Saturday, February 1, 2020



The Key Sum Of All Things

cello made of sponge
and rosewood
releasing a flow that is a unison
of hold-able
Of musicke
a short, tight strum,
worth the reed,
the sap blood of living things has found
and will ink a new font
in what’s left of the human hour.
FILM: Film’s the mad black Easter egg
for a great many people.
Under Phoenix brood, inhaling the smokes
of flesh &n’ blood.
Freudian, drowning in the human average,
id hearing the threat of being lock’t-in.
All set to a one-song opera.
Damn good stuff.
mediate on and harvest
to my level of capability
from these lighten bolts disguised as roses,
these fences made from prism glass,
these marrows which no bone
of the human or the universe could turn aside:
But then, again, isn’t the key sum of all things best played on a harp made of pyrite, snakes &n’ roses caught in the strum?

Endlessly Burnishing Wildflowers

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers
forgotten by splattered times
of bloodless slaughterer’s design.

Waking souls lulled to long days' sleep,
forced to steal robbed dreams endlessly
till winter freezes them to sleep.

In effect cut short dreams harden
frightfully, the nights frightfully
seem as long as winter in length.

Frenzied paced yelling, to end put
lightning in its excited place
awakening death's silent scream.

Immortalized storms are forming
under the bitten tongue, they then
secretively bloom shade with sense.

From hiding you to dodge the knife,
no choice with the merit for me
to have 'tween green eyes and brown eyes.

Knighted enemies eye alone
like Kings of the Night, shimmered like
white foot soldiers woefully,

heroic scream of blue lightning
pride’s flashes animatedly,
whoosing beasts move to foil its growl.

Hollering his disenchantment
steadfastly pitted against his,
bows to the trek’s will's end at peace.

As those viewed in deathly silence,
perched like prey's birds on the hilltop,
will stand still in the dragon's sound.

There is no realm of pure meaning today!
My God, dead, but yet quick! Death in itself
and Words above the world – a burning bead,
a heated hollow and a cry of fear.


I had learned the secrets of the universe
from the manuscript itself,
and had felt the tones in the best of my fingertip muscles.

Now, wasn’t it Music who went to the desert to know…
 that, in the wasteland of life, here,
 under this tree may my body be as the one of the Savior,
 and may the menace itself visit me,
to engender within me a sacred tone…

He uses a ney. A Crooked Pan.
a ney..Karghy tuiduk, an instrument of wind.

And a Crooked Pan trapped me on the spot with her first tone
in the vortex where music enters the man
and disappears inside of him somewhere.

And I, Dervish, played the instrument made of hollow reed,
skillfully shuffling his fingers across the ney holes.
 It was a round-up of the movement of music dug deep into the rhythm.

I danced swept by the accord of divine forces
streaming from “the spheres” –
and within the Dervish’s song through the typhoon,
 I spun around faster and faster in an unexpected manifestation of the universe,

 to perceive, through the binding
of the heavens and the earth,
 a universe of love and a different godly principle,
hypnotically repeating “Masnavi, Masnavi” pushing close to a hallucination.

– The spiral is the evolution of the circle.

Transcendental, indeed. It can be performed with an echo. Oh, how sonorous, Orpheus.

Ah, I felt that the spiral is open for my musical ears.
I must continue! I must!

All the way to the devil’s tail! – the scream no longer slumbered in the throat, and my face went black and blue as if both tar and wax were poured on it.
the spiral is the evolution of the circle – even though he was still speaking, a force of dead nature! It was clear to me now, this Dervish who was miles away… somewhere close to the horizon, leaving only the memory of his wild stare and …oh, and… I cannot forget what I have just heard… ah, I would never forget! And some of it is already gone!

this strong tonal ace to win in a cruel and uncompromising game of destruction for the purpose of creation.

– Well go on, then, finish it! – I grabbed the Dervish’s shoulders desperately – Finish it, I want to hear more! Until the end! You barely played anything at all, so why did you stop playing? I want you to play all the way to the coda, do you understand me? All the way to the devil’s tail!
- Look into yourself. This is where music is hidden.
Do not despair, I shall come again and rebuild all of those ruins…
in a century or two because I have something important to do.


LEILA SAMARRAI was born on October 19th, 1976 in Kragujevac, Serbia. She writes poetry, short stories, and plays, her work largely containing the motives of fantasy and humour. Her debut collection of poetry „The Darkness Will Understand“ won the First prize of the competition organized by the Student cultural centre of Kragujevac in 2002. She has had her work published in numerous local magazines, both in print and electronic form. Some of her notable works include the collection of short stories „The Adventures of Boris K.“ by Everest Media and (as co-author and critic) „Poetry Against Terror: A Tribute to the Victims of Terrorism Kindle Edition“. Her works were published in Serbian, Hungarian and English. She has won numerous awards for her written works, including the third place as a representative of Serbia for the aphorism „Stars and Us“ of the „Beleg“ competition and three separate awards in the „3-5-7 – A Story in a Moment“ story competition, as part of the „Helly Cherry“ competition, both in 2011. She currently lives in Belgrade with her five cats. Samarrai uses absurdist and the elements of farce in her plays. She favours surreal short stories, horror fiction, satire and humoresque, enjoying the vaudeville style of structure interwoven with the style of “Pythonesque” stories. Her goal in literature is to weave fantastic realism into horror fiction, as well as utilizing magical realism and the surreal.

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