combined w/ “fiction” (how much it’s not clear — the narrator’s brother gets fused eventually w/ Carl Austin Hall, the K.C. kidnapper of 15 years ago [who was of a very old pioneer family from a town abt 30 miles N of where I grew up in Kansas.][5] centering equally on the landscape of the “middle west” — the prairie, let’s say, not the great plains — Indiana to Missouri, long grass & tree-ed. It is all in all a curiously fascinating work. Betimes I read George MacDonald’s[6] fairy stories. /                                                                                                                                                                                           Someone who was through left a copy of yr Geography, so I’ve been reading through that at leisure, too. A store down the street got Bunting’s Loquitur[7] also, but it’s too expensive to get now, short of copping (& it’s pretty big to do that, alas). But I’ve had a chance to look through it, & lord, it’s a beautiful book. /
                                                                                                         Of yr own book, of the poems I hadn’t seen before (which weren’t too  many) at all, it was the “Inauguration Poem #2” that really knocked me out — the dimensions of it. The relation of orders of the continent is set anew. Oh, the zap “We ever held it certain that going toward the sunset we would find what we desired.” — Cabeza de Vaca.[8] /

The good individual salvation is, is that, having come there, all the people are already there for you, you can meet them finally; not that any isolation, even w/ Divinity, occurs. O the federations of divinity. Last Sunday, Easter, I went to Sacramento & marched w/ the grape strikers their last lap from Delano to the capital bldg.[9] Even the cops were sympathetic & pleasant — meanwhile Gov. Brown[10] spent Easter w/ Frank Sinatra in Palm Springs. The coils & all motion of relation w/ anyone, are here, this, now. So that VietNam diminishes all friendship everywhere, but the act where we are w/ those we know is the only construct against it constantly. Where do the poems go, & to what end? If not now. So I applaud Creeley’s decision not to go to Pakistan, & even more his explicitly telling them the govt’s policy in VN made impossible his going as any kind of representative of it. I wd go further & say there is no govt anywhere anyone cd go as a representative of, no matter what current details of policy. What a great man Ammon Hennacy[11] really is, in the face of everything, the beauty of his acts, down the line.

“Let them imagine a life which is the outcome and growth of all lives,
and is mixed. But let them also imagine another life to grow in it from
all the lives, which though it had grown from all the lives, was free from
all the other lives, and yet possessed all the essential properties of those
lives. This other new life (let them imagine) is illuminated w/ the light,
and only in itself, so that it cd behold all the other lives, and they (the
other lives) could not see or apprehend the new life.”

                                                                       Jacob Boehme[12]

                                                                                                                   preface to Six Theosophical Points

 That last sentence I don’t know abt, but I am w/ him otherwise. Duncan more & more seems to me most a genuine anarchist poet. Why does no one note this — all his antecedents he clearly refers to? //

      News: Jonathan Greene[13] tells me Doubleday has taken Kelly’s novel Scorpions.  Kelly will apparently replace X. J. Kennedy at Tufts next year, Kennedy going to UC Irvine (Orange County S. of L.A. — Birch country), where are the Wagnons?[14] Have heard nor hide nor hair since they left a month ago. /
                           Anyhow. Hope Italy is/was what all Englishmen obviously flipped for, after England’s winters — SUN! WARMTH! Keep well, all of you, & write as you can. Hang loose!


                                                                                                                             — Ken 



1. Irby to Dorn, 17 April 1966, box 13, folder 137, Edward Dorn Papers, Archives and Special Collections at the Thomas J. Dodd Research Center, University of Connecticut Libraries.

2. Michael Brodhead, historian, archivist, and friend of Irby’s since the late ’50s. See also Irby’s account of meeting Malin in this feature.

3. Red Cloud (Lakota: Makhpiya Luta; 1822–1909), war leader and statesmen of the Oglala Lakota (Sioux). Irby supplied Olson with a copy of the Red Cloud photograph, which appears on the translucent flyleaf of Olson’s ‘West’ (London: The Goliard Press, 1966).

4. Paul Metcalf, Genoa: A Telling of Wonders (Highlands: Jargon Society, 1965).

5. Carl Austin Hall (1919–1923) along with Bonnie Brown Heady, kidnapped and murdered six-year-old Bobby Greenlease , in Kansas City, Missouri, in September 1953. Hall and Heady were caught, convicted, and executed in December of that year.

6. George MacDonald (1824–1905), Scottish poet, novelist, and minister.

7. Basil Bunting, Loquitur (London: Fulcrum Press, 1965).

8. Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca (c. 1490–1557), Spanish explorer of North America and one of four survivors of the Narváez expedition in 1527, who, over the next decade, walked from southeastern Florida to Mexico City. Cabeza de Vaca’s written account of this voyage, titled Relación, was an important text for Olson, Dorn, Irby, and other poets at the time.

9. Delano Grape Strike: a strike and boycott led by the United Farm Workers against the Delano, California, grape growers. On March 17, 1966, Cesar Chavez led a 250-mile march from Delano that reached the state capital at Sacramento on April 10, Easter Sunday, the day Irby joined the march.

10. Pat Brown (1905–1996), Democrat governor of California from 1959 to 1967, lost the 1966 gubernatorial election to Ronald Reagan.

11. Ammon Hennacy (1893–1970), Christian pacificist and anarchist.

12. Jacob Böhme (also, Boehme; 1575–1624), German mystic and theologian.

13. Jonathan Greene, poet, founder of Gnomon Press, book designer. Greene designed Irby’s The Intent On.

14. Drew and Terry Wagnon, coeditors of the last two issues of Wild Dog and friends of Irby’s in San Francisco. See endnote 9 (“October 21, 1964”)

April 8, 1963

Ed Dorn (photo by John Friedman).

8 Apr 63[1]

First off, thank you very much for that letter.[2] I’m shamefully late in making any reply at all, acknowledgement, etc — the mess of the times here & me as well. As always, yes.
                                                                                                                                                    But yr letter was a great thing & believe me more than a little sustaining, simply, to get. Paul Blackburn was here overnight abt 10 days ago & read yr letter outloud to himself & me[3] (& also wanted to make off with that photograph of you sitting on the stove in Santa Fe)[4] — so it was heard, too, & felt there.
                                                                                                                                                                           Exactly where June will bring me I don’t know yet — there is a possibility of a job in Albuquerque but all uncertain. I want to sit long enough to see that country again but I don’t know how long that is, who does, or when it will start flowing off in another direction, north, west, even back toward Kansas who knows. It would be a great thing to be at that conference in Vancouver this summer[5] but all seems too far away & no money — anyway, the feeling certainly is as you move for — to travel, no tying to one place to have to be in. I hope sometime before terribly long I get near Pocatello[6] & will come to see you all, again it’ll be, a long time since that last night in Santa Fe.[7] Meanwhile here it becomes almost impossible to do a damn thing for my classes & simply jesus knows if I will finish up with anything but the leaving itself. But then. The sun is out & you must figure how much importance just that has come to have for me — as it always is.

So. The writing goes very slowly & pretty dry & forced when it does — it seems like formally I keep coming back on top of myself, i.e. short lined quatrains that aren’t the way I want to move, but take over when anything to be said is uncertain & wavering. So well anyway. I saw a letter in Gordon Cairnie’s book shop[8] the other day from a J. Prynne[9] in England (Cambridge?) who had been here last year — & he mentioned he had a book of yrs in manuscript trying to get it published in England[10] — anything developed on that, or here with it? Or the novel?[11]

But back to those quatrains — I once a long time ago in Santa Fe asked you the incredibly general & headon question — what do you do about form? which to ask that way was only further indication of my confusions at the time, or maybe that I come on rather idiotically anyway. But the gist remains, & I find myself all over it, still in the most elementary fashion it seems to me. Who has answers? like you said. Who does? nobody is well off, sure. But I come back to as I keep coming back to the way out of any buildingup situation where the pressures become intolerable, over whelming — here at Harvard, the Army, or in the situation from which the poem comes. Each poem does generate its own form, but not so simply? Are Creeley’s increasingly predominant quatrains the constant same extension of a constant same content (to use his phrase)? Or simply finally the iron framework he has come to not want to fight any further, working all over it, but the framework not moving into new shapes. As I keep seeing myself going into, but that 4 line stanza ain’t mine!
                                                                                                                                                   Why I very much read & reread yr “Geraniums” & Sousa Poem.[12] The line is much more where I want to take myself.

& anyway — I’m covering you in this when simply I don’t know where it’s going. Forgive me that, the spring thaws are slow in coming this year. To get back down on top of it, I’m not satisfied with that short line, constantly attentive to the careful breaks of breath & phrase, out of Williams[13] — not because it & he aren’t great things, but because 1) I can never feel at ease in it & 2) because you cant stay long in what is already so finely worked by others you do not extend it.
                                                                                                                                          & yet to run “loosely” (in form) makes me too often run loosely (in thought) where I shd be tight — you’ve seen a couple of those things I was writing in Albq — I showed you abt the time you went to Idaho — & they very much lost, from where they did not tie in constantly to the energy they sought to extend. I’m not after a closed form, there, all made for me, but I also do not so simply work from Olson’s projective sense[14] (nor does Creeley it seems to me). Well shit, I’m belaboring what I’m sure to you is not even there to belabor, but figure me for trying goddamn hard to find out where the hell I’m, it’s, going. & writing to you on this absurdly general level is at this point abt the only way I can begin to get into it — do you see me in this?
                                                                 As, where does the poem end?

When I was in the Pacific last summer it seemed to me what I was writing or trying to form out in writing finally was held together formally by just one thing — a long building rhythm that reached, in some manner or other, a crescendo or peak & so was resolved (or a quiet, & so was resolved) — as myself speaking would become more & more excited till the point was reached the whole thing burst (begins to sound sexual, perhaps it is/was). This is, it seems to me, what Blackburn is talking about in that Sullen Voice interview[15] when he speaks of the musical structure of a poem & its resolution. Constantly I felt, though, that most of what I was writing, then, did not somehow tie itself together — so often there was the use of some sort of wrapping up at the end, bringing back movements, images, references, from the poem as it had gone along, esp the beginning, to bring it back to itself in a neat whole. Too goddamn neat most of the time, & artificial — done, I figure, when what & where I was going wasn’t certain.
                                            Oh shit anyway. The question is as much, where does the poem start. As birth & death. & as impossible to say. Or an after-the-fact rationalization.

But the element of actually speaking to somebody is very strong with me. I wrote abt this to Bob last week or so, coming up to mainly from a poem by the Spanish poet Pedro Salinas, which had struck me very much as having the tone & movement of Bob’s “For Love”[16] or others close to that:

        No te veo. Bien sé

 que estás aquí, detrás

 de una frágil pared

 de ladrillos y cal, bien al alcance

 de mi voz, si llamará.

 Pero no llamaré.

 Te llamaré mañana,

 cuando, al no verte ya,

 me imagine que sigues

 aquí cerca, a mi lado,

 que basta hoy la voz

 que ayer no quise dar.

 Mañana … cuando estes

 allá detrás de una

 frágil pared de vientos,

 de cielos y do años.

                                    (Presagios, 1923)[17]

The use of the images, what few there are, isn’t the same, granted, but the place from which the poem begins is it seems to me, similar; & is where I find myself most of the time — that talking to, across the works laid out, to someone. The talking, though, the coherence in those terms, as here, not by rhyme or any set meter or count.[18]

Enough, I’ve got exams to finish grading, not to mention all the rest of the accumulations that wear us out. Figure on all this that I simply need to say it out to someone — if nothing strikes you, leave it. Come back on it where you can, but I’m not after tapping you for replies — to speak it out is enough (i.e., the opportunity to bother you, I reckon!) Yes, well, hell. My best to you all. Spring is here (& as Machado[19] said, nobody knows how it did it). Banzai, hang loose, etc etc




1. Kenneth Irby to Edward Dorn, 8 April 1963, Ed Dorn Papers, series I, box 1, folder 17, Courtesy of Department of Special Collections and University Archives, Stanford University Libraries.

2. Extremely dissatisfied with the walled-in, dreary atmosphere of “the one vast city of the east coast,” and having decided to discontinue his PhD work at Harvard, Irby wrote to Dorn, who was living in Pocatello, Idaho, on February 24, 1963, asking for any kind of advice on a place to go, to find work, someplace “West & out of this East,” even Pocatello maybe. Irby begins this letter (April 8, 1963) by thanking Dorn for his response (March 9, 1963) to the previous letter. In many ways, Irby’s shifting residence and frequent road-going over the next decade-and-a-half can be viewed as his way of following the advice in Dorn’s March 9, 1963, letter. After a droll, underwhelming description of Pocatello, Dorn turns to the main issue, as he sees it:

It is a pain in the ass having to tell you this because I can very rightly understand your wanting to get the hell out of there. Why don’t you roam, if I were single that’s what I would do, I mean, I wouldn’t because I did that, but if you haven’t, then you ought to, you can certainly stop here, but you shld not plan on Staying anywhere. The thing is, people have never really seen america, that’s still open. And if you want to be a writer you ought to say to yourself, and mean it, be willing to kill yourself over it, I am a writer. Read walk write live go see be arrive leave fuck around work hear, very much hear, (suffer if the chance comes but don’t press it) and exercise your mouth and lungs and fingers and given any any any intelligence which you got, you’ll be a writer. And don’t get married. I mean it’s wonderful. But it takes more time, and since you aren’t, wait. But not on the road. Be a serious traveller, no one has been that in America since La Salle. As you can see there are no problems at all. […] Let me hear from you…this is very quick, I am under more shit than you could conceive …[.]

(The above is excerpted from a letter from Irby’s personal archives and appears here with permission of Jennifer Dunbar Dorn.)

3. [Irby’s handwritten note]: it got here the same day as one from Creeley — what a conjunction! [/] Bob suggested I write to Loewinsohn in SF, which I did, but no reply yet. Hopefully something…

4. The photograph Irby is referring to appears on the cover of Tom Clark’s biography, Edward Dorn: A World of Difference (Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2002). It was taken by Gordon Clark, a friend of Irby from his time in the army (1960–1962; see the chronology in this issue), in Albuquerque, New Mexico, when Clark accompanied Irby on a visit to the Dorns’ house on “Camino Sin Nombre,” in Santa Fe, in 1961, at which point the Creeleys were also visiting the Dorns.

5. See endnote 20 (“January 16, 1963”).

6. See endnote 19 (“January 16, 1963”).

7. See endnote 4, above.

8. Gordon Cairnie (1895–1973), founder of the Grolier Poetry Book Shop in Harvard Square.

9. Jeremy Prynne (b. 1936), British poet and Life Fellow of Caius College, Cambridge, influenced by Charles Olson and Donald Davie, and who became close friends with Dorn during his time at Essex.

10. The book to which Irby is referring was tentatively titled Idaho Out, but was never published as such. Much of its content was later included in Dorn’s 1965 volume Geography (London: Fulcrum Press, 1965).

11. Dorn’s The Rites of Passage: A Brief History (Buffalo: Frontier Press, 1965); reprinted as By the Sound (Mount Vernon/West Newbury: Frontier Press, 1971), and again as By the Sound (Santa Rosa: Black Sparrow Press, 1991).

12. “Geraniums” and “Sousa” both appear in Dorn’s first collection of poems, The Newly Fallen (New York: Totem Press in association with the Paterson Society, 1961).

13. William Carlos Williams (1883–1963).

14. See Charles Olson, Projective Verse (New York: Totem, 1959).

15. Paul Blackburn (1926–1971). Irby is intentionally avoiding the correct title of The Sullen Art: Interviews by David Ossman with Modern Poets (New York: Corinth Books, 1963). In Irby’s review of the book for Kulchur 11 (Autumn 1963): 83–85, titled “The Unacknowledged Legislators,” he criticizes Ossman for inexplicably excluding two interviews from the collection — one with Robert Duncan, the other with Cid Corman — and remarks that “the choice of title for these interviews is, I think, unfortunate, whatever Mr. Ossman’s justifications.” See Matt Hofer’s piece in this feature, which focuses on the many book reviews Irby has written for magazines such as Kulchur, Caterpillar, Sulfur, and Poetry.

16. Robert Creeley, For Love: Poems 1950–1960 (New York: Scribner, 1962).

17. Pedro Salinas, Presagios (Madrid: Indice, 1923). It’s possible that Irby knew of Presagios (Omens), Salinas’s first collection of poems, through his brother, James E. Irby, who earned his PhD in Spanish and Portuguese at the University of Michigan, and subsequently taught at Princeton University, where he created the first Latin American literature courses ever to be offered at the school. James Irby’s cotranslation (with Donald A. Yates) of Jorge Luis Borges’s Labyrinths: Stories and Other Writings was published by New Directions in 1964.

18. [Irby’s handwritten note]: i.e. what I said I was trying in the Pacific w/ a building-up rhythm, stays w/ me — the problem is modulating it — not falling into the trap of making all poems of statements into its one giant build & crash. Yes, well sure!

19. Antonio Muchado (1875–1939), Spanish poet.

September 12, 1963

Ed Dorn (photo by John Friedman).

12 Sep 63[1]

Ed —
       Yrs of the 8th to hand (to paraphrase Pound’s formula) — & when were you here? I’m indeed sorry. But then, it’s all done, & the thing’s to get up to Idaho anyway, so that wd be there to do, no matter.   
                I’ve seen the Creeleys[2] a couple of times — heard a no. of the tapes from Vancouver,[3] which are something fur shure — the readings, the discussions, tout. It will take a long time (not having been there) to hear, listen to those tapes & begin to assimilate them. But they’re there, on tape, saved, preserved — & that’s something. All in all that conference must be taken as the only “literary conference” ever almost, god knows a big big monument, milestone, mt. peak, whatever.
                                                                                                                                                                                  So — yeah — I’m through w/ the academic, least as a student, for good I think. I’m not going back to Harvard, leastways, at any foreseeable date — don’t want, no need for, a PhD (or PhooD as one type called it). I can get more done after or during an 8hr office job day — which leaves none of the residue of guilt abt it that letting college work go to do other things has had — than I cd batting my head out on Japanese & history seminars that demanded 200% of my time or nothing. It was a hard decision to make, to make finally — but I’m happy. I’ve got a job (god forbid) w/ Sandia Corporation, working in their library now, that pays well & isn’t energy-sapping. God knows I don’t come to working for such a concern, easily: but I battled that problem of how much guilt out when I was here in the Army, equally in the nuclear rat race — even, then, in the Pacific exploding them …[4]
                                                                                                                                                                         So god knows how long I’ll work here / till I save enough to do something else, that’s why I took it 1st off. Nothing is easy, I reckon, & like Rilke I begin to think maybe it’s better to embrace difficulty than try to sidestep it & never solve the whole mess. i.e. I’m involved w/ what happens everywhere, no matter where I am.
                         Which begins to sound like so much bullshit & is I reckon. I’m here because I need the money, & like the country, & there’s some people here I know — that’s it, no need for mouthing a lot of b.s. to coat it!
       Anyway, yas, & on — I’ve heard from Kelly — a good, long provoking & sustaining letter (which I haven’t been able to answer) — & he said there he was going to start a mimeo sheet a la Floating Bear & Change[5] — & wanted [to] use that Grasslands of N. Am. poem of mine in it[6] — is that where he’s going to use yr Idaho Out? (I hope, so I’ll be able to see it). I begin to like Kelly more & more — I met him briefly in NY in April, & he was a good impression then, but esp. his letters are proof. (as equally I come to 1) knowing what he’s up to on this “deep image” bit, for real not what G. Sorrentino says he’s up to; & 2) his poems — more closely & understandingly. God, it’s important to know what is going on around one, esp (Kelly being only a yr older than I am). What one’s contemporaries are up to.

     I’m glad the things I sent  pleased you. Creeley liked the long one esp., too, which was a pleasure to know, as were yr comments. I sent that big one also to Duncan & Kelly & Loewinsohn,[7] but no other word yet. As you say you don’t know how I do well, god knows I don’t either. That poem did come all at once w/o premeditation as to length — I had been reading Duncan’s “Apprehensions”[8] that night, & I’m sure more than just that quotation got inside me & worked back out — the sorts of shifts — from section to section must have been unconsciously derived from my impressions of his mov’ts. But anyway — the important thing finally to me was the feeling abt Fort Scott[9] that was the basis for the poem at all: — that I was able to come home (“again” contra Tom Wolfe, but I don’t know that I’d ever really been home before, not in this clear, aware way), I found I had suddenly stopped fighting the place, what it was (i.e. who I was), & simply took it, accepted it’s being there & my being in it (at home or away; but “the home of my mind”). Oh yes I got questions, but they’re of details, specifics (“Who is Frank Moore?”),[10] by comparison. (God I can remember weekends I was home from Ft Leonard Wood, Mo., when I was early in the Army — Nov. it was, rainy & all the leaves gone down — wandering the whole damned town, looking at the oldest bldgs. particularly, just trying to get into that place (what in the hell is going on, I guess I kept wondering, why is this place here, why the hell am I in it?) & feeling generally morose & sorry for myself & resentful I’d been done it by it, all along from adolescence on.
                                                                      That had to take place first, clearly, before I cd simply drive back one night in July & know WHAM like on the back of the head, I was home. There was nothing to fight. Again like Rilke felt it, all that had to bloom “invisibly” w/in me, before it emerged.

     So there’s Fort Scott (yes! & Pawnee Station[11] too!) — which, like this mt. here, gathers light to it, & because I look there.
                                                 Malin’s books […] keep w/ me there — The Grasslands of N. America, Winter Wheat in Kansas.[12] So that I’ll be able to come to the least blade of grass even, & be there, place it, place us two? (God, grass is a mad subject no matter which-a-way you look at it!) But it has to go way on past all that even, & I know it. Or I do, anyway.                                                                                                                                                                                        I’m not after writing, trying to, the Kansas Maximus Poems, that’s sure — I couldn’t, nor wd I want to try copying Olson a-tall. But I can’t help being influenced by his poems & his ideas. Yr comments there on how he holds together, yes, come to me straight on (I had just picked up Maximus[13] to take to work w/ me this afternoon to read on the sly, when yr letter came) — & yr comment that the only limiting factor to him is his life span — i.e. in a sense, his form is his life(’s)time — maybe a corollary to what Kelly said abt a man’s lifetime being only barely enough to master his craft, achieve his form.
                                                                                                                                 OR, we keep going, yas.
                                                                                                                                                                              Or simply, I dunno.

So yes, hell, the past year has really  been the first time of serious & committed work, poetic work, for me — I mean the decision for real, not simply said or thought was there. So there is so much still to do (forever!!) — that is only now starting to come out of the woods of all manner of being mixed up, fucked up, screwed around, uncertain & afraid. Somewhere back a few months you wrote abt finally I wd come into the country, place, where men are (where men are, where one is certain of one’s manhood), & maybe that is the direction, more certainly, now.
                                                                                                                             Duncan is I think right in calling the poem an adventure — but it certainly is of the whole self, body, mind, cock, guts, heart, soul, not simply of the mind alone, as, god knows, he doesn’t restrict it. If being there, as open as we want to be times we aren’t (or as drunk or as in love, whatever?) It brings me to who where what I am so intensely I cd not avoid anything of what I am (& so why I was hit like betwixt the eyes by that interview of yrs in The Sullen Art,[14] that you do so beautifully & clearly state that, that I felt, there, that our concern will be more & more to what we say, rather than so much to how — & the whole thing — & why, in their completely different ways I thought Kelly’s & Ginsberg’s[15] came to the same pt).

     Well, anyway, enough I guess. I was supposed to go to Fort Riley, Kansas 15–29 Sep for reserve camp (my only obligation during the year), but no orders yet — I called them & things apparently are screwed up, I don’t know if I’ll go or not — they shld call back tomorrow. I wd welcome the trip back to Kansas even if it is drive all night to get there — esp to Ft. Riley, the N. end of those wonderful Flint Hills (where the woodlands break into the high plains, the borderland, the fusion of both — where Malin centers his Winter Wheat book).
                                                                                     The trees are coming to fall slowly here, so much rain this summer they aren’t dried out at all. But soon the mt hillsides & pastures will be yellow w/ aspens, against those undendingly dark evergreens — the maddest of autumns, much more so than Vermont’s incredible maples. I think of DH Lawrence every time I see those yellow aspens & the pines. … Ah yes.                                                                                                                                                                                                 Well — hang loose, don’t work hard. I’d like to get up there a-fore the winter blizzards, but all depends on company & leave time here; at any rate, yes, let me keep hearing from you. I’ll read Creeley’s novel soon as I get a copy & will show him yr letter tonight hopefully. (guy named Fred Wah here now at UNM — was at Vancouver — plans to start a mimeo-sheet, so things are moving maybe).[16] The one below took abt 2 minutes to write & shows it, but maybe it’ll go along w/ yr beer tonight a la hors d’oeurvres (or however hell it’s spelled). So BANZAI & ACHTUNG & go.

                                                                                                                                                                                                  love to all
                         — Ken

Have been reading — did I mention? — Andy Adams’ Log of a Cowboy[17] — a pretty good ’un (Webb mentions it I think in the Great Plains)[18]

                                                                                  for D. C. Franz

What d’you give me credit for?

I ain’t never had a drink

for real, before.

                                   & I — hrrragh —

know now why fire

in fire water.


Could be charted or talked about


out of everyone

ever took a drink.


Would lead to that

heron standing in the headlights

like a weed

& took off.

//   this for an old highschool drinking buddy — now a school principle
      (!!) in Maryland

13 Sep — Saw Bob & all last night — & heard the tape of yr Feb. reading in B.C. w/ Idaho Out & all[19] — & was very moved by all the new one, I hadn’t seen or heard at all before. (Oh that mad one abt Merriweather (sp?) Lewis on the Natchez Trace!)[20]
                                                                                                          Bob also mentioned you wd quite probably be coming down here to read sometime this (fall? spring?) — which is very good — maybe I can get leave time then & go back to Idaho as you go back — a thought, anyway, & certainly to see you here.

So, ok, nuf for now (got a call from reserve types today, & no trip to Ft Riley, least not right away). So, I can build bookcases this wkend (if I get paid) I reckon.

     Anyhoo — don’t work hard — & you got any loose copies of anything lying around send them on —

     So the sky isn’t bigger in Montana?![21] Shucks ….

                                                                                                          — Ken



1. Kenneth Irby to Edward Dorn, 12 September 1963, Ed Dorn Papers, series I, box 1, folder 17, Courtesy of Department of Special Collections and University Archives, Stanford University Libraries.

2. Robert Creeley (1926–2006) and Bobbie Louise Hawkins (b. 1930).

3. See endnote 20 (“January 16, 1963”).

4. See endnote 2 (“January 16, 1963”).

5. See endnote 5 (“January 16, 1963”).

6. See endnote 18 (“January 16, 1963”).

7. Robert Duncan, Robert Kelly, and Ron Loewinsohn.

8. “Apprehensions” is collected in Roots and Branches (New York: New Directions, 1959), 30–43.

9. Fort Scott, Kansas, Irby’s hometown, county seat of Bourbon County, established as a garrison by the US army in 1842.

10. See: “The Librarian,” in Charles Olson, The Selected Poems (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 86–88.

11. Pawnee Station, Kansas, a money order post–village twelve miles to the southwest of Fort Scott, is a frequently mentioned place in Irby’s early poetry.

12. See endnotes 8 and 10–12 (“January 16, 1963”).

13. Olson’s The Maximus Poems (New York: Jargon/Corinth Books, 1960).

14. See endnote 15 (“April 8, 1963”). Ossman’s interview with Dorn was reprinted in Edward Dorn, Interviews, edited by Donald Allen (Bolinas: Four Seasons Foundation, 1980), 1–5.

15. Allen Ginsberg (1926–1997).

16. Fred Wah (b. 1939), founder and editor of the magazines Sum, active from December 1963 to April 1965, as well as Island, active from September 1964 through 1966. The latter was also the name of Wah’s Toronto-based press. For further info see Clay and Phillips, A Secret Location on the Lower East Side.

17. Andy Adams, The Log of a Cowboy: A Narrative of the Old Trail Days, illustrated by E. Boyd Smith (Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1903).

18. Walter Prescott Webb, The Great Plains (Boston: Ginn, 1931).

19. Dorn read at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, in February 1963; an audio recording of the reading is available at PennSound.

20. Irby is referring to Dorn’s poem “Death While Journeying,” which had been published in Folio 25, no. 3 (Summer 1960), and is collected in Dorn’s 1964 book Hands Up!. The poem is about Meriwether Lewis’s last trip, alone, on the Natchez Trace, along which, at a place called Grinder’s Stand, most historians believe Lewis committed suicide, but some contend, as Dorn’s poem envisions, that he was murdered.

21. Cf. Dorn’s poem, “Idaho Out,” which takes its epigraph from Sauer’s influential essay “The Morphology of the Landscape” and is dedicated to “Hettie and Roi” Jones. The section Irby is referring to reads: “the sky // is not / bigger in Montana. When / for instance you come / from Williston / there seems at the border a change / but it is only because man has / built a tavern there.” Dorn, Collected Poems (London: Carcanet, 2012), 160–161.