Author Archives: leilasmtrajkovic

proza, Uncategorized

Please, comment, I do not bite… or maybe I do.

I noticed that no one comment on my poems. Even poems in Serbian have likes, some bots are “like – ing” them, too, I believe, because of the photos, because I bet on my life you do not speak Serbian.

You have the right not to like someone else’s poem or story etc, you have the right not to understand it, you have a right to think that it is wrong translated. You have the right to do and think whatever you want. But, I want to express my point of view. First of all, this is LITERARY blog. Second: I speak two worldwide languages and communication with me is possible. Furthermore, this site is not intended for lovers of photography. I was hoping that there will be people who will appreciate my literary efforts, ie writing, not to mention my translating…

Although I’m not a translator, wishing you to understand my writings, although translating poetry requires experience and it is a very delicate matter, because I knew that few people know mother tongue of Novak Djokovic, more precisely, Serbian, furthermore: I am aware of the fact that English, after China, is the most common language on the Internet, thus I wanted to translate my work all alone without a professional translator who really I can not afford.

To speak a language is one thing, to translate sensitive artistic material without the betrayal of the original is something else entirely.

If you think only about photos, fine, I will continue to translate for myself, call it a practice.. , but I want to know that I have readers on this blog. Or not. Also, I greet all who sincerely are following my writings.

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leila, proza, samarrai

CARTE DIEM, ТАБУ КАКО ЈЕ ПОЕЗИЈА УМРЛА ИЛИТИ „ТО ВИШЕ НИКО НЕ ЧИТА“,published in magazine KULT

http://casopiskult.com/kult/carte-diem/kako-je-poezija-umrla-iliti-to-vise-niko-ne-cita/

‘– Неисплативо је писати поезију, пријатељу мој. Данас сви мисле да је могу писати, како прорече онај песник самоубица, а то су ми омиљени пророци. Нико је не купује и може се одштампана књига поклонити. Може се користити и као лепеза за време врућина, наравно, кад се охлади, јер из штампарије излази необично врела. Као средство за хлађење још је употребљивија ако је штампана у меканим корицама, јер од тврдих укочи се рука.. Приче су исплативије и то је разлог што се, ако поезију поредимо са пшеницом, сеје се мање него претходних векова. Но, у процентима изражено, сеје се око чак 95 посто мање, што је несхватљиво! Пшеница је одувек била у тренду, ако ни због чега, а оно макар због хлеба.’

 

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proza

Today, going to the bookstore I experience as a mild nightmare…

The development of printing and electronic technology, swiftness of the ways of copying text, and, in particular, writing on a computer, have caused enormous increase in text productions and made that literature had become a fraction of the mass production art, raw material that supplies the printing and publishing industries whose products are later filtered in media and marketing, distributed in the trade network,becoming a part of spiritual consumption. Today, going to the bookstore I experience as a mild nightmare or as an entry in the supermarket: offer is overabundant and endless, the book is no longer a rarity, let alone sacred object, it is commonplace, readily available product of mass culture. All genres, except for the novel and, to some extent, drama (because of its natural association with the theater and the possibility of public presentation), are pushed to the edge of cultural and literary system. There is an obvious domination of light and trivial genres.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6C52imiEb3U&feature=share

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horror, poetry

10

10

I am watching the sea that I will never see
In this accursed hamlet,
I describe the sluggish steps of Kings
sneaking by palaces at Samarra
Which will never whisper
I recognize the images of distant landscapes
in the verse that does not unveil itself to me
There is no nature in poetry
she is sick of the three pens and mangled alphabet.
Her belly is swollen
There is no promised land to continue towards
on one’s pilgrimage
I am dust, bloated and greedy
denied
With this departure from the country of poetry, with a smile of a crying child
answer me, chimera that glides between my rows and my trenches
Be honest, the deep illusion with elephant diphtheria and malignant disease
three lines before the end of.. this, before your affluence rots
and your garments are devoured by moths, INTER NOS,
is it possible for anything to be minisculeto dust?

CHIMERA:

Veni at me… sed wicked… Climax non est!

L.S

the-chimera-1867-jpglarge

http://www.wikiart.org/en/gustave-moreau/the-chimera-1867

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boris k, prose

BORIS K. In the Literary Club, “The Adventures Of Boris K.”, Leila Samarrai

BORIS K. In the Literary Club

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Boris K. was finally, but somewhat begrudgingly accepted into the Literary Club. By no means did he fit in, however.

First Big critic’s was transfixed on an ashtray full of Pierre Cardin cigarettes, amid debate about the essay on Leo Tolstoy, which was written for certain by Anna Karenina, and here signedly spat the phrase through his gnashed teeth:

“Levin mowing.. But WHY? ”

Boris K. could not possibly agree with the idea. He was, in fact, very fond of mowing. A former member of the Transnational Lawnmower Fan Club, he genuinely enjoyed reading the forewords. That was his favourite part of the essay.

“Therefore, the novel War and Peace is something else.”

“It describes the state of mind of man in war,” these words were huffed by another member of the club’s haughty membership.

Boris K. again could not agree less, because he always worshiped War and Peace, jumping in and out of the pages like some frantic frog, but overall, he had always been a dilettantish reader of Russian writers.

When speaking of heroes of the modern novel,they mentioned Proust, whom Boris K. always thought about too long afterward.

Boris K.,as of late, began to seriously marvel at himself as a virtuoso, a genius and a maestro, so that, seeing that everyone was at ease gabbing about the great Proust he felt helpless,  decided to take action, and mouth a word. Before he could say something, someone remarked:

“Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer.”

Boris K. was annoyed because he was once again deceived. He fumed to himself: while he did not read the Crab Story, he loved the Goat Grimoire, but…What to do now? He fell silent, and felt as if he was expected to utter some sort of wise parable. Even the great sages of old contemptuously glanced at him. Then Boris K. stood, and with thundering voice, boomed forth his life’s motto:

“Acta Non Verba”, and with a firm step, he went to the coffee machine, serving a cup of coffee in plastic cups on the big Hollywood waiter’s tray to all those present in the hall.

A bitter discussion, a Gladiatorial debate about the literature of the ancient Romans ensued. Boris K. then broached the day’s topic.

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poetry, proza

Safo

Safo

(18 versos)

La más prudente, divina, presionada con el desprecio
Oh poetisa de los frágiles, este mundo que lideras
Evangelios sensible con la fuerza de relámpago derrumbas,
Deformas, doblas, aterras y creas
Decididas festejaban musas celosas
Naturalmente te envenenan con este ruido insensato
No hay cosa más triste que el ajetreo horrible
Paralas masas enloquecidas con suspiros y alegría
Mientras el cielo en su malevolencia arde
Más inocente tú eres
Cada vez más que en el fondo del verso pases
Eres la magia que al deseo del satisfacer escapa
En el jardín de lo azul ornamental tú quedas sosegada

Que más ridículo esté el desprecio tuyo
Que hacia la ofensa deambuló
Los cielos infernales se vuelven,
Y la tierra mancos asquerosos lleva encima
Tú virgen santísima, ¡ornamento cada aniquila!

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poetry

Love, do you believe in love?, PART ONE

I, invisible goddess, I envy unloved goat-nymph
on Greek islands
Let me and my invisible do more harm to visible
unlanguage me, but do not make me play the harp to Harpy
Her name is Love.
Hear me mortal’s. twist your sights
demigods, taste my riptide
wrought pen of magic fire
On behalf of this sword and in the name of the ocean
the tides are turning, love is changing her place
the Love is not looking for a place under the sun
the Love does not seek the city under water
the Love does not get the wrath of Poseidon
Hecate, I am diving into the fog, for I see your monsters
in the mist …
Love, do you believe in love?

 

END OF PART ONE

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poetry

Ferro Et Igni

As I write my last public address (Do give us a hand, please) I am clenching my breasts in my palms
I recall my early youth
Sometimes the light is born within me
Very noticeable
More fervent than the dawn of time, priests would say
Mostly I feel the night inside me
riddled with bullets and bloody wolf hunts,
FERRO ET IGNI
I adore the deos until after their ouster
They aim for my life, appear to me with claws and marks
Through dubious astrological trials.

L.S

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