The Birth of Narcissus

My eyes look down to gaze upon the lake
and I found my face dressed in the sun’s light;
upon the lake’s surface, the radiance
of my face yields me to kneel before it.
My prized face, beside I, your fond bearer,
you are my one true love with fair features
I gaze to touch with my newborn stretched arms;
recreating myself, but in my own image.
Lithe mirror, what pure formed creature I am,
I do get pricked by piss-poor perfection
I have no room for this damned society
of humanity’s thoughtless castaways,
Now that I have found my mad reflection!
One vanity, one ilk, one jealousy
that gazes at what she can never touch!
No more! And one love always responded.
With this new love brought from Heaven to Earth,
with this eye-catching life hove into view
from the freezing water, no more head-path,
no more dark clouds overhead my shoulders
with the selfsame sharp-tasting smell of storm
there will be…No! No more waking life, no!
No more wounds in my back, no tears at night!
No more…at the end of the sun’s journey!
My mind crystal to see love is the key;
my hand is taking the silvered mirror;
my keen lips are kissing the lips of God;
my first date I am having with Myself.
written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie

Whither, midst this glimmering dew locked

Whither, midst this glimmering dew locked
Poised on one crystal sorrows of all might
While glow the loitering through a vast
with its adamantine

with the last steps of you dead arose
there I am, oft far, through mine panther dance
dost thou pulse of
The butterfly in silence
whirled that makes a star
The moonlight of all the earth
be trodden gold

Vainly the quiet reed drain,
sigh on sigh,
whorl on whorl
Nor any love not any rose
Has it a meaning, the Arabian butterfly

Had words of thy distant slumber that feeds on mourn
As our face, your voice, darkly painted
Thy bluebells now, the dead arose

Seek’st thou the sweet records
Of weedy moment or inward eye of river wide,
Or where the rest tossed each other close
On the chafed woodland shod?

There is a Music whose care
Dwellers thy way along that pathless hour-
of the laurelled and illimitable air–
Lone sailing gull,

betrothal ring luminously by
all the world grow
Blossom and blade
running stream

The eyes that tell no scarlet
Bringing the tiny thunderings
The moon, like a guardian, are silent in
All day thy silver ornaments were sitting in your hear

At that visit caves the cold, thin thirst away
Yet pour sleep not, Dark, benighted methought
I lay the cup fulfilled was brightest
,, to the welcome of a madwoman haled,
Though the dark night pity me
with flaming flowers close house of glass

And soon that toil of thy auguries shall end
Soon shall you rest in the depth of a
dishevelled mass
And scream among o the crystal blues; reeds imprisoned
yondering through the mist,

sick white birds feasting
Soon, unchanging glow
on laughter rings
of lions

in a virgin cavern the abyss of heaven
Deeply has sunk with clouded eyes whose tears
yet unborn
the surging water marshes blind

ceased to lay ice on to lassitude
Guides through the boundless pallid beholding
Behold the stagnant hour
Did will tread my steps aright?



One little, two little,
three little coxcombs
pray slack our rage
with a futile thought
so I heard them strumpet
through the weeping dark
reverberating as the Sable laughed, howls
hot coals, abstract, to fill in the gap
as thus released my rain barrel.

And as he spoke a new man died,
so add blind dangling
that sudden light sound
within those holes
of years, for tears
to be bloodthirsty
is better than a droop.

Let’s toast
to the broken ribs of monstrous peak,
to the powerful crimson arms,
to 12 hanging chandeliers,
to 12 sheep hanging on the iron rod
beyond courtesy of snake to snake in their snake-pit,
to 12 hells lined up in forgotten time,
to mild brightness trickles from the stars,
escape takes off through loneliness,
always blowing quieter.

copyright by Leila Samarrai, summer 2019

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Diogenes wasted palm holding my candle’s hem

Masters recognition by night past the walls;
Bowing down the immortal gods with a million hands
I made pirouettes of rash ballerinas
“Are you here, a company of souls so remote?”

May’t not displease you, a mantis dance with the bodies of a waltz
If a morning cries in fear that it will never dawn?
Backwards, graffiti painters in colour refugees –
At the needle’s eye let the trail go on.

And as the instinct of the eternal harlot along the Danube shores,
To guard the sun is hiding its freckles
Thus scrutinised by such a stretched forth flames
Diogenes wasted palm holding my candle’s hem

Hydrocyanic acid confession

Hydrocyanic acid confession

I am full of cyanide,
for I am alone and unloved.
I have some of your facial features,
I laughed aloud
as if I were entering a bat cave,
but it was not laughter that a happy being
stretched out due to joy,
it was desperation, it was torture.

Even now I grin, but bareheaded and alone,
I keep hiccoughing and do vomit on occasion,
right here in this tiny nylon bag.
Want some? No?

I have criteria.

I know the nature of doubt.
The whirlwind of trickery
an endless number of smaller whirlpools
of seemingly irrelevant events
I and my doubt became one.
A stone of crude profile rolling
and gathering various bits and bobs.
But this was far before…before…


I have complicated my own life
with freelance work,
the earnings…

And more oil paintings, Vincenzo for instance.

Hungover from work and sunken from the anguish,
with sunken cheekbones from leaning them on the wrist
of my weary hand,
with my head like a lid of a burnt saucepan

flailing with the night where my butchery voice pierced the heavens.
I escaped under the sight of an ax

Seeking for a spot where it could drive its blade
and lay bare any hidden molars
under my golden hair.

The woolly hat on my head was undergoing
and took on the shape of a well-coiffed

Assessing the sufferer, only to jump into his lap
and take off another chunk of meat.
a bit slim, but still gracious
I growled silently, but pleased.

– And the wife?

– Left on a short trip,

My wicked thing. I must go home, my wife is in that ashtray waiting.

But that was far before…before…

There will be time for me to tell you everything

There will be time for me to tell you everything


We quail, not live.

We dance on rugs of fern

In rhythm of the certainly dead


Beware the tear of the lunatic and bridges with no fences

Victims and solitude of the prayer

Patting on the shoulder

And emptiness in which the counsellors die



Do not be found again


We quail

In the meantime, we do not live