poezija, proza

Leila Samarrai, Serbia Où vas-tu, Seigneur?


A happy game
a first strike
with a ball
in Paris
a first turn
turn around
play begins
in Paris

“Où vas-tu, Seigneur?”
The crying stops
the laughter stops
the clocks stop
the dance stops
the ball stops
in midair
breaths are held
the seeds of terror sown
in Paris
“Mais, où étais-tu, Seigneur?”
The jackals and scoundrels
are exposed..
to a fallen mankind
It is the end of the world.
It has begun..


Commentary by Valsa George Nedumthallil:

As a bolt from the blue, when terrorists abruptly unleashed terror on a group of people who had gathered in the concert hall to spend one evening in joy, they were stupefied by a horror too deep for expression! The poet here has captured that freezing moment in all poignancy. The clocks suddenly stopped and time stood still; the music stopped and the pall of gloom suddenly fell..! Through broken images, the magnitude of the crime and its impact are successfully conveyed. The day is almost like an apocalypse or Doom’s day. The poet denounces the attack as a scoundrels’ act and wonders if the world is falling into the hands of a pack of scoundrels!

poetry, poezija

“I was told to drop dead”, Leila Samarrai


image found here

I was told to drop dead
Drop dead!?

I – who shatters you upon a lupine rock
I – who kills you with the breath of breeze
I – who holds your hair inside my palms
I – who do not hear your supplications and don’t know them
I – who carry the roar of waves within my furious brain
I – who crush you with cheekbones of oak
I – in front of who you hop like maddened dervishes
I – before who Samara resurrects from the dead
I – for whom the rocks groan from pain
I – before who Caesar scrapes his white knees
I – who carry in my chest a heart with twelve ventricles
I – who breastfed Romulus and Remus
I – who murdered Caligula during Palatean games
I – who break flesh and eat your bones
I– who turn honey into a new pillar of salt
I – who extract the uterus from the moon
I – who poison your bodies with breast milk
I – who tear tendons with ruby lips
I – who knock you down with words of great-genesis
I – who am a wind which topples giants with my treading
To me you tell to drop dead!?


WALK DOWN THE BOULEVARD, Leila Samarrai, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

alienationimage found here

These streets will never be close to me.
The land is lonely, and the sky is
A dreamy shroud the color of the bloodied stone.

Wind taps on the bones,
The birds gnash with their fangs.
My imprisoned walk desultory from collisions
with revived pillars.
I walk the ghostly cage of felt
Which serves to soothe the birds
Lost in a dream, cumbersome, I grow
Amidst Necessity.


AFTER THE SHOT, Leila Samarrai “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”


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Without any discomfort (except nausea)
In a suitcase I packed the cut out mask.
Underneath it indulgences , with instructions to be read at daybreak:
„I do not fear death, until the mortician.
They scheme around
The coffin. Stopple the tragedy like a sea-shell.”
(Tragedy is overrated. All the replicas
were soaked by the morning with the eyes of Maldives
in the counterpoint the waves summon:
„Odysseus defeated on the road by a troop of Cyclops.”

Beside absurd begins the strategy.
The wheels of the little machine drill,
She! Grinds the finger rolled in gunpowder with the trigger
Like in the dough,
Illuminates the brain with destructive noise.
May they fire, the clerk murderer should fire and all those others
Who will after the shot carry me out in pieces.


IN THE AGE OF FALSE TONGUE, Leila Samarrai “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”


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Оh, stupidity, how many mouths have you fed
And how many masks sweetened!
How many spirits barred with rusty taste.

To know false flattery,
To smell infertile life;
Mirrors to the wolf
Galleys on lies, in trance.

But I know that naked truth is a dressed lie,
Magnificent urge watching the ruins.

In the age of false tongue
Without weapons and prow
I cannot conquer the world with symbols of certainty.


IN THE AGE OF APOCALYPTIC WONDERFUL MIRACLES, Leila Samarrai “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”


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The word lost power, but the power lost not the word.
From weary mouths rests in diction
In the age of apocalyptic, wonderful miracles.

The Grand Idiot will be fed by Earth
And the meek will be buried under it.

Miracles prevail over Courteous Miracles
Courteous fire
Courteous solitude

From the cliff of eyes
Into the imaginary house
Under the dead tongue
Acrimony wants to plot.


“Ukleti brod”, Leila Samarrai, Волим да летим – зборник сајта Helly Cherry, Уредница: Тамара Лујак

Волим да летим – зборник сајта Helly Cherry Зборник радова објављених у рубрици “Literra” фанзина Helly Cherry (www.hellycherry.com), 2003-2014. • Уредница: Тамара Лујак http://rastko.rs/cms/files/books/53cdb18b96651

Leila Samarrai, Ukleti brod

Sanjah jednog jutra siv, ukleti brod
S belim jedrima obgrljenim nebom
Kroz huj talasa belih i proključale pene
Bokove sljubljuje. Brod tone u žal.
Kretao se olujom nošen, prkoseći Divu
Mornaru koji jedri s vitkim veslom crnim
I štapom prosjačkim pokazuje k nebu
Uz bljesak bure vuče brod niz beskraj
Iznad broda zvezda, u maglini tmine
Začuđeno gleda pocrneli talas čiji
Slap ko jezik ka njoj se uspravlja
Da joj se naruga, opustelom sjaju
Tad me nešto kosnu i protrljah oči
Zanoćio u telu kalderonski san
Skočanjena tama, stena moj brod satre
Nasukan, skliznuo je niz slap žute vatre.
Odsanjah san ljubljen, naočita noći
Što sunce te zakloni U meni zanoći.


Scream and Whisper, Leila Samarrai


image found here

May the screams echo. After that
The silence will stumble like a whipped wild horse;
A moment pilled inside the throat
Overpowers the yowl and endless wind
That whimpers down the roads of land we are condemned to
In a deaf room, in a deaf night, by deaf ears
The scream in my throat is anchored
To the howling whisper.


THE VISITOR, Pharos from the desert, Leila Samarrai

These are my times

When the word is not answered with a word
Harpies speak with the language of dervish
With feces they color the paintings
Of Baghdadi castles.

Bring the fire, lighthouse keeper,
And the moonlight, reflection of the night
So ships see harbors
Sufis meditate through the cry.

Mold , visitor, the bowls
To feed Masnavi to the hungry
and suppress the longing of souls for a soul


Hear Leila Samarrai recites her poem “Dripping Windmills”


This is a poem, “Dripping Windmils”, written by Leila Samarrai, theme: the poem is about the modern Prometheus, defended by God, unlike the original legend, the sensible man who is faced with injustice and cruelty in a merciless battle with beasts in human form .. When he brought them the fire they, evildoers, burned his face starting gossiping and chanting lies about him, trying to destroy him in every way, spitting the fire in his face… Then he experiences, logically, metamorphosis into a dragon. Moral of the story: never attack a dragon or: it has always been mediocre trying to destroy the man who is in any way set aside them and above them. Especially the decieved one’s with soft and tender hearts. But even the tenderest voice can become a thunder if the blow of lightning from the villains was a strike to something more elevated thus challenging the wrath of gods themselves.