By Thomas Page
The Untranslatable
This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Writing poems is tiresome
And sleep long overdue.
I’d rather nap like a tomcat
Nestled in the afternoon sun
Than try to recreate the works
Of Shakespeare or Donne.
Everything metaphor expired
And tossed with cliché
Like the chef’s specials
In the grade b café.
I cannot replicate the drums
That have long escaped me
Turning beats into screeches
The memory is hazy.
Of the times I cared enough
To really put in an effort
More than counting the days
Until I get some more comfort.
Language of Origin: Estonian
Academy of the Heart And Mind 