Category Archives: poezija

poezija

RIDER, Leila Samarrai

(I) Not a man, merely a warning to others.

Rider in eternity
In holy day of the paunch
The trample of the horse on trail leads the reprobate to the gates of the black Castle
In the entourage of the greedy, debauchee, gamblers
(steeped are all of his pockets)
the lock clicks and closes like a roomette of the sarcophagus

I am not a man, merely a warning to others.
Blood of the rider on the sorrel horse decants down the eyes of the sword.
Draw your courage.
Skeleton leaks from the paunch
Down valves of thirsty purple, cold sun

For madman who surfeit gnawed naked trees.
„Provision of wheat for a groat, three provisions of barley for a groat, and oil and wine there won’t be.”

I am not a man, merely a warning to others,
Swollen from anger and cry,
With eyes the color of swamp
Wizened body…

Inflamed are the furies
(Heracles , here is fire!)
minds are fed with hunger
(death with no hurry)

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IN THE AGE OF FALSE TONGUE, Leila Samarrai

IN THE AGE OF FALSE TONGUE

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.

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I AM NOT REALLY FROM AROUND HERE, Leila Samarrai

I AM NOT REALLY FROM AROUND HERE

I no longer even know what you asked me
Nevertheless, ask. As you please!
Through freedom
Devours the spiteful intellect
In the rattle we become humans
„How are your sneakers?!”
I have dark ones.
And capricious!
and (rarely) passionate.
All of them!
Highly unfavorable!
But,
Where did you get
That I am selling My Sneakers?
Why are you looking at sneakers?
Should I
Go barefoot up the steep thorn?
There is something overwhelmingly ridiculous in suffering,
There is something overwhelmingly seducing in losing
Therefore – I gift away!
Nobody controls the windmills.
(Maybe…)
Laughter? Or….
It is me
barefoot
perched in remembrance.

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NUMBER, Leila Samarrai

NUMBER

In the beginning there was a number and it created harmony
Compacted into 10 heavenly veins.

To him the music – owes.
To him – love owes.
To him – the truth owes.
Beauty? Yes!
Each idol in the head– to him the Holy owes.

The Number feeds the Ethiopian children with monads in the midst of Green Africa
Cele-kula (this you must have known!) is built of Numbers,
It is rolled by children down elysian fields of the Righteous

Number rules as well over the body of Osiris,
The Number testified about remaining loaves
On the bodies of hunchbacks and the poor
Which like dark figures of Calais await the whirlwind of Justice
To banish them from the asylum of Doubt.

Number knows of tomorrows and of yesterdays
Number knows who you are, and who am I.

The Number traverses the army of armies of Amen of Libya
While the sheep bleat and search for wolves.

The army hesitates
And swimmers hesitate
Оh, my geometric sea.

THE CHOIR OF IDEALISTS:

О, Pythagorean triad, show yourself!
Who are you?
What are you?
Have you impoverished for us?
Have you thrown away all your mo – Hopes?

NUMBER:

I came to you as a golden calf and you did not recognize me!
There would be no Hymns of the Nile without – Number,
The Colossus of Rhodes would not be without– Number,
Spartacus, yet him, Liberal, not without the – number!

A number, it is the bald, mad poets
And cotter bolts!
Silly, mad, those crazier, the craziest and… Preludes!

Number – arose from Earth for Saturn.
Fell from heavens for Thoth.

CHOIR OF MATERIALISTS:

Take us to the Grand Cut – to tailor holy dresses the day before the Holy day:
For emperors, and their wet nurses
Once again for wet nurses
For shahs , patricians,
Eagles of gold, aghas, tarragons
And other Proposers?

Number – it is harmony, king and cage for verses.
Even some Jacobite is a Number – scarecrow for the Girondist.
And pipsqueak, of course, Antic C. Ма(n)sоn from feces of the Greek revolution.

Number, those are all beginnings
And causes
The golden section of time in caves
With Metempsychosis.

Number, those are all rejected kisses,
Number – measure of doubtfulness and laughter of the insane paladin,
A tucked in courtesan.

Go to the temple of Eros so they shoot an arrow to your chest.
Let all Lunacies fall in love with you
And lunacy enamored to create itself anew within you

And crazy Eros will look at you
Will take out the heart from the womb of the ideal Semele
Shot, walk down the shores of the Peruvian sea
That is how freedom from the Number is deceitfully summed!

Do not envision the Number divided (do not even think about a fraction)
Remember the ten, with a laugh.

That is how Pythagoras counted as well
1
2
3
4
Counted all the way to ten

Ten shoes
And ten shores
And ten dreams
And ten bridges
And ten lunatics

– Pythagoras finishes;
Forbidden to dip horse bean into the number.

I am Etalides and I have been in… in… plants.
I am Pyrrhus and I sojourned inside the rotten womb of gluttonous emperors.
I am Euphorb and I blinded Homer
Because into the Number much like the Sun you cannot gaze long.

I murdered Achilles,
Tarried within Paris,
I cannot claim I have not within you as well.

And the divers keenly look for him,
Beneath the surface are the sunken ships

Carcasses of Hyperborea
Colonnade of martyrs
Silenced witnesses.

„The Number, those are all heavens” – calculated Pythagoras
and discovered the golden thigh in the Theater.

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DRIPPING WINDMILLS, Leila Samarrai

DRIPPING WINDMILLS

Snatch your mind from the clutches of the wolves
That have been observing and watching you
And fasten it with quiet dignity
Snatch it with a torrent of your body
Then wipe the sweat off your brow
While the beasts lure away
And may it be your last address
Your last stronghold before the voices of the buffoons
That boom at first
To make a pharynx out of your ears
So they could vomit cozily and instinctively
All over you
While glorifying the spiteful noise of theirs
And bursting with exultation
Herds of pigs look forward to your fall
But you just mute the miserable noise
Of their shameful fermentation
With no laughter appease those who’d like to
Sit on your head
Who would snarl then
Shamelessly accepting
The last cadaver out of the darkness
May the redness of a total autumn flood you
Of an autumn tearful and adored
Confronted in the dusk with the secrets of shadows
And then all will pass
Just take a little breath of fresh air
And rip out their Secret with your ears.
Let them scream
Helpless and empty
Finally.
And while they’re grabbing you
You break loose with your teeth
With your nails
And you foam and keep on pushing them
With your elbows
With all this stuff
Past and future
For the sake of your time that is arriving
And overcoming them
Your deed will extol you
Like a spark of kindling wood
Which haunts the serpents tails
When driest is your mouth
And thirst torments you
And you’re starving
It’s them
Them who
Brooding over your head
Await the last wind that will
Bring the cry out of your throat
And they’ll feast then
Peacefully and self-admiringly
Over your carrion
Don’t you let them do that.
Instead, quarter their bull heads
Make them fly away
Let them merge with that
Treasonous air
Oh, did they sway you once
Upon a time
While you languished in hopelessness
While heart of yours was starless
Then, when you suffered
Assigning them your word
At their mouths you looked
And you shrieked and teetered
Consumed by hangover
And they plowed your throat while
Their unskilled hands chanted hollowly
Writing lyrics with your own blood
Never let them do that again
You just silence that greedy mob of pigs
Which calls itself a pack
Mountain wolves they call themselves
And for your glory of tomorrow
After all the hushed-up vileness
The One that never dies will take care of
The One that resides in your deed
Like a chaste bride
For tomorrow you will live forever
And a fog will devour the bulls
The burden of time will blow to smithereens
All those thieves anchors and gory pits
Those growing arms that are grabbing your sleeve
And pulling you
Browsing the back on which youre laying
Coiled and voiceless
Time will doom them
With your new verses
It will write on the crown of their heads
And point a finger right in their eye
Because they should have never
Attacked a dragon
Those shameless plucked eagles
And the living fire of your proud spirit
Will swallow them with all their
Confidence
While you climb in the solitude of prayer
Reaching the uttermost cognition
God Himself will save you from the evildoers
Ill-fated hearts
Don’t you shed a single tear
Don’t let a sound escape from your lips
Rejoice because you’re a poet
And Gods inspired you for eternity
You will live when there’s no more roars
And in the darkest night you will live
And you will breath peacefully
And you will love.

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I – MESSALINE, Leila Samarrai

I – MESSALINE

Cynical yellow thunder tears with rays
The parching earth – dry and infertile

I – Messaline!
Declare war to all the barren blacks
Who do not birth!
I summon Poseidon to impregnate
My mortal body with immortal progeny!
I summon the Heavens to bow down to my tentacles
Folded into a clenched fist!
I curse all the virgins racked by my woe
Fall to your knees before the filthy breed!
Beg to be fertilized by their pagan ritual!
Kiss their wounded feet
Like you will kiss your children!
Beg for one more drop of life
Which will violate your dishonorable body!
I – Messaline!
I am fire above all fire!
An untouched flower of the Sultan’s garden
The scepter in the hand of the powerless king
Cleopatra’s pyramid sank into mud
The carnival of appetence without masque
Twilight that dawns on an intact hip
The lust of Eve in the boring Eden
The forest unbathed by an ocean of blood
An unhealed wound beneath the hot navel
The unpierced rib in the deciding battle
A lonely nest devoid of it’s eagle.

Translated Into English: Mirjana M. Inalman

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THE ROAD, Leila Samarrai

1.

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.

4.
Look how they drink wine
And make merry with thorns
They feed the fish
On the river Jordan.
They gather them with a hat
Quickly serve them
Even faster gnawed
They throw them back to the water
And croak to the moon
Into the mum day.
They followed the tail of the star
To see her head
Embryos of the entirety
To remove.
In hands they carry gold,
Hear where they say:
From spirit the emerald was born.

5.
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.

6.
From the cold
in the bones
in the cold
to the bones
where have you
banished
Your brother Cain
And them?
Will they die?
From the ice
Under bones
Will they drop dead?
By sheet
Of winter
In the bones
All those who
On Good Friday
Got some kind of
Shoes
To walk the earth;
The dream extracted from my eye.

7.
Mister,
In the polished macrocosm
Cleansed from the dirty
The poor and the ugly
May my prayer
Rip your moment of peace.

8.
I live in peregrine flesh
I think in a peregrine head
I don’t want to be stultified!
(Apparition!
Why you write so loud?)
I have been cured
To perversity

9.

I believe in craziness
In the seed of furore
Like Chateaubriand
Which confides into the power
Of Borodin sun
I believe in scum
Sideway spheres
Cuckoo eggs
Saint Ignatius cantinier
I am
The snack of lions
Holy Trinity
And drunken senate-crown
In poison-(mis)ery
I swear
To senex
Which catches up with youth
Princeps of principibus
Thrown into the arena
Sown with sandals
Of devoured magistrates
The fruit of time lowers by the sky
My bones beside the son
The second son
Of Urbin
It is a cowardly
graveyard
Since then I circle
With white dogs
Through haze
Upon shores.

10.
Pierced by sound
Wave the forks
With the mute ear
Hunt the landloper
Broken by a blackguard
The tempest rushes towards wrath
Silence and bones
Of some ancient springhead
Springhead through bodies.

11.
He dies in words
The man who writes.
Drowned fish slide
Down bloodied carousel
Unconscious eyes
The man writes
Dives like a bird
For a sonata
Drowned in the fountain
The passerby in water
With unmoving feet
And he and her
And us and you
Head to the clouds
The harvest sown
In the iris
They quest for a vision
She shapes in a poem
The bloody thirst
Bitterness mocks her
They pass dipped
In icy bathrooms
Through peaceful centuries
You know well
Who writes
About the luster of infinity
Or nothingness
It is equal
In vain.

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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THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES, Leila Samarrai

Breath in
Breath out
Breath in
A corpse never dies

A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye

He walks around in a black robe
On a graveyard
That did not cry
On which I listened to yelling and screamed
Sensitively gentle and superior

My blindness,
Merciful death
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness

Sensual death,
The downfall which with a watchful eye
I saw never again
I am repulsed by the rot that sleazes through my senses
Amid the room given to me like a grave, and the glass
To watch my reflection in it
Or end my life with the smithereens!

I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
Eating sonnets,
She rode the Lion’s gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls
Drank the blood of the horse from the silver chalice,
Tasseled in rosettes, with a light sword
I dug two pits
For two rings, of gold and of bronze.

For the beast that leaves the cup of wormwood
At the tip of the hands
For the beast
With a merciful heart of the venomous fungus

Like you (who are a) corpse
Like you, scorpion, who are
While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west

Throw me to the pigs!

Verily
In the circle of graves?
Verily
In the tomb of Atreus?
Verily
In the sea bed of Aegean full of blood.

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Recommendation of Nemesis, Leila Samarrai

Yes,
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, Leila!
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.
When somebody wriggles out from the tomb of missed emotions
And meets the sure philistine love,
She will give a blunt hit to the head to the beautiful creature that offers useless things and deceptive poetry

And then, the philistine, leaps out of the dark smiling with a giant boudoir of safety and comfort,
Kisses his pretty trophy on the forehead, coldly and peacefully taming
The passionate, flaming eyes by nature, mired into futile struggle.

(Joan of Ark)
Stab her, Leila!
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:
Her. Me. HerMe.

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)
Leila, 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!
Sat faster!
(necessarily trivial)
I wish to sing
The way it should be or should never.

(Recommendation of Nemesis)
Leila, 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)
Leila, kill her in her own vomit
Without right for mesmerization.

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THE VICTOR, Leila Samarrai

THE VICTOR

A shadow sneaks up to the Sun ;
Warrior persists beneath.
He smashes the suffering with a touch of his soles,
Adorned with his victorious sandals,
His heart pounding fast.
„How would you accept glory?“, the Elders surrounded him.
„What is your choice : wisdom or love?“
„For love I have never come“, said he.
Certain Form was uprooted long ago, yes, you, Elders.“
As soon as he said it, they killed him by deceit,
Stabbed him with a spear, them, the Hermits ;
Glassy was his voice.
From time immemorial, or since then,
The Elders have been seeing him, serene, walk in the sand.

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