FOUR POETS, Leila Samarrai


Reinaldo before dayspring
Reinaldo is a monk
Fra Servando Teres De Miero

Rats, bats and fishes
He does not need descriptions
Because he is a Priest, not a Poet

Federico Garcia Lorka
Green, killed by the kitchens of rotten bullets
I cannot do nothing to him

Hose Lesama Lima
Art sought him incessantly
Sernudo as well, that Plato with the virtue of a boy

They were fleeing from the creases of supposed landscapes
They sewn dresses out of the East
They left on their soles
The maddened, lit cigarettes of the beholders
All four kindled their cigars
In Cuba, once more in Cuba

And twice in Spain

They were told: be ashamed
Tighten your dresses and hook your ties
Dress pantaloons over them, primarily

Straddle the hens and ride past
Beautiful ladies don in make-up which lure them
Forget boys and fancy pipes
Forget boys and fancy pipes
Forget boys and fancy pipes


Author: Leila Samarrai

I am a person of Himalayan seclusion, I am Atalanta in vestments of Helen of Troy, for me there is no term (aphorism there is, maybe). Cosmopolitan is too modest word for one who wanders across epochs without the help of the time machine. Some people consider me weird, because usually this is so when they do not understand something or someone that do not represent their existence. I love cats, an animals in general, I like challenges, I am persistent, I am combative (sometimes I can exaggerate in that - in all) If I were stylistic figure my mortal name would be Hyperbole. Read me. Know me. Conquer me :)

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