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 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.

At mating time of the Holy Cow, I promise you –
That I shall be seen… there.
Painted blue, with a tear in… this hand!

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!

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.
In all the hearts that fade away.

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
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.


An excerpt from a long narrative poem “The Road”, dedicated to the Truth


Ecce Veritas

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
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
Now already an aging whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.

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
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

Leila Samarrai: THE SECOND BIRTH OF TRAGEDY, Hypnos and Melpomena


image found here


image found  here 


Gods too seek sanctuary in dreams
(Conversation of Hypnos and Melpomena)
(place of deed: the cave of Hypnos)

(Hypnos sits in front of the fireplace,wrapped in fur, shivers from the cold while simultaniously playing with a pendulum carefully observing it from all sides. It appears as though he deeply thought over, those thoughts brightening him. Melpomena enters, all in rags, unkempt hair, bare headed.)

Do not look at me with sleepy eyes! I know where I should be now!
(ripping the remains of the dress from her body and plucking hair. She wept.)

Have you canceled the play?

Not I her, but her me… Not I… No longer.

(Hypnos returns to the pendulum and wraps himself in a black chasuble, while he shivers with his entire body.)

(gazing at him)
Trickster, oh Hypnos
Wrapped you are in theater curtains
Blacker they are than thy cave
Wave towards me with your pendulum
I dreamt with an eye open
And I have seen reality
That beloved lie of the Theater
Do it!
Mesmerize me!
For the whisk of the mad hypnothiser
Sways even the wings of Gods
The wings of a bird
Overshadoweded once a dream!
Livid, pale, awake to death
I am no longer Melpomena!
An aggressive clown I am
In the theater of comedy!
(Follow me into the theater!)
Come! Do! Wave your hand!
In front the audience, the wild beast
With a thousand soft heads!
Overshadow me! There, in front of all!
Perhaps clean laught(mock)er(y)
Summons the mind to play
And Nature to believe the Truth
In role!
Enchant me!
Either I sleep as before
Or close my eyes.

Let us go, but after I stoke the fireplace.

Yes, too cold is for dreams… And I…
Play passions
Improvising merely…
Here and there…
No flash


Fixed her eyes on me, horrified!
Оh, my loving Hegote
From whose lips
I drank
Plunged the knife to hearts
Murdered heroes
In a role I play
And all that…
Miserable, miserably lifeless
Are furries prosecuting me?
Must be because of Megara
She set me against Talia
Maddened by jealous
So my wag sister
Derides me out of vengeance.
Let us go now, depart!
(rises suddenly)

May the fire burn
Now that I have stoked it!

One wood is breaking
In the fireplace. It is raw.
His organic nature
Does not let it go aflame!
Same as I… Burning
With fire of violent passion.
Violence! Without passion! That is it!
And the violence!
She burns, but I do not see
Nor the senses feel her.
If I could like before
Believe in passion
I would birth the truth
And be the same old
Playful tragedienne
I lost myself in the theater!
(Why, I?! Melpomena!)
Merely I am a wild cavewoman
Strolling the theater, but not walkng it
The play does not survive.

Console yourself, Melpomena! That is good tragedy!

But unblessed!
Unawakened by concious, how was she made?!
Not by my skillful hand!
She made herself!
Broke loose from her Createress!
Run amok!
No Muse to tame her!
What inspiration is it?
It is sinister grimacing
And roaring of omni-human
In a shroud of theater curtains
Dead souls, dead tongue awaits me.

I am life for I am Dream
I am Illusion and Companion
What I learned
Teaching Calderon
And few more awakened Dreamers
Walking on dreams
Whipping their hopes
Waking untamed desires
Benumbing reminiscences
Rinsing the dream of Gods!
That much double-natured I am!
No need for a sabre nor a blade
Nor a mask
To kill the knavish king
If you can see
The fire of fantasy in the fireplace,
Do not accede for untruth
And do not play from the heart (A Woman!)
Against the Stanislavic pendulum.
(As he spoke it, Tragedy reborn.)

For that, Marcus Aurelius, whenever you look at yourself…, The darkness will understand, Leila Samarrai


How fast the shadow passes said Marcus Aurelius
Soul is temporary, isn’t it, he hoped
Banded with demons for the third time
The guilt his pustule, man a sacrifice and life a sub specie of a boil

Discontent is what is perfect
Since ancient times you cannot lose what you did not have

If you separate yourself once
If you learn about the inherited justice of pain
Can poison and arson be useful
Have you not become too lenient Marcus Aurelius
Before divisions and longings
Provoked on purpose

Today things are completely open
Until the bloodthirsty wind knocks them down
And carries them away into tomorrow which will not be

For that, Marcus Aurelius, whenever you look at yourself
Remember if the shape is an obstacle to the essence
And answer who is the bigger liar
The dream or the shadow in the mirror


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


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

Leila Samarrai: Duševna hrana, “Avanture Borisa K.” 1

Tog snežnog popodneva, gosti su, kao sleđene seni, nadirali kroz masivna čamova vrata otmenog restorana. Nosili su vunene kape, prekrivene kupama od snega. Kako su skinuli kape, tako su se kupe topile. Ledene kapi kvasile su kapute i prskale pod. Gosti su trljali dlanove ne bi li se ugrejali, smireni i ušuškani, pod svetlošću staklenih lampiona. Razgibavali su promrzla tela, prozeblim prstima otresali sneg sa kaputa, gunđajući sebi u bradu:

„Prokleto vreme!“
„Dugo ne bi ovakvog kijameta!“, uzvikivali su mračnog izraza lica kao da recituju poemu sa melanholičnim krajem.
Sve se osećalo na viski.
Gosti posedaše nasuprot proćelavog čovečuljka koji se razbaškario za stolom, odmarajući se kao sultan u nosiljci. Pažljivom oku nije moglo da promakne da je bio isuviše umoran da bi mogao da zaspi i opusti se.
Boris K. beše, pre dvadeset i kusur godina, ambiciozan i revnostan čovek bez početnog kapitala. Jednog dana setio se kako bi mogao da zaradi novac: zaposliće se kao proizvođač ideja. Ali, od ovog posla ne vide ni cvonjka.
Svejedno, proglasiše ga patentologom, stručnjakom za ideje koje je prodavao u bescenje — ponekad i za najobičniji đevrek.
Oni mu ipak omogućiše povremene poslove poput posla kafe kuvara u poludržavnim firmama, što je bio Borisov ideal. Tako se, između ostalog, prihvatio i gomile drugih zanimanja: od taksiste, preko teoretičara socijalističkih ideja Mao Ce Tunga, do poslanika, glavne arterije u telu fenomenopubličke Skupštine. Kršeći izazove snagom dvehiljadugodišnjih vojnih strategija, pun optimizma, oran i spreman da se kao budista ponovo rodi u formalinu, Boris K. je tačno znao šta želi.
Ali, pored toga, Boris K. je krio i jednu veliku tajnu.
Samo je on znao kako pravilno da se smrša, a da se pri tom ne oseća glad. Uredno je deponovao patent u Zavodu za intelektualnu svojinu. Jedan od tih patenata upravo je primenjivao u pomenutom kafiću. Gosti opuštenih stomaka radoznalo su ga posmatrali želeći da odgonetnu tajnu njegove vitke linije.
„Ima bar deset godina kako ga nisam video da nešto žvaće!“, šaputali bi, dok bi prolazio restoranom ka unapred rezervisanom stolu.
Tajna nikako da bude odgonetnuta. Mnogi bi odustajali, tvrdoglavo odričući:
„Jadnik je naprosto poludeo“, gledali su besno jedni u druge.
Boris K. je podgrevao radoznalost gostiju otmenog restorana za intelektualce, samim svojim prisustvom. Rešio je, iz nepoznatih razloga, da otkrije tajnu baš tog snežnog popodneva.
„Kao i obično“, zapovedio je odsečnim glasom, a potom je ispustio jedno „Ah!“, proturivši ruku kroz prazne džepove. Uzdahnuo je, a zajedno sa njim i svi prisutni, još radoznaliji, gladni svete tajne koju je ovaj čudak krio ispod čela.
„Od čega li živi? Da li jede?“, ispitivali su kuvara Japanca, bliskog prijatelja Borisa K.
„Oh, nema on da plati. Ali, uvek se dobro najede“.
„Kako to?“ Kuvar bi odbijao da daje dodatna objašnjenja.
„Da li je u pitanju čudo nauke? Fenomen?“ Svet je bio na pragu novog otkrića. „Čovek koji ne jede dvadeset godina, ako ne i manje, ako ne i više, a ne slabi i još priručnike o zdravoj ishrani piše! Da dodamo još i da je načitan, a znamo da je teško čitati praznog stomaka“, govorili su. I to je bila istina.
Kako je Boris K. seo i naručio jelo, tako su upali novinari. Kamere su zazujale, a blicevi sevnuli. Gomila sveta nagrnula je u restoran da odgonetne Tajnu vitke linije.
„Živeti, pisati recenzije, a pri tom ne ždrati! Da nije možda ovo nagoveštaj apokalipse?“, govorili su vernici.
„Trik, nema sumnje“, govorili su skeptici.
Ali, svi su želeli da vide jedno. Čudo! Kuvar dostojanstvenog izraza lica s pregačom oko stomaka, donese ajncer u levoj ruci. Dok je Boris K. govorio, kuvar je u blokče revnosno zapisivao:
„Znači… kao i obično. Predjelo: Gde si Puškine? U sosu sa Harmsom. Za glavno jelo: Pohovani Kaligula sa prelivom Nekronomikona i to ona najkrvavija priča. Možda nešto za popiti?“
„Sva vina iz Starog zaveta.“
Vernici uzdahnuše i prekrstiše se.
„Nećete Novi? Ima i tamo finih… Nešto sa menija apostola? Imali su fino posluženje…“
„Ne. Radije bih glodao Sartrov Zid. Kažu da u cigli ima proteina na izvol’te“. Skeptici aplaudiraše. Egzistencijalisti se guraše u prvi red, dok Kamijevci smatraše da je sve to apsolutno besmisleno i napustiše prostoriju.
„Šta ti je duševna hrana…“, uzviknuo je neko, a ostali uputiše krike odobravanja. Potom svi krenuše da naručuju raskošna jela sa trpeze, sledeći primer Borisa K.
Ispostavilo se da se Boris K, pre dvadeset godina, podvrgao jednom magijskom ritualu u hramu Šaolin, posle kojeg je dobio fatvu da umesto hrane jede samo visokomoralna intelektualna dela.
Otkrivši ovu veliku tajnu, građani Fenomenopublike postaše najtvitkija nacija na svetu. Apetit je prešao sa stomaka na mozak: ako se čita loša literatura, svima mora da pripadne muka. Tako je nacija morala, ne samo da jede ono što čita, već da jede isključivo dobru literaturu.
Tako su dela uglednih književnika sa šeširima i širokim osmesima, koji su se često pojavljivali na televiziji, završila na deponiji. Knjižare su zamandalile vrata kada su građani Republike navalili, tražeći ukusne korice gospodina Mana u izdanju „Riders Dajdžesta“.
Tako je odjednom, u knjizi Borisa K, pronađen lek za osteoporozu koji samo tvrd povez Tragedije genija može da izleči. Bilo je tu još začina, a jedan od njih sadržao je lek za rak. Srčani bolesnici konzumirali su isključivo poeziju, jer im je proza u sosu bila strogo zabranjena. Začin a la Pirandelo i piletina a la Dvorska i druga posla postala su već pomodarska jela od kojih se pomalo moglo i ugojiti.
Tada su knjige, jednim potezom svemoguće ruke, zbrisane sa lica Zemlje.