“The Poet at Seventeen” by Larry Levis 2012 POL Recitation
My youth? I hear it mostly in the long, volleying
Echoes of billiards in the pool halls 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 held still or seemed to hold their breath
When the men I worked with, pruning orchards, sang
Their lost songs: Amapola; La Paloma;
Jalisco, No Te Rajes—the corny tunes
Their sons would just as soon forget, at recess,
Where they lounged apart in small groups of their own.
Still, even when they laughed, they laughed in Spanish.
I hated high school then, & on weekends drove
A tractor through the widowed fields. It was so boring
I memorized poems above the engine’s monotone.
Sometimes whole days slipped past without my noticing,
And birds of all kinds flew in front of me then.
I learned to tell them apart by their empty squabblings,
The slightest change in plumage, or the inflection
Of a call. And why not admit it? I was happy
Then. I believed in no one. I had the kind
Of solitude the world usually allows
Only to kings & criminals who are extinct,
Who disdain this world, & who rot, corrupt & shallow
As fields I disced: I turned up the same gray
Earth for years. Still, the land made a glum raisin
Each autumn, & made that little hell of days—
The vines must have seemed like cages to the Mexicans
Who were paid seven cents a tray for the grapes
They picked. Inside the vines it was hot, & spiders
Strummed their emptiness. Black Widow, Daddy Longlegs.
The vine canes whipped our faces. None of us cared.
And the girls I tried to talk to after class
Sailed by, then each night lay enthroned in my bed,
With nothing on but the jewels of their embarrassment.
Eyes, lips, dreams. No one. The sky & the road.
A life like that? It seemed to go on forever—
Reading poems in school, then driving a stuttering tractor
Warm afternoons, then billiards on blue October
Nights. The thick stars. But mostly now I remember
The trees, wearing their mysterious yellow sullenness
Like party dresses. And parties I didn’t attend.
And then the first ice hung like spider lattices
Or the embroideries of Great Aunt No One,
And then the first dark entering the trees—
And inside, the adults with their cocktails before dinner,
The way they always seemed afraid of something,
And sat so rigidly, although the land was theirs.
Links: The Poet at Seventeen | The Poetry Foundation;Larry Levis | The Poetry Foundation;Graanoogst in Aalsmeer - Rijksmuseum;Wheat Reaper with Hat, Seen from Behind - Rijksmuseum;View over Galle - Rijksmuseum;Boer bundelt rietstengels - Rijksmuseum;Javaanse vlinders - Rijksmuseum;Boer haalt riet op met een tractor in een weiland - Rijksmuseum;Gezicht uit het venster - Rijksmuseum;Kale bomen en struiken langs het water - Rijksmuseum;Rietstapels voor een boerderij - Rijksmuseum
Listen: “The Poet at Seventeen” by Larry Levis 2012 POL Recitation | Bankson Manor
Watch: “The Poet at Seventeen” by Larry Levis 2012 POL Recitation | Bankson Manor
About the Author: Kaitlyn Bankson is an American literary novelist. She writes psychologically driven literary fiction and hosts the Bankson Manor podcast. Read more of her work at kaitlynbankson.com.
Views Expressed Disclaimer: Please know that while I consider myself an Objectivist and my work is inspired by Objectivism, it is not, nor should it be considered, Objectivist since I am not the creator of the philosophy. For more information about Ayn Rand's philosophy, visit aynrand.org.
