The Ghostwriter. Cripple. Madwoman. Video version, poetry recital

It is a poem about passionately driven needs to share something as uniqueness itself. But a poet feels the lack of words to express it, to see all through unto another imminently adversity of poetically rhythmic challenge to pledge in well-written form. But, unfortunately, a poet must write in a language which is not his/her own.


The Ghostwriter. Cripple. Madwoman.

Why creator, why Serbian is my mother tongue
why did you make me crippled …;

My gentle voice was offered in kindness
alone is to lay the proper framework
well-placed suggestive supportive backings
by not chasing dreams ending
but rather cherishing its precious moments
along well-written lines of living it.

a hinted thought in my vocabulary
processing attempts as each memorizing
idealistic flash penetrates my mind
with this blinding reverberating echo

I needed an old friend from birth
as one throughout the day today
and then when the house was calling my opening of its door
welcomed me with overwhelming reports of

which music from the past I knew somehow guiding me
into today’s reminder
that I will be ok no matter what tomorrow brings.

I can finally close my eyes in being reassured nightmares
wait not for dawns whistling birds dreaming
in sync with a mine of better days break

for all of those to see us through to another
imminently adversity of poetically
a rhythmic challenge to pledge in well-written form.

in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.

This gift though will not fade
as those previously brought forth
throughout artistic history has proven.
It always starts with One leading by example.

My own path is not my own path
Be it a humanistic artist in a spirit form, or if medical assistance would reveal its wisdom’s
recognition when proudly sought after whenever its shelters
offered from overwhelming thoughts
let their presence be known.

Circumstances will always be differentiating
between origins of authenticity.
However, the origins of free will be authentically never different
in any circumstances brought between those trying to be heard.

A whisper triggers curiosity’s interest in turning
While a panicked scream can send people running in the opposite direction.

The most fared ally of oppression
loud voices is the ghostwriter.

My words of change will be heard by those meant
to join mine journeys of poetic justice.


The scream of butterflies, edited version

The scream of butterflies 

It is like a desert where time isn’t told by clocks
it is like the crevice for the jailer to peer into a cell
it is why the birds, to me, have no name
it is the cause of my timid disruptions
it is the cause of my fallen kingdoms
It is not a creature known to human heart
that remains unmentioned amid my words.

in this land that is not even my own
in this land where proud Palm Readers tell fortunes
(I might say that Serbia is a witchly soil
but there is no magic inside it)

Can I even be alive?
within the poem that screams while singing

(a witchly silence)
me, a flower studded in silence

If I have to die here
leave me to open up in silence
I, a strained water
I, a chained tree
I, a shepherdess in the witch forest
I, the mutes well of
a dying swath or mad, screaming butterflies

Bitterness? Or purity?
deceptive ventures
and useless experience
you have set in stone my human loneliness

Let us out of here, miss S! ..!!!! (scream of butterflies)
let us fly through
your sullen azure arch
In return,
we’ll celebrate you as a jailer
on the 25thanniversary of your hammer – existence, scavenger
we will glorify you, we… we, the winged corpses in the pit.

This night of torture
this dawn of tamed passion
this heartbreak soil.

Scream and Whisper, Leila Samarrai


image found here

May the screams echo. After that
The silence will stumble like a whipped wild horse;
A moment pilled inside the throat
Overpowers the yowl and endless wind
That whimpers down the roads of land we are condemned to
In a deaf room, in a deaf night, by deaf ears
The scream in my throat is anchored
To the howling whisper.