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.
The waters are cool in the misting morning
I get up before the sun and roll my neck
The bones creak like the desert earth.
The waters are cool in the misting morning
My teeth, tombstones; my gums, the rot
Lost in the ginger petrified forest above my mouth.
The waters are cool in the misting morning
My eyes hazy-gened and unsure in the dark
Look for the lenses by the lamp and clock.
The waters are cool in the misting morning
How can this mummy, this zombie ever become alive
When the world is passing him by?
The waters are cool in the misting morning
The groan of the decades dying mixed with rancid breath
Of the perennials fading and turning to dust.
The waters are cool in the misting morning
When the ick oozes and schmoozes all over you
Turning wonders into horrors overnight.
The waters are cool in the misting morning
The water comes from the faucet to cleanse
Make this clay into sculpture and start the day anew.
The waters are cool in the misting morning
Language of Origin: Arabic
Academy of the Heart And Mind 