Poems from my travels 2 – from Jerusalem with demimonde nostalgia





You bite the poem under the tongue and words which made reminiscences into dust

They do not understand you, actrisa.
It is time for aktshluss

You were chewed by the populist phenomenology
Of verses devoid of poetry
In the band of false troubadours, you cannot be actor primarium patrium
Aristocrat among poetesses do not forget that the Arabs divined your fate with arrows

Do not worry, Leila, I enjoyed reading your verses,
I Samira, the trade woman from the satrapy of forgotten empires
On my breasts, I bared the burden heavier than the grandiose pillars from Hatra
Forever banished from the cradle of two folks I belonged to by the disfavour of Alan and Beog who found a dying city


Do not worry, Leila, with you are Greeks and Sarmatians and your name is nailed into the Grecian affiches
Announced by Sophocles on fliers and billboards of alternative theatres
And Caligula dances with your Greek single act dramas on Palatine games

Do not worry, Leila, unpopular poetess in a world which you overcame
With the miracle of discovering the secret home in which you mastered silences

Do not forget everything is a matter of injustice because there is no justice
Do not forget the world became a minefield and an insult
Do not forget another world will be chiselled by your verses of immortal longing

Do not worry, Leila, there will be time for all those who hotly growl on the mention of your name to understand

The unbearable ease of existence and the feather of your French Alexandrine.

Waiting for an Old Woman

There was once one story…
kept on going further…
as I laid no weeping
and bawdy tryouts
and bowdy cryouts

(howdy bowdy..)
I strove to take no offered chairs
or a griffon on the sill
by my fatigue-gripped hand..
I wiped off cloud made off the Oak
be made of the streak of mahogany
to give away coffins
to age that comes
to stainless steels
to Maple pies

I still hear the sullen bells the bells which rings
disguised as a tumbling man,
I heard how, besides the funerals and long hours
should form another longest hour
waiting for an Old Woman
where is it’s the echo of an Old Woman
under the Yew tree

There was once one story…
kept on going further
and my body within

Goodbye soldier, farewell sword

Horses no longer want to ride you
nor to spur your flame
Goodbye… never again…
from your blood, bird calls

Goodbye soldier, farewell sword!

A beaten, sputaneous apparition, my old robber
devoured with time, I’ve devoured time,
Deeper, every minute
I’m looking at the height of the earth
and her circular endless


Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law


I supervise and I punish
I do not destroy, I suppress
between the hidden and obvious,
through desires and laws, to death and kinship
About a law of merged vessels
The invention of humanity is so tempting.
The position can be inverted
and the Earth were
and the sky were
and stone by stone were
I’m a sculptor
in Aphrodite’s hands
I beg
I curse
I hug time
to run backwards

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


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 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


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


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

Jednom davno, bilo je – mjau i mjau


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

Dream/Serbian original included

The wide cathedral with a bell tower
After ten minutes of silence in my sleep,
in ten ways it is reviving me over and over again
I’m awake
See how my face flinched?
wiped the sweat between the breasts at the junction of the ribs.

I keep dreams, though they are like time,
trapped in a kind of half-wasted glass beakers.
The dreams are swarming with preserved objects and beings,
night there is nothing and everything in them,
and I believe and do not believe in symbols of unused love.

Such is the Dream, as a  record that repeats,
continuously announces an alert,
repetitive parody.
it is a dream that shakes the nerves
and then splits, strange,
glassy, erotic like a dead man
embedded in a chest with tablecloths set.


Široka katedrala sa zvonikom
nakon deset minuta ćutanja u snu,
na deset načina me doziva svesti.
Probudih se tako sto sam se lecnula
obrisala znoj između grudi, na spoju rebaraca.

Čuvam snove, iako su oni kao vreme,
zarobljeni u kakvom staklu poluispijene čaše.
Snovi vrve sačuvanim predmetima i bićima,
noć u njima je i ništa i sve,
i verujem i ne verujem u simbole
neiskorišćene ljubavi.

Takav je San, kao ploča što ponavlja,
neprekidno objavljuje uzbunu,
parodiju na ponavljanja.
to je san koji uzdrma živce i ode, neobičan,
staklast, erotski poput mrtvaca
ubačenog u sanduk sa postavljenim stolnjacima.