the true identity of the woman in the poem “Struggling for Survival”


for all those who cannot see the beauty behind the depths of archetypes, I, gladly, analyze (in-depth) the archetypes in the poem “Struggle for Survival”. I often revieve comments that my poems are too “deep”, whatever that means.
I find it a pleasure to analyze my poems this way.
for those for whom it’s not too huge, grasp it, enjoy it, fellows!

in 40 minutes I explore the true identity of the woman in the poem Who is she? Who is not… – through the book of Revelation, comparisons of Buddhist female deities, lists of victims of rape in antiquity, and much more.

Feel free to leave the comment.

 

 

 

There are many ways to kill (a man) video version


There will be a knockout chapter
one day all will be concluded,
connected to the extreme,
and the text will be insanely organized.
Magic cube, central core,
dice active layer of the first image,
follow the pictures in the picture, first white cross
and its central orange,
then will follow a different colour,
in the end, a detachable mixture, a riddle puzzled,
an old boy seclusion and the task solved.

The starving cans (video included)


To raise my soul, I tried a hop

and then sojourned to window shop,
I stumbled over an advert,
cringe in me the sight did insert;
pizzas have been my desires sort
my money’s art is always short.
The whole circle around the smell;
A rat’s snout perceives a thing fell*.
I’ve packed everything: starving cans,
enemies who crave to poison my plans.
Stormy shadow, metaphor’s height
have raised defeat to come to light,
the bus cards I can never stand.
Naught has been let flown from my hand.
At the gray poetry cemetery,
I dumped waste to face it about.
My song… was not, in her memory
that holds void, my song, it is out
of place, it has lost the look now.
Once upon a time, was meow,
and meow you smelt still smells same.
Meow, my life is in dearth’s frame.
They…are dead…and grown over swear – words in the wind showed in this den.
My house, my red home, ruin then
took, left my life to outdoor bare.
Red times I encounter pertain
to have lodge in my heart no pain.
I feel one’s presence resurface,
I feel that old morrow in place.
Unfit to stay here anymore
(Cry in the distance, a tiger’s roar).
Their liking for you is never true,
and you are just pretending too.
The wind vanished like the dry dew.
Someone takes off your memory
your face their eyes forgot to see,
to laugh you are finally free.

 

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

Utamničena lepota/La belleza encarcelada (video version in Serbian and Spanish)


https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2012/04/12/utamnicena-lepota/

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0067881/?ref_=ttrel_rel_tt

Helen: [to Menelaus] Am I allowed to speak against the charge? To show you that if I die that I shall die most wronged and innocent?
Menelaus: I have come to kill you, not to argue with you.
Hecuba: [ironically] Oh, hear her. She must not die unheard.

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2012/09/24/la-belleza-encarcelada/

 

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.