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.

 

The waters are cool in the misting morning

 

 I get up before the sun and roll my neck

The bones creak like the desert earth.

The waters are cool in the misting morning

 

My teeth, tombstones; my gums, the rot

Lost in the ginger petrified forest above my mouth.

The waters are cool in the misting morning

My eyes hazy-gened and unsure in the dark

Look for the lenses by the lamp and clock.

The waters are cool in the misting morning

How can this mummy, this zombie ever become alive

When the world is passing him by?

The waters are cool in the misting morning

 

The groan of the decades dying mixed with rancid breath

Of the perennials fading and turning to dust.

The waters are cool in the misting morning

When the ick oozes and schmoozes all over you

Turning wonders into horrors overnight.

The waters are cool in the misting morning

The water comes from the faucet to cleanse

Make this clay into sculpture and start the day anew.

The waters are cool in the misting morning

Language of Origin: Arabic

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