Category Archives: poetry

poetry, proza

The Spark Of Life, unedited

I had too much tragedy in my life, that I was, unfortunately, used to being abandoned and betrayed by people who have no business abandoning me and betraying me, and that I  have also trusted people who have let me down.  Also I’ve developed friendships with people who have taken advantage of my kindness. I have been used and abused but I still continue to show my strength and my spark for life.

 

I reached out for the moon
with a hand that caressed brightness
I reached out for a rose
with a hand that caressed thorns
And I blessed Brutus and Judas
I kissed their wickedness
my hands were slain,
and their knives were laughing
And I let my blood to flow
into river no one has ever seen
where I was drowning myself, my tears, better to say…
with them I efflorescented my ordinary sorrows

My betrayers have escaped
and their scoundrels went off
They slipped out of blood with deft of guileful

The moon is darkened
the moon is darkened
with the treacherous skill
while they guarded their misdeed

I tore off a rose petal
the other
and the third
all their green youth

I picked up…

The first blackguard
the second
then the third

I became Mars
I became iron
I became stone

with myself
I branded wretches
villains, hypocrites and scoundrels
with myself
I kissed an evil ones
and hugged all the wiles
and toads, and idolaters
Still

My heart goes out to innocent blood
My heart goes out to tender hearts
My heart goes out to spark of life

 

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poetry, proza

Poem 1 of the The Exorcise Trials: Leila Samarrai

Exorcise Trials

Poem 1

1

ME

You dare to talk about the psyche?
You think I lack stamina for twenty-five push-ups?
What do you know of a woman?
Are you thinking of Psycho as Isolde
Or Juliet perhaps?
The ones who received Aphrodite’s curse
To be beautiful, but lonely?
She’s a vengeful bitch
But still so pretty…
Now go and look where her hands are…
I, The Goddess Of Yelling, I… scream
DIE and dumbbells drop
They call me Dame Judi Dench of the gym
I cut off The Venus’ limbs with my voice
Inside I’m just a few pieces of broken statue
I want to be like Aphrodite of Milo
To be sold to the French at a good price
If only some farmer from Melos had unearthed me
Like her, I’d be in the Louvre, beautiful and exposed
Instead I sweat and toil in a man-made gymnasium
Counting to ten over and over

Aphrodite de Milo:

Dear Sister

I have a part of the left hand and an apple
I am Eva, now, immovable
with lust in this boring paradise

That is my trial.

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poetry

Gilda, The Serial Kitchen Killer, Leila Samarrai

I’m Gilda!
I get up!
I glitter!
I cook.

 Lunch lounges under laughing chandeliers.
They smile back and the knife blades beam in luminescent light.
They illuminate my garish gilded plates.
Light light everywhere!
Plates talk as they hop and bounce
Feed us!
Eat us!
Kill us!
Polish, polish me, my Nazi!
Dinner time!
Play the macabre music!
GOLD GOLD EVERYWHERE.

But among the plates, shiny, gold and pink, one cracks.
The gold was gutted by my knife!
It was the unsharpened one that spoke to me…

Feed us!
Eat us!
Kill us!

Suddenly the fridge is jumping for joy.
And then there’s the vampiric meat I cut up last summer.
Dance! Hop Hop! Dance!
It’s the one I cut up last summer
She looks at me vindictively, and shouts:
YOU KILLED MY MOTHER!
My knife quivers above the sparkling sink water
Come out deep fish
Octopus, crabs, snails!
The chicken wants his gizzard back
COME OWWWWWWT!
(finger points down in swirling dirty dish water)

Serial killer of meat and crab
Blond-haired metonymy of death
The lights die. All is dark.
I scream at the mutiny.
One by one they attack.
With a meat cleaver
(Clean us, clean us, you dirty bird! Sing!)
Dead zombie guests assault me, shuffling forth.
Vindictively, fork stabs the pork
Once more into the battle of the Green Fork!
“I can’t stand the pain! ”
“Wait for MEEEEEE! ”
RED RED EVERYWHERE. DRIPPING.

Tomorrow the police will find me in a glass jar.
I’ll just be two golden eyes and a rotten iris…
Swimming around, contained and happy.
My kitchen will finally be clean!

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poetry

Vanished flowers, Leila Samarrai

lost_hope_by_fatranita

image found here

My distant seas
Flooded the land
In the night.
My bright fires
Smell burned nostrils.
Pain.
Distorted are
The kisses.
My warm dreams
Frosted by
Extinct stars
And oaths
Which only the constellations
understand.
There they are
Like curses.
The thief took away the peace
Kept in a vortex ‘till then.
Frozen reflections sleep
Vanished flowers
Through irony
Heal hell.

2.
The wounds elicited hopes
To
Exhausted
stranded
onto the rocks of ancient seas
bring peace to the castaway.
They prolonged the eternal day
To one more wrathful hour.

3.
Have you not been brought by the departed
into dark regions
by the narrowness of heart?
Eat your own heart.
Let snow cover it.
The sight and breath return
After the strike of the matured essence.
Let Truth become essence to you
The quest
Pretty fresco carved
By the eye of the stern
Iced
Sun.

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poetry

The Dread Of Dead Birds

The Dread Of Dead Birds

The dread of dead birds
In the ambient of a stake-out
Is the song of blood

Exists
A slightly higher pitched thought
Like the distances
Lave themselves with silence

Sail away eyes down Attila's ill-whirlpools
Dig out the birds
Which are self-sufficient
Convinced
That the most beautiful voices
Reach
From dead lines in the ground

We need them
At the beginning and the end of love
We always summon them then
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poetry

I am Hyperborean, Atlantean Leila Samarrai, edited by Pamela Sinicrope

“It is a story of a woman dreaming of greatness and being her most actualized self, but is limited by her nationality.”, Pamela Sinicrope

I live in a country where the sun never sets;
Eratosthenes and Pliny, they write stories about me;
Waiting for me to show up
In a world that really does exist,
In a land that lives in a world of myths.

I have fed hundreds of swans flying
I have fed hundreds of swans flying…

I was the defense counsel
At The Battle of Thermopylae.
I live and die to fly in Thrace’s winds, for the golden freedom described by Pindar.

I am a Hyperborean living in Serbian land.
I am an Atlantean living in Serbian land.

***
I embrace the pillars of Hercules
I am an inspiration to the writings of Plato
And Ignatius L. Donnelly
I am a visitor to the magnificent Garden of Eden
I kiss earthly gold and walk through the ocean.
I am the queen of Egypt
I am a teacher, showing Phoenicians their alphabet
I poured hyperborean shadows into the golden bars

We mock the poor Hyperboreans
Who dream of Thrace’s winds. BUT

In one horrible day we died, trampled by
A hairy brethren of elephants.
In one horrible day and one night, we
Sank into the ocean, lost.
I am a hedonist who
Lost her might from fear.

I was a Hyperborean woman
In the land where the sun never sets
I was a Hyperborean woman
Who fed her swans, watching them fly in the wind.
I did not die in a world of myths
I was defense counsel at The Battle of Thermopylae
Apollo took me to Delphi in his carriages
So that I might spread his doctrine to other nations
Since then no one has ever seen me,
I’m still waiting for her to become.

I am a Hyperborean living in Serbian land.
I am an Atlantean living in Serbian land.

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poetry, proza

a thousand ways in which my father died

Some say that my father died …
beside the Tigris, mighty, silent, mysterious.
Witnesses say that his body protruded
from the liquid hot sand,
his face was a mask, a misleadingly golden hue
in the never setting sun.
Others say that my father resurrected.
One can see him stumbling down the deserted streets
wearing the dark sunglasses
escorted by combat Hummers from machine-gun turrets,
escorted by easy -on -the -trigger -boys

(What a lie! BANG BANG! BUM BUM!)

Legend tells my father died
when the huge Erbas E300 Air France crashed into the Atlantic ocean, the most modern aircraft and the pride of the French company.
The ocean whispers he never flew by plane.
Somewhere in the background I can hear their booming voices: He died dressed in a camouflage uniform of the Iraqi Revolutionary Guard with a glint of the sun on the epaulettes.
He still had a desire to live; at least until the moment he pounces his plane on a selected target and joins the virgins in Paradise.
But the witnesses do swear that he, a martyr – suicide, casually pulled the plug to open the cabin, once, twice, three …
“Damn bastard” – he thought at the time – “Again, there is no electricity! It must be that the fuse under the dash burnt out
once again. The last one we had.“

(Can you imagine that?)

An aircraft runway in front of him has become heated,Bsand around it shimmers with a bluish light.  Across the sky dark clouds began to spring.
There are rumors he went mad before his death.
He saw the figure of an old woman dressed in mourning dress at the site of the automatic pilot, a contrast to her unreal pale face, as if she were immersed in water for days.
He froze in horror while she was silently watching him with empty eye sockets.
“Open the box.” – She said, this time it was a deep voice without emotion. “There’s a picture inside.“
A few seconds later,
scorched dismembered parts of human bodies were scattered miles around. Tormented by madness he died in hysteria, alternately he laughing and shaking with fear

(This is catchy, I give them that!)

In unison voices, they baptized their Gentleman testifying before the global audience:
there was a body of a child, it sailed to the surface,
there was an intact body of a wrinkled old woman with eyes closed, as if asleep, her face pale almost white, her hands turned blue from the water. Beside the corpses swam a black box.
There was a picture inside.
The old lady was me.
The picture was mine.
(I do not know even what to say..
What an imagination!)
They say my father blew himself up with a bomb somewhere, beside the Tigris, mighty, mighty, silent, silent–
mysterious–
Oh so mysterious,
witnesses say that his body protruded from the liquid hot sand, his face was a mask a misleadingly golden hue.
After all, who cares if the bastard died?
You see..
I believe none these stories, do you Father?
You Father, you murderer, you Father, you murderer.
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poetry, proza

Forgiveness Poem, Leila Samarrai

To feel blue–
what is it?
a faded fire
in the eyes?
a numb hand on my chest
as I lay dying, among the graves?

Being angry–
what is that?
a wide open mouth spitting
hundreds of poisonous flowers?
sometimes the most beautiful words
are spoken on the wrong side of the world

Forgive the bastards!
forgive them for…
“So you became a Christian?”
“No, I am not a Christian, I am a woman”

Being dead,
what is it like,
after all this?
there is no death except for one.
that hour is yet to come.
however, time and space do not exist.
and I remain a naked hungry ghost

Being a hungry–
what is it?
a knife impaled in the stomach,
made up of a thousand thunder bolts!
I’m purged through a holy fire of
bonfires and stars!
what a feeling!

Bloody ravines everywhere,
now and to come! Ego te absolvo!
bastards everywhere: I absolve you all!
malvados, screams, bloody ravine, villain
Vo vjeki vjekov! Ego te absolvo!
Schwein, Schwein, everywhere,
now and to come:
I absolve you all!
Amen! Amen! Amen!

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