Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’


Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’
THE POETRY Leila Samarrai is an exceptional poetess. Hence why the lyricism is so excellent in her works. Consciously or not, whatever the case might be, ultimately it is irrelevant, the verses flow from her sleeves, fingertips, quill, making up a powerful waterfall of verses which floods us readers, therefore we, occasionally, while disappearing into the colors and verses of Samarrai, get the impression that we are reading a poem, a poem that akin to sound (of whistling) gets stuck in one’s throat.
THE PLAYS I have had the honor of reading Samarrai’s plays. Perhaps some would call me subjective on this, but her plays are equally as good as her poetry. What’s more, Samarrai’s poetry and plays often are intertwined, making up an antique literary fatherland. Samarrai’s erudition mixed with imagination creates and destroys worlds and universes, leading us through epochs and vast spaces as if in a dream, or rather, in a moment. Is ‘The Bitch’ a type of play? Very much so. This story yearns for an adaptation, and it might happen if an open and ingenious enough person reads it and feels its bark or voice as an invitation for casting of a role of roles.
THE FARCE Speaking of playwrights, farce is the one thing that must not be avoided in Samarrai’s works. However you identify with her protagonists of either sex, with their realistic – and in a way our own, too – basic and easily recognizable problems, we are left with the other side of Janus’ face, partly smiling, partly grim. It is enjoyable to wander around the light and darkness of Leila Samarrai. Her humor can also be quite vocal, with many a hahaha within, and it can also, in the blink of an eye, turn itself into a very sharp and even shredding satire of human and less-so characters. Samarrai is what Branislav Nušić could have been had he ever wanted to dabble in horror.
THE ABSURDITY Mentioning Samarrai’s works, and glossing over the absurdist tinge of it, would religiously speaking be blasphemous. Even though it seems easy to write of absurdist literature or to write absurdist literature itself, I would disagree that everyone can do it with a little bit of imagination packed into the zeitgeist. Samarrai’s absurdist tendencies are not there for absurdity’s sake, nor does it adorn itself with it, spraying it all over the letters, nor amateurishly summon it like the Dodolas summon the rain. The absurdity is there, it materializes on its own, popping out of the situation, has a face and form of engaged literature, it is strong and loud, it chides and accuses, it awakens and sobers…
COURAGE Leila Samarrai is without a doubt a courageous person. I will not go into the minutiae nor explain why I think so. It will be enough for you to take one of her works, read it from start to finish, and it will all be clear. Without literary courage, there is no literary quality, or rather, it remains unfinished and silent, which in literature is a death worse than death.
METEMPSYCHOSES AND METAMORPHOSES IN ‘THE BITCH’ All of these characters might in a Borgesian, Alephian way, all be one. Peter is Ana and is Pipi and Fifi, and…The whole work itself. And not just him, but each of them separately. Dismantling, rearranging and transforming of characters is in particular a great treat of this all-encompassing work. For instance, Pipi is 2×3.14! An amazing solution out of which Pipi becomes Lazarus who is raised back from the dead. Also, the amazing ‘woof woof’ ending, with its greeting or saying goodbye, stultifies any character division to humans and animals, men and women, protagonists and antagonists. A top notch work of fiction alongside which you grow and learn.
https://www.limundo.com/…/I-lud-i-zbunjen-aforizmi…/54762727

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).

Marigolds, My Wounds


Sipping wassail at the grave
of the Russian mystic,

lunacy crucified in his eye,
I knit a wreath for the vixen

suffocating next to the shaft,
gnawing the grid with her teeth,

cracking joists, swallowing
sonnets. She rode the Lion’s gate

in a low-cut dress, separated
with her axe and tossed in the pyre

the heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
Blindness tucks me into that bier

of ravaged marigolds, wounds
serenaded in shadows

and my body, reeking,
unlike one who never dies.

Lulled within the years
a bloodied sun rises in the west.

marigold

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UNTIL THE END


UNTIL THE END

Submerged in the depths of my misery
I see no light nor exit,
but I resist to abandon myself
in the Entropy’s welcoming arms
as such an easy defeat
would seem fair,
after having fought against my own personal enemies,
I shall not surrender so easily
I’ll keep on fighting until the end,
as I am Life
and as such,
I shall live with dignity until my day comes,
when I’ll leave this world
with empty hands
but a soul full of love and courage.

verse –sediment of nausea, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”, Leila Samarrai


verse –sediment of nausea

I blossomed in the hollow of bitter courage
On a feast – with abundance, wisdom, beauty

Like a satiated Erot taste me of
Plato’s plate
Crush me with finger tips of oak
And with the milk of mother finish my body.

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 LAST MOH’S DAY

1.
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.

2.
At mating time of the Holy Cow, I promise you –
That I shall be seen… there.
Painted blue, with a tear in… this hand!

Tear?
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!

3.
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.
Shoot!
In all the hearts that fade away.

4.
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
And!
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.