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.


Roses are red

Violets are blue

Writing poems is tiresome

And sleep long overdue.

I’d rather nap like a tomcat

Nestled in the afternoon sun

Than try to recreate the works

Of Shakespeare or Donne.

Everything metaphor expired

And tossed with cliché

Like the chef’s specials

In the grade b café.

I cannot replicate the drums

That have long escaped me

Turning beats into screeches

The memory is hazy.

Of the times I cared enough

To really put in an effort

More than counting the days

Until I get some more comfort.


Language of Origin: Estonian

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