Tag Archives: poetry

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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

samira

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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proza

“non – loving” poetry”

I am always concerned about “editing” my poems because English is not my native tongue and I want to be sure the message is conveyed. But, now I will talk about the other thing inspired by the comment of a colleague of mine, on my narrative poem, in fact, I put some my “angry” poems there and thus I called it: ANGRY POEMS.My collegue liked it and said to me in the comment fb section:
 
“A great work.The wording a vast ocean .Ocean of thoughts,and feelings.A whole world to swimm in its glimpse”
And then I had the urge to open my chest (not literally..) and to say what I think about “non – loving” poetry”.
Here is my reply and this is where I stand:
 
People in general, do not like anything that is “dark” or “angrily”, but my position is clear: people wary of poets because the poet reveals the truth about this world. if he manages to do so in an aesthetic way, for me it is the poetry … One can not always write about the Polish flowers and daisies. The most important thing for the poet is not pander to the taste of a wide readership in order to be “loved”. The poet should remain true to himself, whatever his material may be, whatever his obsession may be, whatever his “madness” may be, because the most unfortunate people and the most unsuccesful writers are those who care what others think of them.
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Uncategorized

In the mirror

 

In the mirror

 I see Suns long passed
the breath which wipes away the glass contours
is frightened and uneasy
The Moon – what a sensitive parasite that is
If I lunge at the mirror
I will crack my tooth structure
I’ll consume the Suns, devour the Moon
Rend asunder hesitant bodies
I hate you, you, you, and you,
though I love all of you
you and you and you.

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proza

The scream of butterflies, edited version

The scream of butterflies 

It is like a desert where time isn’t told by clocks
it is like the crevice for the jailer to peer into a cell
it is why the birds, to me, have no name
it is the cause of my timid disruptions
it is the cause of my fallen kingdoms
It is not a creature known to human heart
that remains unmentioned amid my words.
SERBIA.

in this land that is not even my own
in this land where proud Palm Readers tell fortunes
(I might say that Serbia is a witchly soil
but there is no magic inside it)

Can I even be alive?
within the poem that screams while singing

(a witchly silence)
me, a flower studded in silence

If I have to die here
leave me to open up in silence
I, a strained water
I, a chained tree
I, a shepherdess in the witch forest
I, the mutes well of
a dying swath or mad, screaming butterflies
yes…

Bitterness? Or purity?
deceptive ventures
and useless experience
you have set in stone my human loneliness

Let us out of here, miss S! ..!!!! (scream of butterflies)
let us fly through
your sullen azure arch
In return,
we’ll celebrate you as a jailer
on the 25thanniversary of your hammer – existence, scavenger
we will glorify you, we… we, the winged corpses in the pit.

This night of torture
this dawn of tamed passion
this heartbreak soil.

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satire

Leila Samarrai, A poem about a crocodile

In the dreadful crocodile land
Something odd is always at hand
Quickly, swift, a non-stop jerk
Is this bold dragons’ constant smirk

They’re strongest with bellies filled
Drunk on blood of men they’ve killed
Out of Nile’s vast delta here
Three dreaded crocs did appear

Through an Adriatic slit
Two more whales came, via Split.
Two Siberian beasts more
Reared out of Mulyanka’s shore

From Mulyanka of Perm Krai
Russian, then Italian sky
Crocs their freedom do not lack
Down the Sava-Danube track

Gathered ‘low a bridge’s bend
Suicidals near their end
These beasts roam about the town
One fierce bite has me pinned down

As they swim and float around
Pin-like their eyes I have found
Meaty prey sniffed by their noses
Sharp-toothed jaw said prey encloses

I’ve a deal with them worthwhile
Cro co do co lo do rile
May their trio boldly hop
And on horny scuta drop

May blood-showers flow like ale
Lubricating our scales
One life but one Euro’s worth
Our words but empty pits

Hollow caves our stomachs sit
More cash for twos we commit
I’ve a deal with them worthwhile

Cro co do co lo do rile

Down their shoulders I descend
Embracing them with my arms
My tummy is going nuts
Hunger dancing in my guts

Already they’re set to drop
Already by waves they’re called
Why waste thought? Use this dilemma
To toss this human Kinema

To the current evergoing
Hell-way they gave, full well knowing,
Dreams that they had all perceived
It’s quite gruesome, this whole plot

Now life has it, then has not
What does my arm small and lean
Embracing their waistlines mean
Even killers feel depressed

Post doing what they do best
I meandered into titles
Which I find to be mere trifle
But who’s bloody all the while

Moreso than a crocodile
Who will pay the deal enisled
Other than the crocodile
Watch thyself oh murderer

Suitable and pick-of-litter
Are cutwaters none the fitter,
Windshields and the lightning rods
Are but desperate roughneck sods

And their circle-natured days
As they float livid and dreamy
One drunk sailor, brave and scheme-y,
Swims across the river’s dirt

Two oars tied around his skirt
Sings away the filthy Beast
Bathed in the light of East
With a fiery yelling slope

Right then he sang: “I give hope.”
Golden wings upon his back.
My deal is rendered futile
From my present crocodile.

Come another chilling morrow
I will seek a new tomorrow
Past the bridge and midst of branches
Where tangles a wrinkly road

Rage about my gold grows hot
Which I withdrew from the slots
This strange body, livid, frail
Chisels open this whole pail

Living dead man lets out shrieks
Mercy is what this one seeks
We vomited from the bridges
Till at twilight what we knew

Was a perfect scenic view
One whole city at our palms.
Belgrade cracks before our eyes
Statue-shadowed, it’s alight

Eternal is this vignette
Of a fiery townsman’stête
Under Victor’s statuette.
Our deal, though, is most worthwhile

Ro co do co cro co file

Gentle mom frightens her child
With a carcass most reviled
They rend those who cannot swim
New age jumpers, wretches dim

Slime and lees the water sweeps
One life, joyless, Death doth reap
In the slimy croc-filled dip
The beast took my blood’s turbid sip

One black freckle graced my leg
Their three lids are snow-filled kegs
Two icicles slipped mid-stream
From agape, cold Nile, it seemed

Wherein formed an iceberg vast
Empty trash can, of crocs past
Wicked that have fled erstwhile
No more delta formed by Nile

All its force now in exile
Emigrants on nightly mission
Clatter on with sharp dentitions
And their bodies slither slow

Pays up, then comes to me quick
To get my whole body licked
There’s no flight, no submarines
Nemo quisquam captain-like

Nor a sailor, one whose looks
Dwell in Jules Verne’s famous book
Nor hope in the light of day
Which mid-hearts doth lives and stays

While we were so full, nubile
Prior to the crocodiles…
Prior to the crocodiles…

Cap’tayneNemo, come to us
Up close comes the Nautilus
Maybe there is hope, I chime
To engender a new rhyme

And while beasts all roar and flail
Let’s elope towards a new tale

Do come closer, do come closer
Worry not, worry not
You are but a child, you are
Squeal and weep and spew some snot

Even though a child you’re not
Trudge, step all over the valley
For your shepherd follows by
Should I try and throw the die?

But, that number falsify
For the croc doubts aught and low
Taken by his mighty stench
That the killer up and went

Boat amid the night blood fled
With it filled the riverbed
And exchanged the Euric lead
Guate’s cute asylum spiel

Now I must break our deal
Cro co do co lo do reel
(Cò?)
Do co cro co ro do KILL!

quote-the-creatures-outside-looked-from-pig-to-man-and-from-man-to-pig-and-from-pig-to-man-again-but-george-orwell-308922

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proza

ORACIÓN PARA UNA VIVIENDA

ORACIÓN PARA UNA VIVIENDA

vivienda vivienda me reciban en sus paredes
el barro .. “(despertamiento)
el sueño está lejos desde los albores
al lado de una piedra con los ojos anchos
Era una piedra
que nunca ha experimentado de cómo ser una parte de
del segundo recinto
Era una piedra que nunca descansaba
por el fuego, incluso tocando las cosas
platos, cucharas, ni escuchando las palabras del cristal
Nadie sabía de donde esa piedra ha de ser
fuera de las murallas.
Parece que es creada con amor, cristal, música
el sueño, tintineo de vasos, aire, ¿importa?
Era una piedra a la que las cerdas hablan
en el sueño

“Pero, con los que estaba hablando en sueños, cuando cerré los ojos y un mundo luego falleció ..
¿Cómo es que son a la luz de la madrugada detrás de la ventana iluminada de la casa familia de otra
las bestias descansando cómodamente sentando y comiendo, añaden entre sí los vidrios mezclados
mientras esa mongoloide hija toca el piano, es … Schoenberg, e incluso fuera de tono.

y en todas las cosas vistas, eternos
bajo el cielo, me pregunto: ¿dónde está mi casa
¿dónde está mi cama, y madera y cristal, cristal musical

A pesar que se acepte por vivienda
si la cortina de seda crujía con complicidad y, lo tanto, ocúltame
aunque sea brevemente que tengo un hogar cálido
pero no puedo vivir con los cerdos, no sé cómo
los conejillos se beneficiaron
la pared está hecha de una sustancia que corroe
pensamiento, palabra, piedra
He huido de él hace mucho tiempo.

A continuación he sido notable por los cerdos, volvieron las cabezas
Oinc-Oinc!
“Esta es la piedra con la que hablamos en sueños”

arriba, arriba, lejos, hacia las esferas, vuela, corre
cayendo
cayendo
Oh, tienen que me han escuchado, ellas
el ganado de la mesa debe haberme oído ..
Estoy esperando con tenedores afiladas.
Abajo.

vivienda vivienda me reciban en sus paredes
el barro ..

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proza

sweatin’ like a whore in church

O, Rahab
bitch of Jericho
you’re an audio pickup
(Hear the sound of church bells in the background)

disheveled
with beaming eyes
for some yokels from the Le Roncole play das Triumphmarsch
for her Venus mound
sweatin’ like a whore in church.

Her fingers are calloused from jewelry
their fingers are stripped of jewelery
sunk deep into Rahab’s vacuum,
descending to fill in her gap

a rasées bitch
a woman, a sinner, a saint, a church
Eva, the mother of all men

O, Rahab!
indeed you are born
under the walls of Sodom where your litter were kissing
while the sulfur was slightly splashing an undulating, wavy sea.

In the Promised Land.

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Uncategorized

THE PARTY AT THE BANKSY’S

dedicated to poets and to all those who feel that way

1.

THE LETTER OF PURE REASON ADDRESSED TO BANKSY COVER POET BAND

You can not destroy the Thing.
you are unable to choke it as you like to asphyxiate the human form
ashes to ashes, dust in the mouth, there is a tongue inside or
a thin chord, of the monster – monster mute
after a large cut-off

But you cannot stop the Thing
as you can not stop the body to penetrate into the body,
nor to pause an air to mix with an air, it flows…
into the water, water moves through the water, a wave will cover the wave
at death’s door,
demise is behind a word, vain, the syllables cannot waive her part

2

THE PARTY AT THE BANKSY’S

While sipped Bollinger at fiscal cash register,
they saw a monster riding the cumulus
no, monster cannot ride a cumulus
logic finds monsters cannot ride a cumulus
the monster came down from cumulus
thus, the nouveau poets and the monster met
at the fiscal cash register, dancing and sipping together

After a drinking session, they tied monster and portrayed him
at the circus performances
because monster does not riding cumulus
a man may be ashamed looking at the face from the monster

3

WHO FEAR PERSECUTION BY BANKSY COVER POET BAND

Nouveau riche are looking for the word to cage her
how can one cage the word?
the perfect crime for better sales
but you cannot kill the word
for word is the thing and the thing is the monster
as you cannot trap the monster that is riding cumuli

imaginary, vague, impossible
fantasma is dancing in the field of nerves quickly, of
one nervous writer and hid in in his book
inside the book is scratching monster, bound in a story

You cannot kill a book
all you can achieve is that she, with her torn sheath,
hides herself in solitude, reading herself
looking into the wild heart from the sky
and be happy.

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The Word in me.
the Music in me.
the Monster in me.

Sure you could get your clows on the book
and ripped her to pieces, sending it into the shadow and trade…
(How much you are strong!
Persistent, especially)
the word pops up from the book,
hops in the air and disappears among the cumulus, screaming:

“God is calling.
God is poetry. Hurry up, Banksy!”
“God’s calling Banksy?”

The Banksy cover poet band has to go to church because it was written
that in the beginning was the Word
so the logical thing to seek the in a church
piety has changed shape.
The Thing had to be quiet, but at least she escaped pests
and this time.
Maybe you are wandering where is she now.
I am looking at her, we are smiling to each other
boocoo dinky dow, she cooes, my sweet little monster

Although ..
Have you ever considered the possibility to kill the Writer?
or is not necessarily.
they are mostly on Banksy sale.

Banksy
A sell out. Somebody who comprimises their integrity, morality and principles for money. It is commonly associated with attempts to increase mass appeal or acceptability to mainstream society.
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proza

1999*, By Leila Samarrai

https://poetryagainstterror.wordpress.com/2016/01/19/1999/

Painted corpses are unweaving
I have not yet submerged them all
Much like the history of the black scarf
Ready to move time and air

During this
Year of one thousand nine hundred and ninety nine
It is hard to silence the cry above mortuary reports
The woods and the grass still sprout from the once living
Because they are the most reliable

Those who came point-blank from the green memory
And tombs before oblivion
Negotiate with the heavens

We are watched by the living and dead
If the dead weren’t alive
We would all be left without tongue and tribe
Are they not your doubles too

Do perhaps the living originate from weakness
When in absence
They give themselves to each other

By Leila Samarrai

* The poem was written during the bombing of Serbia by NATO, in 1999

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poezija, proza

Leila Samarrai, Serbia Où vas-tu, Seigneur?

 

A happy game
a first strike
with a ball
in Paris
a first turn
then
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!

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