Afterthought


Do obsess over the minute details.
each contains a drunken interweave.
to spite the enormity of a worthless attempt.

I write painfully,
swim through the similes,
I shorten the story, then expand on it,

Up until that point as strong as a megalith,
almost to the point of an afterthought.

There will be time for me to tell you


There will be time for me to tell you

Will the words spin tomorrow as well

And will the essence be the thread

 

Stooped candelabrums stalk me

Between yearning and fear

Between passion and constancy

Always present while you sleep restlessly

There where the beginnings end

 

Solitude too has been captured, moulded and limited

And her contents gnawed off in the tempest

Where the beginning and the end meet

Each full moon

to a man who has upset my dream.


to a man who has upset my dream.

You’re a harasser
just like Gurdjieff, Buddha or Jesus
You’re disturbing my dormancy
You dig in my inner composure
Whoever upsets our sleepiness, we will disperse them
(I want to hurt you..)
The dream was “so wonderful”.
The Dream can be beautiful,
and I do not have to be wonderful,
but one thing is certain:
It’s a dream, an outspoken, useless!

 

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

While resting from my presence…


image: Dreamlike Photo Manipulations by Mikko Raima

I AM
An existence
A germ of eternity

A peasant spouse, the God of Death,
With bulging eyes and mouths-a-shiver,
And then the story goes;

Befitting my dark being’s tastes,
In spite of insanity and oblivion –
With in tune, swings of the pen within the place.

My soul’s tale is clear.
I dissolved it.
A trap of hallucinations, thus I whispered,

(daring not to
listen any further.)
When I think towards a time when I was NOT
Without knowing how, or when, or from where
I stepped in deep darkness…

Wickedness with a wink,

but a concept of rhythm and tempo
Wherein the uttered swung enchanted,
Rooted in the intuition of this spirit of darkness

Or whatever was sent to get me
I melt.
An unfinished temple

With the presence of the spirits there for eons,
The true polyglots, storms of words,
Yet calming, mildly warning,

A vast gathering around me, out of nowhere
An unseen ghostly hand recording what is happening
And out of nowhere and unbeknownst to me

That self-exile, quite disgusting mystery
My malice is going for theatrics.
For I AM, for I am NOT,

I am exactly the same, the cross built,
A shrine in the castle,
(Of the entire
human experience…)

Sick of scribbles – nothing
Sick of wisdom – nothing
Too alive to die

Entangled with the ray of death
And stepped away suddenly,
Neither dead nor living to live,

Everything lasts in shades long buried.
A wild eternity dismembered
By monstrous hands of the gods moan.

I reached the edge of the gradient,
Entangled with the ray of death and
Stepped away suddenly.

And finally, at once,
Until I’ve taken a
Bite of my mental wellbeing…

I shut my eyes…
To fill with fear
To inhale the scent

While resting from my presence.

LJUBODRAG STOJANOVIĆ, AUTHOR, A REVIEW OF THE POEM ‘A Poem of a Crocodile’


https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2017/04/13/a-poem-about-a-crocodile/

“A Poem of a Crocodile” 

Satire is a defense of the intelligent from the primitivism of the dumb. “Crodocile” is a poem which could be part of elementary school textbooks. It has a merry Ionian scale rhythm, I kept hearing the piano while reading it, occasionally trying to imagine it accompanied by sounds of acoustic guitars and, as a throwback to my childhood, the voice of Branko Kockica. Also, the poem, especially in its final verses, can of course be – though this is optional, of course – a reference to, as it is now popular and not all too politically correct to say, the influx of refugees, or rather migrants, into Europe. But this is not the end of it: “Crocodile” is also a poem of protest, engaged literature, a reflection of the author’s social consciousness and her view of society and the system, both here and in other parts of the globe. Still, she has a specific deal with the Crocodile, and she herself, as the verse puts it, is a Crocophile, meaning she knows all about the Crocodiles and other newcomers to Belgrade and Serbia, perhaps more than she is willing to share. Whether the Nile delta, Guatemala or tiny Serbia will be the house of crocodiles, whales and other magnificent creatures who truly sleep with their eyes beyond all evil, we might learn in the continuation of the poem or in the poetic cycle with this central topic, for the author, despite her minimal experience with rhyme [Paryse, Londyne…] feels at home with this style and with her lucidness and verse-laden engagement, the recommendation presents itself, meaning that, speaking in sports’ terms, the A-team stays the same.

http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

Ljubodrag Stojanovic was born in Gnjilane on April 22nd, 1972, where he had lived until June 1999. He writes aphorisms, poems, rock lyrics, plays, short stories, and novels.

He is currently living in Nis.

Selected bibliography: ‘The Serbian Story’ (2002), collection of aphoristic prose ‘Both Insane and Confused’ (2009).