By Thomas Page
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 world is an impressionist’s eye exam
With the letters blurred from a certain distance.
The people you encounter everyday
Will always be a stranger to you
And you a stranger to them.
An attempt to know them—
Severe as the glaucoma-checking farmhouse—
Hazy and filled with oppressive energy.
The world can become Monet’s
Which is good and proper
To the life of a commuter
Traveling with a tribe of no-ones
Who like the same things you do
But to ask is to step on the lily pad
And break the impression.
The city is a land of nationless people
Who all belong to the same one
Because it is fitting and proper
To see the art in a museum
With living pieces with less vitality
Than the pigment committed to canvas
Blurred to show something more
About the person holding the palette
Hoping to make an impression on someone who will always be a stranger
Because you shouldn’t be bothered
To break the silence agreed by all.