poezija

Slika sa izložbe

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2017/02/10/ram-za-sliku/

Umetnost zaobilaze trgovci
kao napuštenu crkvu
udvojena slika lomi

preko puta Svetilišta je
kičerajska tezga
na prodaju

Požutela slika cele porodice
manipulativno i lažno

Može li Sujeta uopšte da slika?
Ako i slika, šta vidi

gnjilo gnjezdo Sujetnika
ostariće sa njima
dok se slepilo smeši
podmićeno aplauzom

Uzdah
prati moj pogled
u smrt tog jutra
u groblje umetnosti
u koju sam nakratko zašla
da joj upalim sveću
za dušu..

Nečist obraz
spleo se sa potkupljivom rukom

paleta odumire, slikarka (se)
samozadovoljno nabacuje na platno
digitalno

Previše jada videh,
dovoljno za odlazak

Možda sam već Ruskinja
smeštena u večnu kapsulu i plutam
ka Sibiru zaleđenih vena

Ne treba bol zamenjivati mržnjom
a ni samomržnjom

Bol treba izbaciti iz sebe.
Izbaciti je plačem,
potokom suza
umesto krvi.

Da poteku ravnomerno
u svojoj nepresušnosti

fake

 

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poezija

Ram za sliku

Želim da napišem pesmu
o slikama koje bi oštrica noža učinila lepšim

Galerija, ogromna i prozračna
Ručno izrađeni predmeti
od masivnog drveta produbljuju strah
Stolovi s mašnicama, kao izrezani iz bombonjera
platna uokvirena slabunjavim daščicama

Na izložbi su lica
kakva je naslikala
niska prijateljica gordosti:

ujedaju, nabadaju, kao da bi
nekom šakom o glavu
na njima odmaraju lažni osmesi

Oni su naše ništa,
kao naš uzdah,
oni su ništa
kao naš izdah,
oni su ništa
blagoglagoljivi i prazni
(i po neko dislocirano rame)

Želim da napišem pesmu
o zanatliji koji je platio da bude izložen

Želim da napišem pesmu o svinjcu
koji je nastavak
salijerijevskog straha

Želim pisati o ruglu lepo, slikovito
da se gotovo moze osetiti, opipati,
A ne mogu, kad sve je ništa
(nevidljivo se ne da sagledati)

ogrnula sam pustoš i ponela mapu
krećući se u sumrak ka Vienni
gde je nekad svirao Mocart,
a sada vukovi reže i leže u njoj

u pukotinu zmija
zavukla je slatki jezik
dok telo velegrada
pretvara u zabit

U radosti, ravnodušni svet
nezagledani u platna
pokazuju sebe svetu

kroz kič koji je došao na svoje
prodavac pristaje na cenjkanje

Nesretne, nedovršene slike
šta od vas načini jedna sujetna ruka
da vas tek pesnik vizualiziranjem
dovodi do onog što ste mogle biti

na vama ne vidim ništa od
blistava mora
i sjajne terase na kojima mogu da uživam
u prekrasnom pogledu,

samo bolest i smrt,

kao iz ruševine
poraz koji miriše na pokvareno voće
(a neko vas je verovatno i kupio)

Sklonila sam se u zagrljaj
nesigurne večnosti,
u tamni, nemi svet.

Tišine toliko ne čuh na bučnijem mestu
i mraka toliko ne omirisah
ni u pećinama svog srca
dok me u budnoj mori, usnulu,
davi nešto odveć živo

fake-painting-photographs-alexa-meade-20

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poetry, poezija

POUR EVE, Dedicated to Eva Gaëlle Green (Gren), Leila Samarrai

Dedicated to Eva Gaëlle Green (Gren)

We the odd ones
We the selfsame ones
We are both
An ugly, broken thing.

Loosen the grip, o shocked goddess
femme recherché
laisse-moitranquille
Tis all in the foam
In thine shell

Adam’s member
is a snake which
sheds its skin
a maggot in a pink apple

I water the rage
With soft, tricked tears
Don’t cast your pearls
Before the phalluses

I depart for the graveyard of forbidden delights

 0353320

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poetry, poezija, proza

Commentary on the poem Rabbi Isa, deliver me NOT from evil, by Leila Samarrai – Ljubodrag Stojanovic, Serbian writer and poet

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2016/06/12/rabbi-isa-deliver-me-not-from-evil-leila-samarrai-edited-version/

Regarding this poem, Indifference will be a feature of those who, in fact, have not read it. Others will praise or reviled it, the opportunists may growl a word or two turning the conversation to another topic. I think the poem is emotionally open, strong. Babylonian mix of languages is not an obstacle.

Jesus is presented beautifully, that primal Jesus, not through his alleged representatives on Earth, embodied in the make – money organization, as well as power and authority. Oedipal part, although in Father-Daughter relation is the most obvious
in King Richard part, where persistently repeat, like introduction to Ravel’s Bolero, echoes in head of the reader, insisting to be awakened by a Mother from nightmare in this shamelessly and father – less world.
There is a very strong part in conjunction with androgynous snake.
The snake is deeply connected with the Father’s part.
The absence of a King in her life has built a structure prone to resistance to the male part of the world. She identifies herself through the male power, so to speak, trapped in a woman’s body. Hence the emotional affinity
targeted at women.

The lack of a living father, coward without responsibility, on one hand, polarizes her personality since, on the other hand, there is a great dose of love for the aforementioned king, hence simultaneous hatred which initiates ambivalent emotions, hence the lyrics. Anger is directed towards the male gender, and rage against women is turned only to those primitive, deeply stupid and perverse women, ie, those that deserve it with that kind of personality

Jesus is the Father, a kind of father should be. Get up, girl! Jesus, as we know him from the New Testament. He encourages, forgives and does not judge. He prefers sinful children, prostitutes, revolutionaries, thieves, from bland people.

But she does not want protection from evil. She considers herself strong enough to stand up to evil, but rather only to refuse protection, she accepts evil as part of herself, what Njegoš would have said, to do evil, to defend yourself from evil, there is no atrocities in such things.

The choice of location is interesting, selected by Nightmare itself which is logical. If a dream-nightmare is ego and superego compromise, than the sequencing of the images is a universe in itself where there is no time and space.
Splendidly divided in thematic terms, your poem is a circle that folds and unfolds herself, she can exist independently, but as a whole she is rounded and as such she gets her real meaning.

 

Ljubodrag Stojanovic, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73i-fGeWBUo, Serbian writer and poet, he has published the drama Serbian Story (2002), a collection of aphorisms
I, crazy and confused (2009). He is represented in numerous printed and electronic anthologies of poetry and prose works.

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100011126642029

https://twitter.com/childebyron

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poezija, proza

Slavery in Serbia, from the perspective of a Serbian’ tenant, Leila Trajkovic Samarrai

note: I am a slave to the extent in which great Spartacus was, too…

A kindness died away between the pillars of
a strangely home, a distant home in someone else’s garden
there is plenty of invectives and malice here and there, and I’m tired
I am so… worn out under
the sky
the bird
they have overshadowed
the world of ruins that is mine now
be lost, be distant, between dream and life

As were all the other evils that I hugged
as were all the other evils that have surrounded me
you expelled me into the living pasture
you expelled me out the gates of hell
to serve as a faithful slave girl towards the ground
I do not hear my verses, nor the sound of their loveliness
neither the sleepless sea

Only cries are given to the recklessly break
to my reckless limbs
recklessly
to them who expelled me to my pacha
to them gripped by cruelty
in water falls that grow in morning sunlight
in yesterday’s paradise
in the freshness of May

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poezija, proza

ROBOVANJE U SRBIJI, iz ugla jednog podstanara, Leila Trajković

ROBOVANJE U SRBIJI, iz ugla jednog podstanara, Leila Trajković

Utihnula je dobrota između stubova
jedne tuđe kuće, dalekog doma u tuđoj bašti
Obilje grdnje i zlobe, a ja umorna
Izmorena pod nebom
Ptica
Natkrilila je
Ovaj svet ruševina koji je sada moj
Izgubljena, daleka, između sna i života
kao sto behu sva druga zla koja sam grlila
kao što behu sva druga zla koja su me opkolila
I vi me isteraste na pašnjak životni
I vi me isteraste kroz vrata pakla
Dok kao verna robinja zemlji služim
Ne čuju se stihovi moji, niti njihova ljupkost
niti besano more

Samo krici koji bezobzirno lome
moje bezobzirne udove
bezobzirno
u njima što me na pašnjak isteraše
zavladala je okrutnost
u slapovima raste na jutarnjoj, majskoj svežini.

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poezija

I am Hyperborean, Atlantean Leila Samarrai, editor: Pamela Sinicrope, The Second Version

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

The pillars of Hercules, I am an inspiration
To the writings of Plato and Ignatius Donnelly.
I am a visitor to the magnificent Garden of Eden.
I kiss earthly gold and walkthrough the ocean.

We mock the poor Hyperboreans, dreaming 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 in poverty, lost in war, Lost in fear, veiled and Suppressed by men, struggling, remembering.
I was once a Hyperborean woman
Who fed her swans, watching them fly in the wind.
I did not die in a world of myths, I was once defense
Counsel at The Battle of Thermopylae. Apollo used Me to spread his doctrine to other nations, to be sung by a dying swan..

“More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise.”

I embraced my swans in a love embrace   I embraced my shadow and sang no more.

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

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poetry, poezija, proza

Angry poems, Recommendation of Nemesis

Hunchbacks, butcher clowns, villains!

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.

 

Liars

They lied to the constellations, and stars
The colorful fireflies with drums on their wings
Hidden inside the flakes of chitin
About the origin of the dinosaur bone and silence of the cosmos

In the image of god by which – they lied about this too!
Pulse the rivers of light
Hypnos weeps, and the tears of ice are a gruesome cure
Weeps on the catafalque of the Queen Kai and Gerda

Liars!
Eternal Herman watches the game, he will hunt you down
Quickly! Do not say how foxed dreamer does not warn

They lied to me that I am fertile, dreamy and fertile
The mortal mouth of lies bent like a toy
They lied that there are addict giants
On the Cape Verde
And the faces of savages are like an ironing board
The smell of clean laundry is mixed with salt
And the eternal prince with the yellow heraldry of the irises
Circles around their feet

The scalding grip of a lie
How she embraced you
Like some kind of a law is crumbling or
The steadily Nothing is being demolished
Within the inconsolable Truth
The ship is sinking!
Munchhausen pass the gun, you lurid earl
Mammoth killer, you crocodile, you dreadful rhapsody of white
A vixen your mistress Mother – Lie!
Lie!
Uneasy, work-eaten, strong
Are the poets of your Hell,
On the pyre of the sea drowning like the truth

This is why my laughter is no longer heard,
This is why my womb is pillaged, for
The sea torn from laughter clamors:
“Oh, naïve daughter. . .!”
The sun does not exist
After 25th ideals are dissolved in hydrogen chloride
All the dark and cynical faces
Are the alcoholic dream of the universe
And the gale of everyone’s laughter is the start of a thunder
Make-up is smeared in the circle whose path
Follows the Eternal Beast with its intestines of pickled love

The lied to me that they lie!

Daddy

You, with a wax masque of a Summer rain, inconstant scatterbrain

Know: the love of fathers is hell on a st(ake)rand!
You, with your limb more stiff than the dogmas of Lucifer.
Who have you forgot to permeate:

The Woman: who is a river ( for she flowed to you)
The Daughter: who is volcanine ( for she burned for you)
The Earth – which swallows you (ultimate mistress)?
You, who are present but not present, Know:

Hate has a heart! The green heart of shot Lorca and wrath of God!
He, alike you:
Does not love!
Does not forgive!
Does not kiss!

To gift the legal age he rapes the Vestales .
Bloodsucker! Anathema! Harpy!
You growl too loud, desert fa(ng)ther.

I know you encircle girls before the door.
I know you flow down their thighs sweaty.
Like unborn milk flows from me to you.
Like chrome sand flows from my eyes instead of tears.
Like thorns grow within my body and not children.
You, who are a corpse in formalin,
the mute vocalist of the torn wire,
the chalice of poison before sleep.

Know:

My shadow takes you off the wall,
a wingless bird in the darkness of the room,
will skin the marble face and his smile of a victor!

Know:

Even hope at times answers to the mute.
The dug away umbra from the extinguished lantern.

Oh, Burn! Burn!
Flame Pompeii, die in anguish!
May the abandoned children clap their hands!
May the thrilled audience scream of laughter!

Like I . . . Like I who screamed
When Creator waded over me with words:
Maasalam*, my Child! Maasalam!

*ma’a salama good-bye in Arabic

 

Recommendation of Nemesis

We met by the reflection of the eyes,
Echoed the enamored god
Like Echo mortally in love with pretty Narcissus,
The future suicide from who will grow
The flower and myth of sin with oneself.

With oneself I found that:
My mouth is sutured
My hands mourning songs without masochistic pleasures.
Do you seek within her the aesthetic artistic utterance with truth and freedom?
Or merely an attempt to put things in their real place.
I knew I shall say the monstrous everything or I will say nothing.

(The Minotaur of Tales)
Kill her!
May the sword taste her stomach and breasts
After your fingers and face!
Kill her, and do not mourn her!

It is a gamble, card playing,
A splendid, glorious and retched plea,
To disclose and discover the flaming blade.

(Joan of Ark)
Stab her!
Stab her with a spear!
Remember the dungeons and betrayals!
Remembrance is death for repentance!

We met at one of the impossible places,
We were a pair of unforeseen miracles.
It was a gift, a curse and futility.
Where the glance hits both the one and the other.
The glance that brings and takes away.

The abyss among people laughs in the faces of those who give away their deepest thoughts
Or the histories of loved beings. At the end, a tatter thrown to the road is left.
A fable interesting to none, the secret in the service of the one who scares and enchants.
Will our great freedom and intrepidity judge us out of most noble incentives?
Will our anxieties, the magnificent relics with brutal renditions, whirl in other letters?

Monstrous legislations are governing people and the black hour chokes within us
Both the thinker and the emotive man.
Wrapped in black atmosphere, we buckle , grow pale, the throat spreads its limits
And fear sprouts outside with words attacked by assumptions
And the horrible remembrances followed by cruel pain, self pity and remorse.

(Shepherd Henry Roberts of Salem)
Burn the witch!
Hair by hair let her burn!
May she scream helpless!

Without the strength to continue the letter,
Stumbled by the free to:
Say more!
Say faster!
(necessarily trivial)
I wish to sing
The way it should be or should never.

(Recommendation of Nemesis)
Kill the heart memento
Pertaining to the mocking bird!

She (it) is the boil in my stomach,
She eats it and minces it, destroys
The nightmare from which you cannot awaken by anything except walking and sleepwalking,
While she climbs to heights with a view to the Precipice,
That fills the eyes of the caught sleeper with horror.

(Poe’s recommendation)
Kill her in her own vomit
Without right for mesmerization.

Confession at 3.33

I confess to you, I of an unusual nature,
And all the kingdoms I offer to you- plain.

Lying tongues- orators and benefactors
The first one is of giants of song as of hay,
Through games of ancient history they peck on the intestines
Filled with the substance of nasty virtue,
With fruitful mouths they drink the wines.

Serpents hiss with human tongues…
The orator is amidst the ball and casts off damnations… with love.

Fools

Washerwomen wash the shores for incessant feasts,
For the water trough of the early morning peacock.

Beasts
Tigers roar- damned by the fables-
To washerwomen, for labours sake, and the dishes plentiful
Fools drink the honorable regal wines.

Casanovas, drunks, erotomen and everybody’s merry Big Brother
Far less then geniuses
Who lead the fools
With fornication, cunningness and booze
To hidden thoughts.

Traitors
Scared dogs.
Skilled at stuffing bones.

I raise my right hand and swear on the darkness of
Legitimacy
With an unburdened mind and a truth in my heart
Within the light dewy with the ability of
Mankind
Your knife cut through all the conditions of disorder.
It’s entirely safe in my hands.

With a frozen smile,
I walk through the fall
Of a zillion kingdoms.
Flags are waving and ships are sailing underneath the sky
Of a broken magnificence.
After years of absence
Colored in oddity,
I stay…
To guard them while drowning in tears

Of my Arabian wrath.

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