Robert Creeley, Bolinas, California

When he lived in Bolinas, Robert Creeley was the most accessible of poets.

The place wasn't that easy to get to then, in the early 1970's, as it isn't now: to get there you have to really want to go there.

From near the top of Mt. Tamalpais, where you can see almost everything, Bolinas looks like its own little country: as seen from a distance on an atmospheric autumn afternoon, there's something Japanese about the vista.

Creeley was kind to a kid living in Berkeley who called him out of the blue, asking if he the poet would talk to him about poetry.

They met in town and walked to the beach. While they were sitting and talking, one of Creeley's poet friends showed up with a six-pack of 16 oz. Budweiser. He said he was a poet, but not as good a one as Creeley: in retrospect, he might have been a synchophant.

Creeley said his poem, "The Rain", without reading from the book of his poems the kid had in his possession. He said Robert Lowell of all people had liked the poem, that they'd read together at some lit fesitival and that Lowell was funny, nice, with no trace of eastern bias. There was some talk about objective verse, Charles Olson, baseball, the differences between living on the east coast and the west, but the conversation happened so long ago and the kid's lost his notes.

Near sundown, still sitting on the beach, the Budweiser kaput, Creeley suggested they all meet up in the bar downtown for a game of pool. He had to check first with his wife to see if it was ok, but it shouldn't be a problem. He never showed, though he rang the bartender to say he wouldn't be coming.