To every man
His treehouse,
A green splice in the humping years,
Spartan with narrow cot
And prickly door.
To every man
His twilight flash
Of luminous recall
of tiptoe years
in leaf-stung flight;
of days of squirm and bite
that waved antennas through the grass;
of nights
when every moving thing
was girlshaped,
expectantly turning.
To every man
His house below
And his house above—
With perilous stairs
Between.
Lovely... With a certain Dickinsonian flavor... A great poet as yet insufficiently acknowledged.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this very much. Alas, I recognize myself in these lines, having never outgrew the treehouse stage. (smile)