Uncategorized

No more kitty kisses.

Lara,

Around me blossoms
the same spring awakens
wreaking havoc on my life

I’ve kicked the crap out of “merciful God”
I’ve struggled thumbscrews tenderhearted angels
I’ve punched justice in her gravely face
I’ve said to all those blitz words such as:
joy, light, merriment, hope:
go back to your cheerful fellows

As she is laying numb in my arms
I fell her body gone numb and her breath is frozen
with her lips pressed together
in her final breath
the great struggle stiffed her limbs and the black demon left
her stern eyes
the pupil of the eye is spilled over with fog

I wonder if this is my time of death.

In this wasteland –
this seems to be
my life now.

Forgive me I couldn’t write a better poem for you,
for the pain has prevented the birth of worthy verse

No more kitty kisses.

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Uncategorized

Lullaby For Lara

My best friend, my cat Lara passed away in March 28, 3.10 p,, in Belgrade,  from virus Feline panleukopenia.

For Lara

My love
my friend
my kitten

Dream a dream
inside a dream is
a
beautiful dream
an eternal dream

I cast a peace spell on you
Sleep tight my little sleepy head
Smooth sailing through the night,

Close your wide – opened eyes
Your pupils do not belong to
These dark regions

Nowhere to go after this wish so
You all to myself, to dissappear together
In the place lit by some new suns

(Why I did not die instead of you?
You, demon,
Why you did not take me?)

Brightness cracks.
My duration mocks at me
Tomorrow and tomorrow will undergo
I know.
Wearing a poison in unbearable journey
But,
Nowhere to go when I want to get into
The dawn in my kitten’s eyes

I’ll see you again on the horizon
wherein dream prevails
we meet again
and at the end and on the extension of the roadLara

So long
rest my sleeping beauty
sleep with serene Mud Maid’s sleep
on the other side of the eye
glistens your heart vividly

and though I want to assure myself you
went with a smile
my soul cries, I…

I know that death is the wall that separates us
and that life of the dead living is blinding my sight
my reason
my mind
but that is the nature of sorrow
this is the law of the crying mind

Therefore
Calm be in the horizon
Wait for me..
where they sing ancient lullabies
Calm be…
are you running now lively and all rested?
Wait for me…
at the end of the road and on the extension of the times
tomorrow you’ll be hanging out with roses
sleep peacefully
sleep peacefully

night night, my love
night night

Night.

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proza

Incompetent or He Cannot Be Trusted

A man paints portraits in glass.
He owns the license for that given by censorship organization for glass cutters
While he paints, he needs a light, So he plays with the chandelier.
The Chandelier shoots and cuts him by hand
A man goes to the hospital where his arm gets rebandaged, with suspicious glances…
-Is it really so?
-Are you depressed lately?
-Why don’t you talk with our expert Staklarević?
He explained the situation but he was not believed.
that-suspicious-meme
image found here
While they writhed his hand, doctors have looked at each other with worried glances.
While he was writhed, he heard a muffled titter of nurses.
The man was collapsing, because they declared him insane.
They opened his medical records and took away his license.
He ended up as a monk in one of the modern monasteries.
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My interview at “Afirmator”, an art and social issues (questions) magazine, Belgrade, interview conducted by Tamara Lujak

http://afirmator.org/leila-samarrai-dobar-pisac-je-onaj-koji-se-ne-boji-da-progovori/

Majstor kratke priče, Leila Samarrai objavljivana je i nagrađivana mlada autorka. Voli da piše, živi za književnost, sanja o tome da, poput američkih pisaca, ima svog menadžera. Inspirisana Montipajdonovcima, Čaplinom, svakodnevnom situacijom u našoj zemlji, stvara britke, šaljive, satirične priče, pune oslobađajućeg jeda i gorčine. Uronite za trenutak u njen svet.

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Šta je zadatak pisca?

Zadatak pisca je da dobro piše i to je sve. Čini mi se da je to udarna teza Josifa Brodskog.

Zašto pišete?

Iz zadovoljstva, i zato što smatram da imam šta da kažem.

Odakle crpite ideje?

Jednostavno je, ja kad lupim šakom o sto, pojavi se duh iz čarobne lampe, pokloni mi se i kaže: „Izvol’te, o Magistra Ludi!“ Tad izrazim svoju želju koja mi istog trena biva ispunjena.

Šta je dobra poezija/umetnost i kako biste definisali pesničko umeće?

Umetnost je igra. Poezija je igra. Na kraju dana, ili znaš da se igraš ili ne…

Šta je za vas dobar pisac?

Dobar pisac je onaj koji se ne boji da progovori; onaj koji diktira umetnost pisane reči. Pisac koji škraba i samo ćuti i kupi hvalospeve nije ništa do dokoni čitalac. Onaj kome pisana reč ističe kroz rane u svet i pada na papir, ne libi se da da i kritiku i hvalu, tome stremi.

Šta je za vas književnost i svrha umetnosti?

Preživljavanje ljudskog roda.

Kako ste došli na ideju da napišete Borisa K („Everest media“, Beograd, 2013)?

U doba apsurdnih događaja u Srbiji, koji idu protiv zdravog razuma, nije bilo teško doći na ideju, da se u duhu Monti Pajtona, pa možda i Čaplina ili NF putnika kroz prostor i vreme, napiše apsurdna satira koja bi reflektovala stvarnost u baba Valentininom ogledalu. Pajtonovske burleske u sprezi sa kafkijanskom atmosferom na šta prvo sugeriše ime junaka, samo su neke od referenci koje grade atmosferu. Zašto kafkijanski? Zato što je Boris K. i pored svojih Džoni Bravo moći samo običan, mali čovek u sofisticiranom točkiću sistema koji melje sofisticirano, ali melje. Džoni Bravo efekat, mišice superheroja su deo komedije apsurda, jer hiperbole koje volim da koristim, ponekad i do krajnjih granica ne bih li išla na ruku apsurdu te ga naglasila, deo su komedije i komedija, da tako kažem, dobija na komičnosti.

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Kako je delo nastalo?

Najpre, ako ne uzimamo u obzir naučne teorije o postojanju paralelnih svetova, u Srbiji danas takvoj kakva, nažalost, jeste, primećujemo da je za goli opstanak neretko neophodno da ljudi žive u nekoj vrsti vlastitih univerzuma, što bi Englezi rekli „deluded..“ Kreativniji razviju i do pet i šest uloga… Zar mnogi Minhauzeni ne nađoše utočište u svojim lažima? No, Boris K. nije lažov. On je nešto poput anti-zemlje. Podignut je na nivo univerzalnog junaka koji predstavlja sve ostale i date su mu, autorskom rukom, nesagledive moći, isto onako kako su mu svemoćnom rukom fenomenizacija u alternativnoj republici oduzete… Tako se Boris K. kreće kroz alternativno – istorijske svetove i njegova sudbina se razrešava u jednom SF satiričnom romanu koji je u procesu stvaranja, a sve pri susretu sa vanzemaljcima civilizacije br. 5. No, o tome nekom drugom prilikom…

Možemo li da očekujemo nastavak avantura Borisa K?

Kao neko kome je duža forma prirodan način izražavanja, priznajem da bi to bio veoma lak posao da nije veoma teško nekome kome racionalnost, matematička fokusiranost i dramaturška preciznost nisu jača strana, ali recimo da zahteva vreme da se fabula sklopi, odgovor je sledeći: biće, ideje su na svakom koraku (delim Platonov stav), možda ne tako brzo kao što bih želela. Boris K. nije samo kratka priča, on je sveprisutni avatar i portret nedisciplinovanog, premda dovitljivog kosmopolite. I zahteva samo najbolje sklopljenu fabulu, početak, zaplet, omiljenu mi peripetiju i duhovit rasplet s primesama gorke ironije na račun društva.

Na čemu trenutno radite?

Poput vajara dletom krešem jedan roman sastavljen od isprepletanih pripovesti boreći se za svaku rečenicu. Taj rad ne zahteva preciznost u smislu formirane fabule, on je sam po sebi fantazija po kojoj se budan hoda i mesečari. Roman odgovara mom pripovedačkom senzibilitetu koji se fokusira kako na radnju, tako i na nijansiranje karaktera i ima osobine magijskog realizma, te mi ide od ruke i beskrajno uživam u radu. Nadam se da ću njime ostaviti na dalekom severu, gde je lokacirana radnja, trag u snegu… za buduće naratore istoga žanra (magijske fantastike). Taj žanr oficijelno ne postoji, tačnije nije mu nadenut to ime. Postoji magiski realizam, ali ovo jeste roman iz oblasti magijske fantastike.

Savet mlađim piscima?

Ne idite utabanim stazama. Kršite šablone i setite se da je Kafka bio izuzetno nesiguran u sebe. Smatrao je da ne zna da piše, što je prikrivao histeričnim smehom (neka vrsta kompentzacije za stid) kada su ga prijatelji nagovarali da im naglas čita svoje radove. Takođe, pisao ih je pozno u noć. Ovaj savet ne morate poslušati, ako ste ranoranilac :)

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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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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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I GET SCARED TO BE, “The Darkness Will Understand”, Leila Samarrai


6

The semi-darkness and solitude will vanish
I will serve alone within myself even thought I am not my own
Before wounded knees everything opens
Flowers and thoughts, stories of justice
Wanton skulls and eras without rest

God will punish me I know
But in the cramp of passion
I will not be broken by those absent

We danced the whole day
The solitude anew embraced by valleys
Above the springhead
And sin to people

I get scared to be

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There will be time for me to tell you everything, “The Darkness Will Understand”, Leila Samarrai

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There will be time for me to tell you everything

We quail, not live.
We dance on rugs of fern
In rhythm of the certainly dead

Beware the tear of the lunatic and bridges with no fences
Victims and solitude of the prayer
Patting on the shoulder
And emptiness in which the counselors die

Beware
Do not be found again

We quail
In the meantime we do not live

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