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

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