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.
In the pit of the stomachs mixing acids like cocktails
In some melancholic bar sitting across a snowy window
There is a row of patrons each glazed—
Broken pottery in the ditch—
Hoping to baptize themselves in some liquid idol
That will renew their fire that should have burned for days
Like the bonfires of the youth
Burning the cheeks and hands searching for it—
The illustrious it that is always out of reach
The it that is the missing piece
Fracturing the face enshrined in glass
Sitting in some dimly light hallway
Dusted by the years in the blue-black shade
That closes the eyes in the same hue
Chanting like the anchors with their psalters
Kingdomcome, kingdomdone, kingdomgone, kingdomwon
The cycles of life spiraling down to it
Out of reach of the dying fingers with yellowed nails
Beckoning to repeat it all again
Wailing to the stars not knowing that their guiding light died long ago–
Its shine its wake
Language: Czech
Hats off for the experimental work.
All the best
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