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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431935" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Poet At Seventeen</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My youth? I hear it mostly in the long, volleying <br>Echoes of billiards in the pool hall where <br>I spent it all, extravagantly, believing <br>My delicate touch on a cue would last for years. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Outside the vineyards vanished under rain, <br>And the trees held still or seemed to hold their breath <br>When the men I worked with, pruning orchards, sang <br>Their lost songs: Amapola; La Paloma; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jalisco; No Te Rajes -- the corny tunes <br>Their sons would just as soon forget, at recess, <br>Where they lounged apart in small groups of their own. <br>Still, even when they laughed, they laughed in Spanish. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I hated high school then, & on weekends drove <br>A tractor through the widowed fields. It was so boring <br>I memorized poems above the engine's monotone. <br>Sometimes whole days slipped past without my noticing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And birds of all kinds flew in front of me then. <br>I learned to tell them apart by their empty squabblings, <br>The slightest change in plumage, or the inflection <br>Of a call. And why not admit it? I was happy. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then, I believed in no one. I had the kind <br>Of solitude the world usually allows <br>Only to kings & criminals who are extinct, <br>Who disdain this world, & who rot, corrupt & shallow </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As fields I disced: I turned up the same gray <br>Earth for years. Still, the land made a glum raisin <br>Each autumn, & made that little hell of days -- <br>The vines must have seemed like cages to the Mexicans. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who were paid seven cents a tray for the grapes <br>They picked. Inside the vines it was hot, & spiders <br>Strummed their emptiness. Black Widow, Daddy Longlegs. <br>The vine canes whipped our faces. None of us cared. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the girls I talked to after class <br>Sailed by, then each night lay enthroned in my bed, <br>With nothing on but the jewels of their embarrassment. <br>Eyes, lips, dreams. No one. The sky & the road. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A life like that? It seemed to go on forever -- <br>Reading poems in school, then driving a stuttering tractor <br>Warm afternoons, then billiards on blue October <br>Nights. The thick stars. But mostly now I remember </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The trees, wearing their mysterious yellow sullenness <br>Like party dresses. And parties I didn't attend. <br>And then the first ice hung like spider lattices <br>Or the embroideries of Great Aunt No One, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then the first dark entering the trees -- <br>And inside, the adults with their cocktails before dinner, <br>The way they always seemed afraid of something, <br>And sat so rigidly, although the land was theirs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Larry+Levis">Larry Levis</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431935" data-title="The Poet At Seventeen de Larry Levis" data-description="My youth? I hear it mostly in the long, volleying 
Echoes of billiards in the pool hall where 
I spent it all, extravagantly, believing 
My delicate touch on a cue would last for years. 

Outside the vineyards vanished under rain, 
And the trees h..."></div>
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