Yesterdays

Sixty-two, sixty-three, I most remember 
As time W. C. Williams dies and we are 
Back from a hard two years in Guatemala 
Where the meager provision of being 
Schoolmaster for the kids of the patrones
Of two coffee plantations has managed 
Neither a life nor money. Leslie dies in 
Horror of bank giving way as she and her 
Sister and their friends tunnel in to make 
A cubby. We live in an old cement brick 
Farmhouse already inside the city limits 
Of Albuquerque. Or that has all really 
Happened and we go to Vancouver where, 
Thanks to friends Warren and Ellen Tallman, 
I get a job teaching at the University of British 
Columbia. It’s all a curious dream, a rush 
To get out of the country before the sad 
Invasion of the Bay of Pigs, that bleak use 
Of power. One of my British colleagues 
Has converted the assets of himself and 
His wife to gold bullion and keeps the 
Ingots in a sturdy suitcase pushed under 
Their bed. I love the young, at least I 
Think I do, in their freshness, their attempt 
To find ways into Canada from the western 
Reaches. Otherwise the local country seems 
Like a faded Edwardian sitcom. A stunned 
Stoned woman runs one Saturday night up 
And down the floors of the Hydro Electric 
Building on Pender with the RCMP in hot
Pursuit where otherwise we stood in long 
Patient lines, extending often several blocks 
Up the street. We were waiting to get our 
Hands stamped and to be given a 12 pack 
Of Molson’s. I think, I dream, I write the 
Final few chapters of The Island, the despairs 
Gathering at the end. I read Richard Brautigan’s 
Trout Fishing In America but am too uptight 
To enjoy his quiet, bright wit. Then that 
Summer there is the great Vancouver Poetry 
Festival, Allen comes back from India, Olson 
From Gloucester, beloved Robert Duncan 
From Stinson Beach. Denise reads “Hypocrite 
Women” to the Burnaby ladies and Gary Snyder, 
Philip Whalen, and Margaret Avison are there 
Too along with a veritable host of the young. 
Then it’s autumn again. I’ve quit my job 
And we head back to Albuquerque 
And I teach again at the university, and 
Sometime just about then I must have 
Seen myself as others see or saw me, 
Even like in a mirror, but could not quite 
Accept either their reassuring friendship 
Or their equally locating anger. Selfish, 
Empty, I kept at it. Thirty-eight years later 
I seem to myself still much the same, 
Even if I am happier, I think, and older.