Author Archives: leilasmtrajkovic

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Hunchbacks, butcher clowns, villains!, Leila Samarrai, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

12.

Hunchbacks
With a cloud on their back
Butcher clowns
Villains
Regana’s daughters
Who hate my day
And all my mornings
Born from the wound
Of glistening narcissuses
Litter of Lucrecia
You exchanged venoms
Compressed into pitchers
In grinds sweetly
To stain the knife
With ancient cause
It is the artist osculating
He butchered the night
Of silence
And hush
But I will further hear
The eternal echo of my death.

13.

in the hour of celebrated departure
the warriors slumbered.
They breathe out under banners
And bloom in the hollow.
Flowers separate them.
Or are those
Intersected roads,
Nemesis,
Time fell asleep
In ambiguities.

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WISHES, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”, Leila Samarrai

With wincing voids and dismayed mornings
The leisured stones ring.
You gnash…

Does Fire not yearn to burn the garden
To transfuse your body into light
Does rain not hurry to sodden the sky
Or oceans? Do they not strive to find
The galleys of ANCESTOR wrath
With yearn to sail it around by violence?

All of them yearn
Your delicate wishes
Your shadow to please.

A joyful play

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I – PROPHET, Leila Samarrai

I – PROPHET

I – Prophet!
I wade onto the devils blasphemy
Chiseled inside
The womb of the Sphinx
Where dead Oedipus
Murders father-Chronos
Tied to the flute of Pan
from which the
(un)maker Logos
does not reach.
I – Prophet!
Mock the cross
And the Chosen one’s
Beaten ribs
His saint-peter-esque
Descendents of the new
Tower of Babylon that quarters
Unborn children.
I – Prophet!
I urinate into Lethe
Scattered in the heads
Of Pandora’s bastards
I kiss the wound of Caesar
As predicted by Genesis.

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THE LAST MOH’S DAY, Leila Samarrai

Dear fellow readers, even though English is not my mother tongue, I’ve written some poems directly in English.  As you know, poetry is a very delicate matter. I am well aware that I have taken a certain amount of poetic risk, but I truly hope you will like it.

THE LAST MOH’S DAY

1.
The Mohawk day: is lost and gone
The stink of ink in poor stomach and glossary
With glyphs and sad music.
Shall I taste the harp – like sound?
Or mad drums of boats – shaped percussion.
Thus my spite greets humanity.

The Spark once came in a shape so dim
The twofold mirror twinned nobody.
Black nobody in rift crystal, bring no – way not all is there

Nature has so many talents, an old dark breaker
Twisted tree, a mark of blemish
For some only a birth defect
Tiny line of malformation. –
I truly say: she knew her way
So, one day she made Moch’s day.

So I forgot who I was, why I was here in non- subsistence
Never here I’ll never be, no, never – be in co -existence
With the whip of an arty bastard
Stinkers and rats crawl nearby, but stinkers eat the dogs among the living.
Slaughtered ‘em all out of kindness
A sweet act of tender office.
From the sole of Nature’s heart.

At peace vigilance.
The bitter wind is bitter breath.
I smell the lofty gasp in leeway.
Look!The starry skies and snowstorms you gave me.

For what? To see?
How can I?

In such cheer and my good spirits
Only martyrs go to heaven
Since I’m trapped in blowup fashion
In unborn ways of shifting lips, bold to kiss my habitations?

Oh jackals, how I envy you!
God forbid all swift captains to live too long

But on the fancied Moch’ Last Day, one stood in order,
foolish phoenix, sculpted anger –
gun dog on behalf of all afore
And he sang a song of noble, elevated, golden spirits!
A summary for bad luck man, for the misfortune
Praise the boldness!
His face was hope
I, once dead craved my forgotten secret tunes
While he stood so steadily.

2.
At mating time of the Holy Cow, I promise you –
That I shall be seen… there.
Painted blue, with a tear in… this hand!

Tear?
My perturbation of the unexpected wounded inbounds
Took flight quick in the old dark blank
Embracing my own spit again, my forceful and glowing antipathy.

Cheap and petty as the Word demands
When the shell is breaking, the shell must be broken
Holy Hammer for Holy Stroke.

An accusation!
An accusation!
Fair parody of the sacred battle
Blessed are falsehood and misery!*

* – indeed they are!

3.
I despise soft angers.
Like felon who cry: Amen.
My tongue licks tools and means so disgraced
And their flames overlap me.
As falsity of guns and fires. As offence in the path of mind.
The truthful mind is immortal light for those who dare to find

The Blind comfortlessness of the broken king – his nutshell had veiled his
Graced courage.
Finally, do dare.
Shoot!
In all the hearts that fade away.

4.
The tone so sharply flirts with action
Towards betrayals, those wicked offenders
You are the core of Moch’s rubbled grief!
Indeed, is that so?
The vow trembles gladly in the heart of the thief.
The drowning age.

Drowned on All Fool’s day
Is there any cheat to blame for such a shame
Evildoer cries aloud, therefore the “Why” for his heavy laugh
When you see the clown, indeed, you smile.

Laughter is not for the Fool
Too many fragments in the sacred heart
The cruelest mouth that never be so cruel
As my despise of morally sigh..

The jester moans and weeps
Such promises!

You, mislead! It’s common sense
And!
The lawful right of sinful worms
A robbery of hope – invention
Undying interest of Judas
Makes kiss so sweet in amusing farce.

The love is born of necessity
let “why” stay cold for bride to be
Risen from the ashes…
Such palaces for non – such kings

God the Father
God the Father
Where’s your son?
And where’s your sin.

God the Father
God the Father
Where’s your son?
And where’s your sin.

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Leila Samarrai: THE ROAD, “THE SECOND BIRTH OF TRAGEDY”

An excerpt from a long narrative poem “The Road”, dedicated to the Truth

5.

Ecce Veritas

Mystics listen to her
Cynics vomit her
Midwives truth-birth her
And since always
Welcome her on hands
That insidious trash
To fill their pitchers
With her feces.
Born from the spirit of pride
From the spleen of law
From the blood of forefathers
From the womb of lies
From seventy seven
Forgiveness
The fools loved her
Saints like a knick – knack
Showed her on the fair
Liars about her
Sexually fantasized
Ecce veritas
Spends her life next to Dionysius ,
Bloodless turkey cocks and donkeys
Smell her sacred beak.
Crowned with laurels
Permeated with boredom
In the tasteful asylum
And she sings in blood
To dampened strings
While watching her reflection
In the lavatory of Hades
Remembers
Progenitrix
Now already an aging whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.

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Leila Samarrai: DEDICATION TO ELIOT, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

Yes, my friend
While walking down Central Park avenue
On the other side of the road
I saw sad men
Glamour and skinned foxes
Caught in the northern woods
Men in a shell, hollow men
Pain in blood and cognizance in the eye;
But I did not see a single Man.

For all men, Eliot’s men,
Hollow men overpowered by intrigues,
For all those men, Proust’s men
With hands in the mud of chastity I circular oblivion
Pain in blood.
For adventurers created out of fear
Rampaging civility, with the smile of night upon the cheeks.
They pointed their finger to the beggars.
Stoically they gnaw the bone.
Under the wind they make each other laugh and they howl through laughter.
I heard voices uprooted from outer space
The benumbed song of the eagles
From nutrients, from nutrients
blinded, cozy cavity
Obviousness.
.
The opposites rampage in the windmills.
And nothingness is out of it’s mind.

Come out of the shell!
The scarecrows are filled with hay
Оh, Eliot, Eliot
Out of all the poets only you I trust.

Yes! My friend
While I was walking down Central Park avenue
On the other side of the road…
I saw sad men
Glamour and skinned foxes
Caught in the northern woods
Men in a shell, hollow men
Pain in blood and cognizance in the eye
But I did not see, just like you, not a single man

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Leila Samarrai: SAMIRA’S COMFORT, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

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image found here

SAMIRA’S COMFORT

You bite the poem under the tongue and words which made reminiscences into dust
They do not understand you, actrisa.
It is time for aktshluss

You were chewed by the populist phenomenology
Of verses devoid of poetry
In the band of false troubadours you cannot be actor primarium patrium
Aristocrat among poetesses do not forget that the Arabs divined your fate with arrows

Do not worry, Leila, I enjoyed reading your verses,
I Samira, the trade woman from the satrapy of forgotten empires
On my breasts I bared the burden heavier than the grandiose pillars from Hatra
Forever banished from the cradle of two folk I belonged to by the disfavor of Alan and Beog who found a dying city

Do not worry, Leila, with you are Greeks and Sarmatians and your name is nailed into the Grecian affiches
Announced by Sophocles on fliers and billboards of alternative theaters
And Caligula dances with your Greek single act dramas on Palatine games

Do not worry, Leila, unpopular poetess in a world which you overcame
With the miracle of discovering the secret home in which you mastered silences

Do not forget everything is a matter of injustice because there is no justice
Do not forget the world became a mine field and an insult
Do not forget another world will be chiseled by your verses of immortal longing

Do not worry, Leila, there will be time for all those who hotly growl on the mention of your name to understand
The unbearable ease of existence and the feather of your French Alexandrine.

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Leila Samarrai: THE SECOND BIRTH OF TRAGEDY, To Myself

TO MYSELF

To my emotive Seshat, the goddess of cosmic intuition and writing

You were born in the wrong time.
You should have been born in the age of
Emperor Trajan
Or the age of Scorpion kings in Egypt
In the age before pharaohs which went to mystery
Sometime before mythology.
If you were in Troy when the Mycenae waged war,
Perhaps you would be the one
Helena…
You and I are Thoth and Seshat,
We follow each other through centuries and times,
Realism forces „formality of the movement”;
Formality of human movement…
Unscrewing of the universe… scene in a drama.
We are not made for short-term dramas;
Immortal tribute
Gives us longer era.
You are the lady from Poe’s stories;
Ligeia – the alchemist
Reincarnation of Isis, goddess of mysterious knowledge
Of the teacher and male student in that story.

And the ancient Greek dramaturgy…
There is, my lady… true depth.
Aesculus, Sophocles, и Euripides…
Remember…
„Oedipus Rex” by Sophocles,
the syndrome which destroyed even the lineage of Obrenovic
Dear* „proxy” mama
She too was Seshat, but nobody knows it
For the astronomer
Nut, the bed spreader of the universe
Is Seshat who searches for her Thoth.
Dream that I send you
Metaphysics of one century into another
And we shall find each other, does not matter
In which time.
What matters is
That we were inside the same moment and the same time,
In the garden of splitting ways.

* Draga (meaning Dear or Precious in English also known as Queen Draga, was the queen and wife of King Aleksandar Obrenović of the Kingdom of Serbia.

 

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