Imagination

If I was, with my imagination,
discerning through the voice the kind
or the monstrous spirit in every living being
(with whom I would converse),

That same imagination discerned me the existence,
of the unused prints of such melodious,
and yet so unloving,

Voices not yet revived,
which are yet to rush, buzz, roar and call
the dark, unexplored worlds

Threatens to suck in and pull
the fear unclear, mixed with loathing,
walking integrals made of blood, meat and malice

All of humanity towards the corpses of eons,
the polyphony of murmurs,
screams, roars

From the purple mouth of the Dark,
creaming, maddened medusas
with horse necks and with bodies of the bull. . .

Who scratched the disc of Dark,
who flipped the pages of the atlas of Death
who, hungry for red meat,

Search and grab,
swallow, storm, crush with their feet
bodies dismembered and the transcript of antique nostalgia

Dedicated to the wiccans and the undead,
on the slopes the pierced the grounds,
like forks into soft meat

Stretching far above the tips of malicious temples.
as well as Belobog proposes to the Boogey,

With her scary face and open jaws with no teeth.
Hercules searching for Persephone,
but, the drama one, not the lyrical one!

When the sky is bloated with gray clouds,
and the rain does not drip drops,
but bubbles like cursed membranes….

Did they have faces?
even if they did, those would be dark curves of circles
in Nothingness itself.

Tzap, poof, abracadabra, doo!

The Curse Of Helena Of Troy

The power of loneliness

Bastards

Bastards,

I remember nothing but November

so crazy half-awake

as lukewarm blood prepares to wake up

unusual blood flowing

moving in light attacks

eventually a fairy-tale bird

at the end of the Nordic Twilight

in the end, remember and remind others

when they are polluted by human lowness

when they are angry with humanity

finally, the silver slide on the waves distorted in balance

you become a symbol that shines with disgust

my eyes are hard

in the flash voltage

under the pressure of reverse gaze

theatre with empty chairs

increasingly unrestrained performances

2

Bastards

between sweat and draft

when they start to stall

basins against the walls

infuriated in the pulmonary bush

gag reflex rainwater down a rusty steep gutter

with the first breath

hellspawn without race and address

the smell of rotten mouldings plunges into empty vision

humanity needs a sense of smell

and tickle the restlessness, the fire, and the torment

it is time to make the sauce among the cramped rooms

in the midst of the sweeps and receipts

they ripped the star from the power meter

they get dead, they die alive

in sleep and on alertness, like never

3

let the bassoon come back from the basement and the horns of plastic drums

let the restored bassoon sing

into trenches, tanks and cannons

to iron around our own bones

so we can forget about them later

the sun and moon will be close to our eyes

in the day

indented

torso

in a spider’s

heart

forgotten sizes

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Where does love go when it is forgotten

There is nothing left, a broken piece of shape and colour
the time took some time or several hours
in which I do not feel geographical inequality
eternally lost from pleasure and flutes fell

And now I’m a queen in my own lodge, listening to music myself
innocent and beautiful and framed as a god
breathing in the dream of life
which lasts only in music
melted by myth, but part of the myth
About the rebellious purity of one who wonders as he crawls
in front of the memory of stone dug in nettles
like a bald snail on the skin of a young leaf
like a kid on the doorstep of a dark room
Where does love go when it is forgotten
when mounds of ivory and cedar were forgotten with the crowd
our bodies are like flowers
our bodies are like knives
our eyes are from a man in love
who can redeem old pain
That man, that angel, that demon
and the eyes of him who watches them are blinding
as God’s forehead as he imagines the world
like a sea of blood and gold
like a thirsty sandy shore
It absorbed the legends of the people who flooded the ocean
across the sea, the whole world I used to decorate my gloomy royal hands

Get up, look, though you have no hope, dream of the dawn
dawn dawn

 

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Odyssey (acca Memento Mori)

Hail, Odyssey
let your shadow be at peace
let you look for other valleys
for the river over which the wind
carries a sound between wedges and reeds
where the ancient rapture from the river waters
and the echo roars in them like glory

 

Odyssey, as your glory from time immemorial
you are stranger as she is and so futile
Find your great abducted unrest
as the divine threat lost on earth warns
of some tremendous creative consciousness
who starts chanting about mortal glory
and then consoling both you and me to death

 

Spirituality is left in awe

 

Act like your descriptive resiliency’s mirrored colours
careful paints its true meanings
share your intents by stepping back now

in looking forward to the future
with awaiting wonderment’s
of which though patience is its virtue

encourage
an inspirationally creative aspect
of creatively limitless boundaries

of poetic freedom
drew me into my own struggles
of limitless distance and times

sought after poetry’s portrayals turn abouts,
opportunity’s beliefs best-suited points
shared beliefs are offering

in this our written life’s transfigurations
contracts placed in times
the accordance of rebuilding these once

broken doors of opportunities
that we now stand for by reminiscing
poetically

of be fronted justices cause
to unite peacefully
before the those forgotten within

reveal themselves rejuvenated
by our rights left uncharted
perhaps by their own fears blinded efforts

to remember love’s potential as well.
a shared reminder of the gift’s surpassed rarity
of achieving one’s goal’s of inclusion’s

all-encompassing uniqueness
of perceiving life’s ongoing
reflective self-empowerment’s ability’s

unto others seeking solaces redemptive
fully understood
compassionate mysticisms carefully laid before them

in hopes of seeing someone’s mirrored imagery
right behind them
backing their own stories

no matter what stands in front of these attempts
to be in the moment’s
where just knowing someones guiding the hand

you’ve held is all that truly matters —
act like spirituality is left in awe
and then the sorrows like this one…

past will be my own recuperative times’ narratives
focusing solely on my own similarly
poetic journals of rediscovery

Myself being a one-digit (index finger) slow texter
beyond tired and dreams of tomorrow
await me in slumbers welcoming.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Happy to share…

My three poems, The Key Sum Of All Things, Endlessly Burnishing Wildflowers and Dervish are published in
Our Poetry Archive V-5 No.11: FEBRUARY 2020: Is Now On-Line!

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com
https://www.facebook.com/groups/OUR.WWWW/.

 

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2020/02/leila-samarrai.html?spref=fb&fbclid=IwAR29ndw21VNIqdgCe0iTdqPdcy-B7r-gx-E60Wz4Fj0ikiM9Ure6KnBZaIQ

 

Endlessly Burnishing Wildflowers, a poem by
LEILA SAMARRAI was born on October 19th, 1976 in Kragujevac, Serbia. She writes poetry, short stories, and plays, her work largely containing the motives of fantasy and humour. Her debut collection of poetry „The Darkness Will Understand“ won the First Prize of the competition organized by the Student cultural centre of Kragujevac in 2002. She has had her work published in numerous local magazines, both in print and electronic form. Some of her notable works include the collection of short stories „The Adventures of Boris K.“ by Everest Media and (as co-author and critic) „Poetry Against Terror: A Tribute to the Victims of Terrorism Kindle Edition“. Her works were published in Serbian, Hungarian and English. She has won numerous awards for her written works, including the third place as a representative of Serbia for the aphorism „Stars and Us“ of the „Beleg“ competition and three separate awards in the „3-5-7 – A Story in a Moment“ story competition, as part of the „Helly Cherry“ competition, both in 2011. She currently lives in Belgrade with her five cats. Samarrai uses absurdist and the elements of farce in her plays. She favours surreal short stories, horror fiction, satire and humoresque, enjoying the vaudeville style of structure interwoven with the style of “Pythonesque” stories. Her goal in literature is to weave fantastic realism into horror fiction, as well as utilizing magical realism and the surreal.

Requiem for a mosquito, may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes

1

I love your milk colour, nearby madhouse,
I love your fatuum traitors cry,
To Now or Once, to hellholes or sneak thieves
Which summons the harlots of Time.

Pull the drains, sewer bunnies.
may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes,
I love your shiny little bumps, your aggro,
Simply… I love your shaft.

The Belgrade on Krnjača*
screwed up its sewage line to
contaminate the crime scene.
with raw sewage.

The Wraith will come dragged along the floor
Belgrade, you are an asylum in the open river
while sailing on a burning duvet

2

To Kunst for homeless god
to Happiness and vindictive mosquitoes
to calls of local bar hopping slut.
and fine Sers missing communal apartment.

Spraying for mosquitoes!
are you my executioner?
you’ve disarmed the vengeful mosquitos
itching
cursing
a short-tempered star
a lightning strike
frost in dictionary

And soon.. all these years
seem just like a blink
of the bite.. inseminated…
earthquake!

Don’ t get nervous phantom of the
birthplace shores.

Requiem for a mosquito
and soon, your music shall come,
some slacker roadkill shall come,
plastic heart shall soak it all in.

Like ammonium nitrate…
3
To add mincemeat out of the filthy Ser
mix mixture carefully into medicinal
soup
For Hannibal.

Poke and doodle
In the pokey, up to the rectum river,
then
plant yourself like a squatter

And… put some ice in the urinals.

 

*Krnjača (Serbian Cyrillic: Крњача; pronounced [kř̩ɲat͡ʃa]) is an urban neighborhood of Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. It is located in Belgrade’s municipality of Palilula. (source: Wikipedia)

Returned to sea

The symbol of “the sea” is similar to that seen in the beasts rising out of the sea and out of the earth (Revelation 13:1, 11). It designates origination, representing the realm of the earth

Also, the fish is a symbol of baptism and as such, an appropriate symbol for Christians to adopt. A fish symbolizes fertility, feelings, creativity, rebirth, good luck, transformation, health, abundance, serenity, intelligence, happiness, strength, and endurance.

Authors note

***

Returned to sea, through realms
beyond the sea,
whatever city you may be in,
the shalop reach the side
as died upon the tide

of awakening fire
why fly with one wing
Of flowers budded newly
Among the pirates, among the shepherds
A ram goes bleating.

How to walk on one leg?
Conjure thee to linger in the multitude arose
how much of the world can be seen
with half an eye
about their brows!

Strange ministrant of abrupt thunder
behind which hill does the man cease to be
Dread opener of the feathery whizzing
far and wide
on which the field a beast remains
A yielding up, through the water straight,

Let them die everyone who isn’t us,
the empty souls vibrated with the howling
of thousands of kinds of monstrosities

They wrapped their miserable greens in dazzling colours
to cool bosom mocking under your shore – out of memory
unconscious did they embalmed your heavier, sweet grief above

Why live with one hand
how to walk on one leg
They mock you
But we will cry with you
don’t worry about those devilish smirks

To tunes forgotten,
Once more been tortured with
the towering horses
in due time aloud we cry beckon’d you to silence
a kiss on the cheek,

To melting one eye fish
to earth the dower of still waters
and white did lave that all those gentle lispers
to tinge the salt tear syren shores
don’t worry about those damn ridicule

No matter what city you were in,
returned to sea, through realms beyond the sea
return to the sea
what kind of land it is for which one must die for

Don’t worry about the red nights in the east
don’t worry about those devilish kingdoms
don’t worry about anything

 

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019