Californias
The poet-scholar walks
up to me, friendly-like,
smoking the cigarette
of savoir faire, of wit &
competence, introduces
himself, calls me, for
the benefit of the young
manuscripts curator,
his tradutor, pretends to
scold me for having come
to him only on the eve of
my departure for home
after a week-long stay
in the country, in Lisbon,
establishes his scholarly
erudition on several points,
talks of Martins Garcia,
mentions Onésimo and
“aquele de ascendência
madeirense—ou nasceu
na Madeira?”-badmouths
three Azorean academics
(“aquele é mau, muito mau,”
he says of one) and then
drops me to my devices-
to poke around Pessoa’s
espólio-telling me he’ll
see me later or the next day
-my last in Lisbon. I recall
that early on he has told me
of his invitation to visit
Harvard in the spring.
He ignores my offer to
pick him up, to bring him
to Providence. Time will
be so short and he will
want to visit Califórnia.
And I see, predictably,
his sea-focused, prow-
like visage, as he dreams
his fabulous dream of ore
in the vaults of the Widener,
of an ancestor forever lost
to the lures of Sutter’s Mill.
1984
