Who let the Eve in?


EVE (sighs):  Millenniums have passed and certainly not to start the fun
Hail Lord, it’s so mind-numbing to be lonely in paradise …
Pure rivers of Eden, let’s play innocent games!
Give it mouth!
Speak of my dewy skin!
Speak but do not place it in ruins with lipful delusions,
speak to this outcast,
in the light as fits the occasion
proving thus my dewy skin
speak without melodiousness.
I am only one hereby.
Shall I be Astraea or Justitia,
should I keep the white lilies in my hand?
They are a lot in the garden.
Eden Rivers:
Oh, dame Blanche, Mother Of Innocence
your belly is bloated
with the new maternity
mother of the lambs.
(Eve is fanning herself with akakia leaf)
…and Acacia wove its branches into your divine hair…
the ivory gull is tucked on your shoulder and…
Eve:
Oh stop, stop, STOP with such eyesore, flatterers
even I must be filthier than
I thought I was
I, of a pure heart?
(Eve bursts into laughter)
I’m just a rotten bird in the night wind,
my face is not serene in the early sunlight
get it, toads?
And what about the Innocent from the time immemorial,
that has only been narcotized with tranquility?
The whore of Aventine Hill
is far more useful than her divinely dust
sprinkled per treacherous tenderness.
My eyes have seen many transgressions
and my ears heard many homicidal world proverbs,
but your lascivious narrative
coming from your fancy mouths
reek more than six poisonous flowers of the green hell,
and if I am of a pure heart, and perhaps
disgusted with your game choice
let’s pretend better then.
Bear my chastity, the Wicked, you serve me best.
I govern this, the wicked world
by mythological nods for scoundrels
and the greatest rascal there is in me, always
I am making him feel nostalgic.
(Eve screaming and grabbing her gray hair tearing branches of acacia)
Scoundrels!
All gone!
They left me here to guard the trees and grown – up slaughtered babies!
I thought I had died several millennia earlier (deliriously)
Eden Rivers (Stirring up): Who let the Eve in?!
Eve: Hush…
You wonder why I came back.
To atone for maternal sins,
to douse the thirsty ground,
who will look after poor Abel instead of me?
Master maybe? (Shrugging) He has not been in my sight for eons.
(Idiotic sobbing in the distance)
you all know how shiftless and sensitive he is
after all he went mad after that…occasion.
I am the mother of the Earth
If I’m away,
cruel rivers of Eden will not supply my thirsty land
therefore, the rivers of Eden, next time tell me
how pretty my face is when mastered with fear.
(Rivers withdrew into darkness and fell silent. Eve fell asleep, muttering)
I, the Fear… Great Shame… My poor lamb, my angel
your sacred and pure virginity is gone.
(Evil smile)
***

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

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

Cannibalism in autumn


These are birth torments from the planet on an exhale – no single haiku can save her anymore. we have aborted our own land and humanity – our legacy.
so let’s listen to music and share something from our common past – that’s what art still gives us to fight to the bitter end. or just give up, or rise to the occasion.

The storms lopped off that head of quiet cities, 

giant waiting room and fog-braids
always besides seeing a snake-pit,
crucified orchid looks a uterus.
Along roadsides made of hot coals,
do the trumpet of darkness hide love,
do music of the wind drinking wine,
do frog-brides cast carelessly
their veils over the vertebrates,
do bare-hearted glass frog cast
their steel tools with greater violence
over tin plates?
I wonder!
Is it a stretched time?
Is a hamstring torn apart?
Are all the dead ends found in the night?
With a cello played by umbilical cords as an endless wait
and gallium rains fall from the past,
I should remember those sunbathing naked suburbs
when swings empty as eyes looked at us carelessly.
Say something!
Closes with a little small lobster clasp
of dead children passing through dead children,
a vortex where they wallow
in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps.
Children of the stone men,
my bastards…birth of my birth;
all with ageing faces la tierra,
they’re taking me there…
where bone made of roses clocks in fear.
Through heart’s mouth, cockspur veil of senses,
everything started to grow rapidly,
wood and waves, gimmicks on the face
face in gimmick and stiff thorns.
Children! A bronze plated pendant of stone people,
weathered carving of sweet pastel,
a cutting ladies’ birth of my birth,
and unborn children, sandwiched between ovaries.
I’ll paint myself open-legged pose
like Fridah Kahlo* self-induced abortions,
a nude descending to Dali’s* haiku,
cannibalism in autumn.
Author’s Note:
1. Fridah Kahlo: A Mexican painter known for her many portraits, self-portraits and works inspired by the nature and the artifacts of Mexico. Inspired by the country’s popular culture, she employed a naïve folk art style to explore questions of identity, post colonialism, gender, class and race in Mexican society.
2.  Dali: A Spanish surrealist artist, best known for the striking and bizarre in his work.
copyright by Leila Samarai, ©Belgrade, Serbia, 2019

Brandy bilious burp miasma of inebriation


Orphaned on cold streets

just for tonight,

just for tonight,

my hands tangle my Medusa’s hair

A column of mourners black veils,

blacker shrouds blackest scars

point fingers jab my face

with dirty nails spit at my eye

kick my uterus Drunk under the table by

Brandy bilious burp miasma of inebriation

Disowned by God thrown to ground and called whore

Instead of my biography, to all..


I am not thoughtful
Atalanta who’s hopping
near the court of Harita and Himeros
inspired by the announced visit of Papa Legbo
through the Caribbean bays and with the astonishing rhythm
of all possible percussions with the fish pepper from Florida,
bathed naked body in the waters of Permes.
On the contrary, I pay for a joint septic pit near Belgrade Krnjača,
I’m just someone who is an inadvertent speaker, looking for an editor, a poet,
with the echo of the whisper,
with the one neuron that remained in my head after postwar stress… and it serves me for knocking on my keyboard’ door for heaven is not
a place on Earth.. well, logically speaking, Belinda… Xiao moto (Sorry about that in guajarati..)
.. In vain, in vain…

Off the record – I am scared of my poetic responses


I’m an engaged woman
one that’s still necking with sky
I skip the fence, these are the bunches of bushes
these are the lengths of the backbone
(Does the soul have urges and gut?)
I’m scared of my poetic responses

I am hungry by being an everlasting land
I seduce the heavens so that I am an ungodly land
I’m a never-ending land in the collapse
I am scared of my poetic responses

I am the obsolete woman
I’m alone communicated thought obsolete for men
a thunderously conclusive readjustment of
their theoretically unproven
life sentences
of hopelessness self dependency’s.
I’m scared of my poetic responses

For close 40 years, I (t) funnelled
all of my Shawshank Redemptive experiences
within my poetic mode of hopefully
escaping under every watching eye’s noses
I am scared..
I’m transgressed, woman!

I wrote all the years to stay alive
and now after I decided it was time
for my own retrial
Unheard of mirrors.
the souls’ pricelessness by looking into
the windows once self-indulgent magnitudally
lost moment in time

I… 
while receiving the rescues within distances
ever-changing madness itself
fills the sky with visions and gold
with virgin gardens and springs
fills it with our little unimportant amours.

.. am not…

Now, when our eyes look through the lens of
the Hubble telescope, it’s pretty clear.
we’re still gravitating towards the ground.

.. scared…

And off the record
One fish was caught today
A Sunfish

Author’s note:
A Sunfish
Ironically symbolic of something in other’s words throughout history has never been able to catch its essence of beauty’s ability to lose the meaning of if looked at too intensely for its true meaning yet give sight to its secrets hidden at a glance

© Leila Samarrai Mehdi

IN THE AGE OF APOCALYPTIC WONDERFUL MIRACLES, Leila Samarrai “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”


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image found here

The word lost power, but the power lost not the word.
From weary mouths rests in diction
In the age of apocalyptic, wonderful miracles.

The Grand Idiot will be fed by Earth
And the meek will be buried under it.

Miracles prevail over Courteous Miracles
Courteous fire
Courteous solitude

From the cliff of eyes
Into the imaginary house
Under the dead tongue
Acrimony wants to plot.