a passage from my interview for the Serbian portal East Pearl, who has been removed Leila Samarrai Mehdi


Q: You come from a mixed marriage (your mother is a Serbian – Greek origin, and your father, the Iraqi), how much the combination of different cultures is affecting you and where the cultural heritage of (ancient) Iraq is present in your literature. Is the Eastern Spirit in you, or is it still Western, modern and materialistic?
A: It would be romantic to imagine that I was an unusual personality in which two opposing cultures, religions, traditions were united, that in the collision of the East and the West unknowingly, through the veins, the verses overlap, and the eastern stories are running.
It would be exotic to say, like Leo Africans, whose personal adventure was reconstructed in the book: “I am a son of the road, and my country is my caravan.”
As such, I define the antithesis of the tribe because I do not belong to any city, nor any path, nor any end or beginning of the world, nor I come both from Europe or Arabia ”
What falls to my mind, answering this question, is that many would like to see me classified somewhere not realizing that the beauty of my whole “defiant” personality lies primarily with my cosmopolitan spirit that does not belong to anyone. I’m a stranger among people, with the feeling I do not belong to anyone. My Arab origin was traumatically disputed in Serbia and Serbian in the Arab world. I was and I remained, in both cultures, discriminated against in all possible and impossible ways, so I am a writer who for personal reasons is interested in mythology, philosophy, religion, and that it is not dictated by the genitive component of affiliation with Arabs. This applies also to the Serbs. /element (this is just one element … for example, I do not define territorial, cultural or linguistic communion with the Arabs) Also, I do share only territorial (at the moment and wish not to…) and linguistic communion with the Serbs. As for culture, I am not sure about that…
I’m a stranger who is hiding in the shadows of the night I tumble between the walls, whose fear cannot be rid of, for I have come to the utmost memory, until the end of mystery, in a life that is a crowd of sad and tragic stories, not one, but more life without leaving apart, and what I write is just a hidden choice to appear on the canvas of creation.
In this and such a world, I have created my own ancient literary homeland in poetry and prose which often overlap. My deprivation has given me an insight into the oppressed, the neglected, the borders are eradicated, the religious, the national, the cosmopolitan identity is created. The imagination destroys and creates the worlds and the universe, I’m walking eras and worlds, through space, as in a dream. I stumble like a ghost in a stormy night somewhere, trapped, confused in the darkness of the human dream. My solitude lasts three thousand years.
So my literature is marked by fragmentation, confusion, soaked with anguish and non – affiliations to both nations.
That way, my mark has determined the only safe place for me and this is the place between the worlds, the place in which everything merges what is otherwise separated because the boundaries exist only in the limited minds. And who would, if not a poet, be able to overcome impenetrable, to touch ineffective and to approach the separated worlds

Confession at 3.33

Confession at 3.33

I confess to you, I of an unusual nature,
And all the kingdoms I offer to you- plain.

Lying tongues- orators and benefactors
The first one is of giants of song as of hay,
Through games of ancient history, they peck on the intestines
Filled with the substance of nasty virtue,
With fruitful mouths, they drink the wines.

Serpents hiss with human tongues…
The orator is amidst the ball and casts off damnations… with love.


Washerwomen wash the shores for incessant feasts,
For the water trough of the early morning peacock.

Tigers roar- damned by the fables-
To washerwomen, for labour’s sake, and the dishes plentiful
Fools drink the honorable regal wines.

Casanovas, drunks, erotomen and everybody’s merry Big Brother
Far less than geniuses
Who lead the fools
With fornication, cunningness, and booze
To hidden thoughts.

Scared dogs.
Skilled at stuffing bones.

I raise my right hand and swear on the darkness of
With an unburdened mind and a truth in my heart
Within the light dewy with the ability of
Your knife cut through all the conditions of disorder.
It’s entirely safe in my hands.

With a frozen smile,
I walk through the fall
Of a zillion kingdoms.
Flags are waving and ships are sailing underneath the sky

Of a broken magnificence

After years of absence
Colored in oddity,
I stay…  while drowning in tears

Of my Arabian wrath.

A Poem About a Crocodile, Ode To Serbia

In the dreadful crocodile land

Something odd is always at hand
Quickly, swift, a non-stop jerk
Is this bold dragons’ constant smirk

They’re strongest with bellies filled
Drunk on blood of men they’ve killed
Out of Nile’s vast delta here
Three dreaded crocs did appear

Through an Adriatic slit
Two more whales came, via Split.
Two Siberian beasts more
Reared out of Mulyanka’s shore

From Mulyanka of Perm Krai
Russian, then Italian sky
Crocs their freedom do not lack
Down the Sava-Danube track

Gathered ‘low a bridge’s bend
Suicidals near their end
These beasts roam about the town
One fierce bite has me pinned down

As they swim and float around
Pin-like their eyes I have found
Meaty prey sniffed by their noses
Sharp-toothed jaw said prey encloses

I’ve a deal with them worthwhile
Cro co do co lo do rile
May their trio boldly hop
And on horny scuta drop

May blood-showers flow like ale
Lubricating our scales
One life but one Euro’s worth
Our words but empty pits

Hollow caves our stomachs sit
More cash for twos we commit
I’ve a deal with them worthwhile

Cro co do co lo do rile

Down their shoulders I descend
Embracing them with my arms
My tummy is going nuts
Hunger dancing in my guts

Already they’re set to drop
Already by waves they’re called
Why waste thought? Use this dilemma
To toss this human Kinema

To the current evergoing
Hell-way they gave, full well knowing,
Dreams that they had all perceived
It’s quite gruesome, this whole plot

Now life has it, then has not
What does my arm small and lean
Embracing their waistlines mean
Even killers feel depressed

Post doing what they do best
I meandered into titles
Which I find to be mere trifle
But who’s bloody all the while

Moreso than a crocodile
Who will pay the deal enisled
Other than the crocodile
Watch thyself oh murderer

Suitable and pick-of-litter
Are cutwaters none the fitter,
Windshields and the lightning rods
Are but desperate roughneck sods

And their circle-natured days
As they float livid and dreamy
One drunk sailor, brave and scheme-y,
Swims across the river’s dirt

Two oars tied around his skirt
Sings away the filthy Beast
Bathed in the light of East
With a fiery yelling slope

Right then he sang: “I give hope.”
Golden wings upon his back.
My deal is rendered futile
From my present crocodile.

Come another chilling morrow
I will seek a new tomorrow
Past the bridge and midst of branches
Where tangles a wrinkly road

Rage about my gold grows hot
Which I withdrew from the slots
This strange body, livid, frail
Chisels open this whole pail

Living dead man lets out shrieks
Mercy is what this one seeks
We vomited from the bridges
Till at twilight what we knew

Was a perfect scenic view
One whole city at our palms.
Belgrade cracks before our eyes
Statue-shadowed, it’s alight

Eternal is this vignette
Of a fiery townsman’stête
Under Victor’s statuette.
Our deal, though, is most worthwhile

Ro co do co cro co file

Gentle mom frightens her child
With a carcass most reviled
They rend those who cannot swim
New age jumpers, wretches dim

Slime and lees the water sweeps
One life, joyless, Death doth reap
In the slimy croc-filled dip
The beast took my blood’s turbid sip

One black freckle graced my leg
Their three lids are snow-filled kegs
Two icicles slipped mid-stream
From agape, cold Nile, it seemed

Wherein formed an iceberg vast
Empty trash can, of crocs past
Wicked that have fled erstwhile
No more delta formed by Nile

All its force now in exile
Emigrants on nightly mission
Clatter on with sharp dentitions
And their bodies slither slow

Pays up, then comes to me quick
To get my whole body licked
There’s no flight, no submarines
Nemo quisquam captain-like

Nor a sailor, one whose looks
Dwell in Jules Verne’s famous book
Nor hope in the light of day
Which mid-hearts doth lives and stays

While we were so full, nubile
Prior to the crocodiles…
Prior to the crocodiles…

Cap’tayneNemo, come to us
Up close comes the Nautilus
Maybe there is hope, I chime
To engender a new rhyme

And while beasts all roar and flail
Let’s elope towards a new tale

Do come closer, do come closer
Worry not, worry not
You are but a child, you are
Squeal and weep and spew some snot

Even though a child you’re not
Trudge, step all over the valley
For your shepherd follows by
Should I try and throw the die?

But, that number falsify
For the croc doubts aught and low
Taken by his mighty stench
That the killer up and went

Boat amid the night blood fled
With it filled the riverbed
And exchanged the Euric lead
Guate’s cute asylum spiel

Now I must break our deal
Cro co do co lo do reel
Do co cro co ro do KILL!

WALK DOWN THE BOULEVARD, Leila Samarrai, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

alienationimage found here

These streets will never be close to me.
The land is lonely, and the sky is
A dreamy shroud the color of the bloodied stone.

Wind taps on the bones,
The birds gnash with their fangs.
My imprisoned walk desultory from collisions
with revived pillars.
I walk the ghostly cage of felt
Which serves to soothe the birds
Lost in a dream, cumbersome, I grow
Amidst Necessity.



I no longer even know what you asked me
Nevertheless, ask. As you please!
Through freedom
Devours the spiteful intellect
In the rattle we become humans
„How are your sneakers?!”
I have dark ones.
And capricious!
and (rarely) passionate.
All of them!
Highly unfavorable!
Where did you get
That I am selling My Sneakers?
Why are you looking at sneakers?
Should I
Go barefoot up the steep thorn?
There is something overwhelmingly ridiculous in suffering,
There is something overwhelmingly seducing in losing
Therefore – I gift away!
Nobody controls the windmills.
Laughter? Or….
It is me
perched in remembrance.

FRAGMENTS, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”, Leila Samarrai



The decomposing hour bleeds
The fields and tree tops
Sweat profusely
Cast down, the branches descend
Into bright summer
And angry dream
The scream of the trees was suffocated
A tree cried for its ripped out leaves
The years poured over the traces.


The dark that envelopes is getting thicker
And his astrological depths
In which the stars hid
Split my soul
To a dream and an abyss
I followed the path of a dream
Into the abyss of darkened things
Stirred up is the step
The shadow escaped
The light dissolved
In the eye
Madness watches over.

The book spreads the pages for the blind writer
(The harsh plotter skillfully wits)
The written intrigue knows only the dastard
Before the fire of laziness and rough silences
Wild are the words of the stumbled spirit:

„Consolation is needed
for shame from memories
when fallacy trembled …
when colors were violent
and the present far away.”

Burn pages!
Shine, books!
On the radiant obelisk
The living monument!
In frozen air
In fire made white!


Scrape through tears
And stagger down the corridor
Of Terror
With paper in hand, some chill in the accent
Of a wild stranger, satrap of a persuasive eye
Bossa nova immersed into
The heel of finely step.


The Harlequin cursed the king
The King forgives
He is in the middle of a conquest
While silence screams
The murdered does not speak
The Harlequin listens.