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.
We often order appetizers and bread baskets before the meal
Along with bowls of butter and whatever dip comes with it
In the frenzy of those exhausting days we often spend together
To relax the bands which pull us in every-which-way from the house.
Crab rangoons and spring rolls aplenty
Or the nachos and jicama tuna tacos driven from the kitchen
With the carbonated and still drinks
In a fury of chatter and gestures of the crowd
All wishing to isolate themselves in the hour respite in the air conditioning
All talking a mile a minute with a descendent of milk on their table.
When we have had our fill the question
Would you like to order your entrées now?
Hovers overhead
And we comply despite our stomachs.
Out comes the chicken and the fish
Dressed in the earthly greens and grains
Paired with the French’s ground-apples
Twice the portion as the previous plate.
The chatter is less apparent as the news grows old
And the customs of utensils overtake the conversation
And the heat pales into cold—
No more clinking glasses.
And then
Would you like to see our dessert menu?
Of course.
Language: Georgian
