Where does love go when it is forgotten


fb3dQuotes23There 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

The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora


Poem for my 43rd birthday – Authors note: This means nothing

1
Everything, the October announcement,
a hand of god nebulae form three dirty yellow patches of fog,
and five days of compassion dipped in the pupil,
arose mododktil, rags…to see eternity, friability
opposites as growing cold rivers always appear
Heavenly heroes of soiled masks
they get in and out far from both of them celebrants
these two should be washed well under the delta
in dark sun, waltz between them.
“I’m toxic to rabbits” – “one”
“I burn deep credentials,”” two”
toxic to 43 minefields,
“both” in the home of deceased ornaments
“I celebrated it!”
2
In the harmonious belly of the Tiber
at the home of the late son’s brother’s son
(whispering, wryly amused):
He was a Spartacus but he did not have a house
he killed the Romans killed the Romans
in lapis lazuli Stygian river…
(demented innkeepers with hairy ties waiting tables)
My late geographical years – what did real biology give me,
but capsule in genetics, a blend of two good motives
with the drop of wars here and there,
playing the bulls that yield the mythical image of red light
under the blue bridge*
towering faces, held by Gordie’s knot,
cut by a stiffened Jon Snow sword,
a sense of scale.
3
For the character to be rounded—
how sick beasts bow before pigeons,
how they instead tread the shoes of the dead homeless,
bread crumb and the ice cube,
how they, in turn, leave the climax
how sick is that?
It dilutes the palate budding
with the sweetness of sweet howling,
when the poison slowly…
wrings out stone fruit prussic acid branches,
comfy being…being half-open mistletoe
in a bed of amaryllis’ healed, clouded mind;
a well runs and disappears when lifting the curtain
the bells will sound like…
The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora,
logical and – hardened berries,
celebration knows no celebration,
muddy half of the evening between the grey substances,
less and less becomes more,
time is oh, the power of secrecy barefoot gift,
a day feels like a night and morning reeks like noon.
October on the wall!
What is in the box? Sisyphus and with ribbons on!
*****
*The Blue Bridge, place in Belgrade for prostitution (lowest prices) Part of Belgrade actually bears the name “Bridge of Whores”: Behind it lies the suffering of women under the Turks, a river of blood flowed towards the Danube

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

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

To a man who has hurt my dream.


To a man who has hurt my dream!
You’re a harasser just like
Gurdjieff,

Buddha or Jesus, you’re fretting
my rest, you hide my inner poise
Whoe’er

upsets our sleepiness, we will
break them up (I want to hurt you…)
The dream

was of the flowers. The Dream can
be of the sun, and I don’t have
to be

of the flowers, but one certain thing:

It’s a dream, outspoken and
useless!

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers


Endlessly burnishing wildflowers
forgotten by splattered times
of bloodless slaughterer’s design.
Waking souls lulled to long days’ sleep,
forced to steal robbed dreams endlessly
till winter freezes them to sleep.
In effect cut short dreams harden
frightfully, the nights frightfully
seem as long as winter in length.
Frenzied paced yelling, to end put
lightning in its excited place
awakening death’s silent scream.
Immortalized storms are forming
under the bitten tongue, they then
secretively bloom shade with sense.
From hiding you to dodge the knife,
no choice with the merit for me
to have ‘tween green eyes and brown eyes.
Knighted enemies eye alone
like Kings of the Night, shimmered like
white foot soldiers woefully,
heroic scream of blue lightning
pride’s flashes animatedly,
whoosing beasts move to foil its growl.
Hollering his disenchantment
steadfastly pitted against his,
bows to the trek’s will’s end at peace.
As those viewed in deathly silence,
perched like prey’s birds on the hilltop,
will stand still in the dragon’s sound.
There is no realm of pure meaning today!
My God, dead, but yet quick! Death in itself
and Words above the world – a burning bead,
a heated hollow and a cry of fear.

Conversation with Solitude


image: https://bookofsolitude.wordpress.com/2015/04/06/in-conversation-frank-souler/

If you’d let me tell you
a nice thing or two
the Word will not be melted,
as breath into the wind.
But my words will cower in the face of You.
as parrots’ feathers looking around
to see where to
Fly, stop time, paint me a pretty picture

You are disappointed,
as I am, as I am
without a veil falling upon a hidden picture
black and red she is
suddenly on that
remains in the empty skin, smiles,
people, paper portions
plates start flying off the shelves
A thorn is enough
A cut is enough
A lap of loneliness, enough.

lofty eyes, narrow spaces,l
lonely paths, silently

outlines
the houses that are offending me
with always the same faces,
and so the days pass by
with this lengthy hiatus inside of me

Well, it’ s a disappointment, but the disappointment is me
actually…

You’ re not despairing, are you?
the people’s mouth and teeth are smiling up at you
You will never… ever… be stuck alone
as I’ ve been… beside thee
if you could have heard my screams
Only you and me…
You’ d better talk.

Winter idyll


Blow blow winter wind
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
wild-eddying swirl in her sharpened face
and, bleached, fresh buds of white hiding place
moving on softly line to line

The half-stripped trees and this pale air
hides hills and woods, river and heaven,
I, zip my farm at the end of the garden.
winter idyll.

I agree there is some sweetness in its white cruelty
so, maybe one day it will be
a beautiful place
Until then, the echo is still
devoured by a frosty meadow languor
Perhaps one day it will be
such wonderland place
Until then,
a crisp of winter’s night’s
coated in white shirt sewn from a black cut.


Betrayal, Omen, Serbian original included

If I am the perpetrator of the famous “Betrayal of the original” with unskilled translations into a language that is not mine, it does not offer much in the way of comforts, but I would share what I have.

A necessary thing to ensure your better understanding.

However, I hope that this possible loss of translation will be less painful, less inhuman and embarrassing than a betraying ill-fated cause once sitting behind me, whose eyes betrayed darkening storm. 
An Unfortunate discovery, 

for which I have been trying to write a love poem for a decade with a light inside and the spark of hope, so bright as light bulb exploded…

As well as light and hope. 

Still, I cannot, because poetry comes from the heart. Try to take from me as much as you can, because I am giving you everything that’s left.

Yet, it was foretold…

Lothair The Dark, a poet with trust issues

translated from the Latin Sermo Vulgari

 

***

OMEN

Heart, go away so I can mourn your passing.

In this hour I foretell the future despair
Despair which comforts me in my madness
Indistinct despair, voiceless
Like a reticent rock deliberating a curse
How can I determine the correct hour?
From where do I remember that familiar silence?

Yes!
I foretell the cruelty upon which I will be reminded
by future expectancy, traced upon my stomach
by splendid, bright and aging
foretelling of future absence
Absence will get in the way the night of sand
Will not be
It appears to me the absence will last far too long
and that fear which values my soul
Alike a strength of a single metaphysical day
when all was said from within
That fear reinforces my soul
in the bottom
and one spoken out

Yes!
Of inconsolable shameful sarcastic foretelling
in opposition to the merciful sky which extinguishes the candle on my breast
Prophetic
Destinies, apparitions, movements
of the image seen within under the bone
The only one which who exists for future absence. Foreign land
Vis-à-vis the one who awaits the wind will cocoon itself
How to determine that which is the future and which will not come
Nothing welcomed. Valued only with already familiar
dieing
but that which was welcomed and received corrodes the skin beneath the gizzard

The forgotten must always be condensed inside the head 
My hope no longer puts up with me.
Merely butchers with bloody knives
For that reason,
Compose your smile and walk out before the views of people filled with love
was told to them by She who will not come

***

SERBIAN:

Da!
U ovom času predskazujem očaj budući
Očaj koji me u ludilu mome teši
Očaj nerazgovetni, bezglasan
Kao ćutljiva sena koja kletvu promišlja
Kako mogu odrediti tačan čas?
Otkuda pamtim taj poznati muk?
Da!
Predskazujem svirepost na koju će me podsetiti
Iščekivanje buduće, preslikano na želucu
Sjajnim, vedrim i vremešnim
Predskazivanjem nedolaska budućeg
Isprečiće se nedolazak peščana noći
Neće biti
Čini mi se da će nedolazak isuviše dugo da traje
I taj strah koji mi vrednuje dušu
Nalik na snagu jednog metafizičkog dana
Kada je sve bilo rečeno iznutra
Taj strah mi krepi dušu
U dnu
I jedno izrečeno
Da!
O neutešnom sramotnom sarkastičnom predviđanju

Spram milosrdnog neba koje mi gasi sveću na grudima
Proročanske
Sudbe, pojavnosti, pokreti
Slika koja se vidi iznutra ispod kosti
Jedina koja postoji za buduće nedolaženje. Tuđa zemlja
Spram onoga koji iščekuje začauriće se vetar
Kako odrediti ono što je buduće i što neće doći
Ništa dočekano. Vrednovano jedino već poznatim
umiranjem
Ali nagriza kožu ispod želuca ono dočekano
Da!
Zaboravljeno mora biti zauvek zgusnuto u glavi
Moja nada ne trpi me više.
Tek sakati krvavim noževima
Zato,
Usredsredi osmeh i izađi pred poglede ljudi ispunjenih
ljubavlju
Reče mi Onaj koji neće doći

Da!
U ovom času predskazujem očaj budući
Očaj koji me u ludilu mome teši
Očaj nerazgovetni, bezglasan
Kao ćutljiva sena koja kletvu promišlja
Kako mogu odrediti tačan čas?
Otkuda pamtim taj poznati muk?
Da!
Predskazujem svirepost na koju će me podsetiti
Iščekivanje buduće, preslikano na želucu
Sjajnim, vedrim i vremešnim
Predskazivanjem nedolaska budućeg
Isprečiće se nedolazak peščana noći
Neće biti
Čini mi se da će nedolazak isuviše dugo da traje
I taj strah koji mi vrednuje dušu
Nalik na snagu jednog metafizičkog dana
Kada je sve bilo rečeno iznutra
Taj strah mi krepi dušu
U dnu
I jedno izrečeno
Da!
O neutešnom sramotnom sarkastičnom predviđanju
Spram milosrdnog neba koje mi gasi sveću na grudima
Proročanske
Sudbe, pojavnosti, pokreti
Slika koja se vidi iznutra ispod kosti
Jedina koja postoji za buduće nedolaženje. Tuđa zemlja
Spram onoga koji iščekuje začauriće se vetar
Kako odrediti ono što je buduće i što neće doći
Ništa dočekano. Vrednovano jedino već poznatim
umiranjem
Ali nagriza kožu ispod želuca ono dočekano
Da!
Zaboravljeno mora biti zauvek zgusnuto u glavi
Moja nada ne trpi me više.
Tek sakati krvavim noževima
Zato,
Usredsredi osmeh i izađi pred poglede ljudi ispunjenih
ljubavlju
Reče mi Ona koja neće doći

Betrayal

Page Reynolds, “Betrayal”

http://paigereynoldsart.com/home/?portfolio=betrayal

Quest


Who am I looking for?
What am I looking for?

The tick of the clock with the speed of a rabbit
who heard a hum and trembled?
The woman painted on the Wall of Wails…?
there is no tenderness in painted picture,
it is a feeling of a constant thwack.

I am amid the cold, vacant garden,
spotted glasses and broken mirrors.
thrown in the dirt, into the murky water
wormy from piss, filthy from mud

(The world can be horrible, but not dirty. And all that disgust, I kept my good taste.)

Though petty illusions were bringing short term relief,
I yawningly hit the little drums while walking the streets of same dark city
beneath the clouds who are like bulletproof vests.