Category Archives: poezija

poezija

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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poezija

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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poezija

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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poezija

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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Doubting Thomas, “The Darkness Will Understand”, Leila Samarrai

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Is it true Doubting Thomas
That they told him:

For your possession
From thine mouth you win a right
While your day is dieing

And he

Condemned to circumstances in verve
Becomes everyone who supports him
Far away from the roads that gnaw on non believers

And he

Does not answer to the first word,
not even on the second he speaks
Only on the third humbly and considerately

And he

Knows this life is for the dead
And not for the living
Not even the wall blasphemes

And he

Begs for the transparent innocence with eyes of balm
And accomplishment of the desolate

And he

Even cares not to be returned among the people
Learning in prayer

Still one thing I do not believe you
I do not believe you saint Thomas
That comfort is not sufficient
Invented in the shape of a woman

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To your Grace, “The darkness will understand”, Leila Samarrai

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To your Grace*

Into the shade of roses I desired to hide
But I fell asleep in a book
Open on a poem about a t(ort)u(rer)tor

Poets of long ago
Under shadows and soil
Count they on seraphim

On somberness, on window panes
On doors pried open and the secret of life
On branches of cypress that lure with silence
And long, northern morning under harps

At the wane of sight
Let quietude rip out the truth
Sang of stone

*Addressed to the readers

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poezija

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
Exposed…
To a fallen mankind
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.

 

Translated into English: Gordana Marjanović

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Illusion

Illusion

 

Illusion, you whore that collect your rags, paid by

The first ray of the Sun !

A couple of moments before the day breaks,

You’ll see dogs darker than the dark,

You’ll notice shadows radiating with gloom

And me,

Surrounded by a procession of ladies

Veiled,

And from their sweet mouths

Words then will flow,

Just like the fresh buds of the

Last hideout of yours.

 

 

Translated into English by

Vladimir D. Janković

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