'I, Minimus, a boy,
withstood the spelling bee.
Lost the word, its spelling,
E-q-u-a-n-i-m-i-t-y.
So tread I to the apple tree
where the dreaded bee hums
night and day, tells me to be gay.
Mute, I fled. Running still, away.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
OK got here right away this time. Minimus, this is a maximus poem! Mar loves the story and the word play. Me too. I am taken by its spareness, its bareness, its pathos. Thanks Warrent
Right! Instead of Maximus (Charles Olson's ongoing project tho he's dead these many years) I am Minimus (f'real) , autobiographical account(s) with very few discounts. Olson was a master wordster and his shapely tongue and mind spake and thus poetry in a very American tongue.