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/

I get scared to be


The semi-darkness and solitude will vanish

I will serve alone within myself even thought I am not my own

Before wounded knees everything opens

Flowers and thoughts, stories of justice

Wanton skulls and eras without rest

 

God will punish me I know

But in the cramp of passion

I will not be broken by those absent

 

We danced the whole day

The solitude anew embraced by valleys

Above the springhead

And sin to people

 

I get scared to be

There will be time for me to tell you


There will be time for me to tell you

Will the words spin tomorrow as well

And will the essence be the thread

 

Stooped candelabrums stalk me

Between yearning and fear

Between passion and constancy

Always present while you sleep restlessly

There where the beginnings end

 

Solitude too has been captured, moulded and limited

And her contents gnawed off in the tempest

Where the beginning and the end meet

Each full moon

Flee, if you think me insane.


Flee, if you think me insane.

You turn your head.

Lemme sit down.

One cigarette stub, nothing more.

I want to embrace it with my teeth,

tell you something and leave.

You no longer resist.

You are finally responding to my words

by turning your head.

Ah well.

At least I feel full now that I can sit next to you without obtrusion,

even lie down and be with you in this way.

Whenever so I desire.

You don’t think that we started this off in the best way possible?

Only solitude can make you put up

with an insane person.

Solitude and insanity.

For I am insane.

This is not mere circumstance,

a particular one,

of insanity.

Many a bench puts up with an insane person,

the streetcar bars hang the retards

that hang themselves atop them

and brush their sweat against the travellers.

We are the rapists of our life pillars.

 

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

 

Beware

Do not be found again

 

We quail

In the meantime, we do not live

The starving cans (Serbian included)


I stumbled over my colours

I cramped in myself

and they are always hidden from themselves

they are always stopped short

The perfect circle around the smell

A rat’s raised leg

shot up into the heights

 

I’ve collected everything: starving cans,

enemies who wanted to poison me

Stormy shadow, metaphors, precipice

I got angry with the bus cards

Never

I’ll never be able to throw anything away.

 

I dumped waste at the dreary poetry cemetery

It is everywhere

My song.. .. it never was, inside her forgetfulness

And my story .. my story .. was my story

 

in no place, they don’t look

Once upon a time, there was meow and meow

you smell

still smells the same

I meow

 

They.. are dead .. and grown over swear  – words in the wind

appeared in this den

My house, my house, you took over my red home

Red times

No pain.

Maybe later.

 

I feel a recurrence of one’s presence

I feel that old

Inappropriate to stay here anymore

(Scream in the distance)

 

They never liked you

They never liked you

They never liked you

And you’re just pretending, too

The wind’s forgotten appeared

 

someone takes off your memory

be happy they forgot about you

you are finally free

****

Naletela sam na svoje boje

Slamala sam se u sebi

Uvek su skriveni od sebe oni..

uvek su zaustavljeni

savršen krug okolo mirisa

podignuta noga pacova

puca u visine

 

Sakupila sam sve: pregladnele limenke

neprijatelje koji su me hteli otrovati

olujne sene, metafore, provalije..

bila sam ljuta na autobuske karte

Nikad

nikad neću moći ništa da bacim

 

Bacila sam otpad na grozno groblje turobne poezije

Ono je svuda

moja pesma… nikada nije bila moja pesma u njenoj

zaboravnosti

i moja priča.. moja priča.. bila je moja priča..

 

Ni na jedno mestu, ne gledaju.. jednom davno..

Jednom davno, bilo je – mjau i mjau

smrdiš

i dalje miriše isto

Ja – mjau

Oni su mrtvi

prerasli su psovke na vetru

pojavio se u ovoj jazbini

 

Moja kuća, moja kuća

preuzeli su moj crveni dom

crvena vremena

bez bola. možda kasnije..

 

Osećam ponavljanje prisutnosti

osećam se tako staro

neprikladno je da ostanem ovde.. više..

 

(vrisak u daljini)

Nikad te nisu voleli

Nikad te nisu voleli

Nikad te nisu voleli

I ti se samo pretvaraš

Pojavio se vetar…

neko ti skida pamćenje

budi srećna što su zaboravili na tebe

napokon si slobodna

Back beyond, back beyond, back beyond.


Wherever I go, they are at my heels
sick and angry feelings
I am sipping
drip, drip, drip
so it that gets diluted out
through the fog
is racing the headless horseman

Back beyond.

The howling morning took my fingerprints
by tapping the hoof with a hoof
come in, burning madness, do not be shy
almost a hundreds of miraculous years
this woman has been away

Back beyond, back beyond, back beyond.

I GET SCARED TO BE, “The Darkness Will Understand”, Leila Samarrai



6

The semi-darkness and solitude will vanish
I will serve alone within myself even thought I am not my own
Before wounded knees everything opens
Flowers and thoughts, stories of justice
Wanton skulls and eras without rest

God will punish me I know
But in the cramp of passion
I will not be broken by those absent

We danced the whole day
The solitude anew embraced by valleys
Above the springhead
And sin to people

I get scared to be

There will be time for me to tell you everything, “The Darkness Will Understand”, Leila Samarrai


bscap0062

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 counselors die

Beware
Do not be found again

We quail
In the meantime we do not live