The cry and the whisper, by Leila Samarrai


– We heard the scream!
– But you did not hear the whisper.

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“The pigs have flown. Now what?”, Leila Samarrai “Aphorisms and Maxims”


“The pigs have flown. Now what?”
(The serbian equivalent for this proverb is: “When willows bear grapes”.)

“A tip for a writer during the creation of a masterpiece:
Turn your brain off and write”.

“Wherever you find yourself in Serbia, you always will be on the crime scene.”

“It’s hard for me to decide – said a necrophiliac.- Today we do not know who is alive and who is dead.”

“Hope dies last. The poor are the ones who has mother – in – low under that name.

(*”Hope” is the English equivalent for the Serbian common female name “Nada”. )

Was not enough deceptions under the Troy?

“Thank God I am an atheist”

“Finally, the white days have broken. We are covered in snow”

TO BE CONTINUED…

If I was.. , Leila Samarrai


If I was
an American, born immune to viruses brought by the invaders
Prometheus, the demigod who never brought fire
Cleopatra who held the feathered serpent on her breasts
instead of a cobra

If I was
a history when Cleopatra and Antony were never in love
the poem in the eternal procreation
the knife in the hands of Brutus
Had I been Joan D’ Arc whose schizophrenic innocence
carved at least 14 churches in her meat
had I survived seven hundred years of solitude
maybe I could pour out gold from Odin’s finger
and build a shrine on a plateau in the hungry savannas
for starving children in the Horn of Africa

I’d resign Arabs and Christians
I’d raise Irbil, gentile monastery in Iraq
transformed into a field of powder
I would sing…
a variety of languages
I’d tear the Tower of Babel apart
I’d make ten thousand things be possible
In my name
in His name
in .. someone’s name
I’d become pungent silence
for you
for me…
for our world whose tenderness is shot with the bullet
for the holy son whose blood is chiming incurable.

If I was…

 

 

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

The Perfect Love


I’d give you the perfect love
and the wretch, without which there would be no perfect love
I’d give you a night that has yet to be born
and morning with vile intentions that has not happened yet

I’d give you lavishly morning in the wasteland
I would given you all the sweet languages
and all the shapes that were slowly matured in me

I’d give you them, wolves and jackals
and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy
and Belgrade on fire from which I
managed to escape,
roasted, skinned and cooked
I would give you Heaven and Hell

I’d give you the fire
and the quiet joy
and the child’s language

All that is both happy and sad
and wounds that emerge from the mud
and my childhood
and my father whose hands killed me twice
and his words were rubbed into the places that hurt

I’d give you my luxuriously morning in the desolation
and feeble tail surfaces in the text
and truncated chairs in my poems

I’d give you everything!

My Ode To Serbia!


it is like a desert where time is not measured by clocks
It is similar to the opening through which the jailer peers into a cell
it is why the birds for me have no name
it is the cause of my timid disruptions
it is the cause of my demolished kingdoms
It is a creature not known to human heart
staying in my words unspoken.
SERBIA.

Terry Robinson (HE George), UK (England) And the Writing’s on the Wall, Commentary by Leila Samarrai


From cave pictures, with hand
sprayed self portraits.
To a church’s pulpit displaying
Psalm Twenty Three.
The writing’s on the wall

From mud huts to stately
homes.
The writing’s on the wall

From the nail driven torso
hanging from the eaves.
To bullet chipped, blood
soaked wall of the firing squad
The writing’s on The Wall

From the cleaved head. That
reminisces Salome’s deed.
To a child’s barrel-bombed and
desecrated body. Too
late to share its uncorrupted
mind.
The writing’s on The Wall

And from the push of the first
button to the
push of the final button.
There will be NO writing on
the wall

Is that the writing we want
for us?
The world is at war. Humanity
is in flames.
And I have tears. But, nowhere
to cry.

~* ~

Commentary by Leila Samarrai: This amazing, well-crafted poem doesn’t contain the usual rhetoric related to terrorism such as descriptions of bloody shouts, strong shocks, gas masks, or bombs. The voice of this fantastic poet, Terry Robinson, shows through seemingly unrelated metaphor on the effects of terrorism throughout time. I see this history through images ranging from the head of John the Baptist, the pierced body of ‘homo erectus’, to the poor infant in the ancient days of Sumerian Civilization in Mesopotamia. I see shattered heads; I escape Salome’s wrath; and I walk through the epochs, through history. These words and images are united in their marrow, and all this is accompanied by the mantra, “The writing’s on The Wall”, that will echo in my ears, maybe forever. This phrase emphasizes his point that mankind has a propensity for violence or terrorism and this nature is the ‘writing on the wall’, or something that cannot be changed. A good poet often transcends genre or topic, and here, images and words fly through the ages, transcending time until the dystopian end when the poet turns to his own humanity, as well as to the remains of the world, surrounded by ruins, in the manner of a post-apocalyptic hero when he writes: ‘/ The world is at war. Humanity is in flames. / And I have tears. But, nowhere to cry /’. The poet conveys a universal message that the world is changing, but the scenery remains the same. The room for interpretation is not immense, but it is ambiguous, seemingly without hope or even a small opening through which one can cry and breathe. A circle has neither a beginning nor an end: it is one single, continuous line, a never-ending cycle without progress, where the past is endlessly repeated.. ‘until he comes out at the beginning’ (Fishman). Or, should I quote Jim Morrison, ‘This is the end, My only friend’.

Frosini, Fabrizio. POETRY AGAINST TERROR (Kindle Locations 2280-2284). Fabrizio Frosini.