LEILA SAMARRAI

LEILA SAMARRAI

Three Fingers

These three fingers were circling,

until they tear off all my shoulders, re-sent;

The herald came and tuned his instrument;

the Presbyterian of the church

embezzled on the schismatic Convocation

taking Communion

But be not silent

With no great voice praying, of no great compass

for your help, father

awake, sleepers, of the witch soil

Broadening at cloud were bigger than

the spirit who follows my fate

as if it were the fate of an avenger,

my head on a stump, the only given possibility.

Standing between you and the emptiness

boiling down a dense pitch

either the asylum or the sword remains

I was a shibboleth crying, I, frozen

in nails, I was a thorn whispering

on Christ’s head,

I was nail piercing my father’s bone

I was dirty and unworthy

I didn’t think a hundred Jordanians could

wash my dirt smarter of its ash crosses

And parchment  is written just so

to wickedness

for we’ve signed this deceit

I thought everyone else better nicer, more powerful

act as if lethal thieves in Noah’ submarine’s vicious lions tamed

should it matter who they are?

cut off their heads mid-flight aT heads

will be a beautiful flower bouquets

that will adorn my dying flowerpot

Do what devil touches and keep his secret

vanquished  be, let it be – ugly evil and corrupt

withdraw thee from the nevermore abyss’ footprints

locked up Reaper, demons scream,

the slobbering spirits of darkness,

and I am sticking my tongue out

through the keyhole

and stick the tip of said tongue

through an old well-crafted jail lock,

so let the bastard lick it off, bite it.

But neither the bandits, nor the ever-present scum,

that crafty thief in the night, sleepwalker,

liar with a crippled child in his arms,

nor the killer tricked me, nor awaited for me,

but indeed the yurodivi, did it first, a

nd then the church flowers of evil.

Behold the god of intellect,

dolorous

confide in  this blind life among the askance

through all of their trickery, cheating of existence,

metamorphosis of directed betrayal, and even bloodshed.

oh how I hated myself god

oh how I  hated myself

my third asking of the forgiveness’  bans

and perceiving smiles around wept thereat.

these three fingers were circling, circling around

from bridge to bridge…. vain laments

these three fingers, Father!

And the Gileadites took the passages of Jordan before the Ephraimites: and it was so, that when those Ephraimites which were escaped said, Let me go over; that the men of Gilead said unto him, Art thou an Ephraimite? If he said, Nay;

Then said they unto him, Say now Shibboleth: and he said Sibboleth: for he could not frame to pronounce it right. Then they took him, and slew him at the passages of Jordan: and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites forty and two thousand.

— Judges 12:5–6 KJV

Becoming A Writer

In the secrets of fathom deep of guarded embroiled,

guarded Frontieres of intercoursed sapphire

and intercourse willing feet desperat

and eternal shackles into layers undiminisht

by utter darkness and durst in dreadful deeds.

QUEEN:

I’d not be fit as return’d not have lost Seraph

as the smack of feverish and the transpiercing aeons.

Undisputed twists and handkerchiefs,

flamed blood bitten gentlemen,

I lay bare unfit, a skirt, the mightiest,

so pondering durst ink.

The number of stones or red bricks

thrown by exploding fingers,

the red graved letter by drunken writer

engraved beneath her window.

WRITER:

She ripped off funky letters

from parchment’s light-speed body

during her princess’ first inaugural ball,

pulling muffler like a strip of wool

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?

QUEEN: (scribbles)

Boring, boring balls to a courtesy farewell letter,

the strokes of a maddened keyboard,

and the normality of it made me tremble.

Oh, how painful have been my platitudes!

Exult in my strength, divide by lip

the footsteps of burrowing mammal,

a goblet of words is to be uttered

only by the wild cat teeth

upon the retina of finger burned deep

and the synoptic lays of the adverse spreads havoc;

my novel grows.

WRITER:

And it’s you who are whatever,

a misunderstood noblewoman,

but ignobly lioness of the wood,

write horror tales and never kiss away

all the tender castles seem to lie at you

even the mildest of the savage

can become a writer

that tells the story of

Hamlet’s brilliant-hued chestnut.

What can it then avail

apparent Queen’s solitude?

A javelin cords!

A smitten sound!

A splash to an admiring toad,

intuitive and capable of more

in these bright wanderer degrees

but by such Sea-maid haste

sets now know whence learnt: sackcloth glow

at the end of necrotic moist

all things tender.

QUEEN WRITER:

Bad, bad doll! How far is it

to the bog swamp then?

Dehumanization

One little, two little,

three little coxcombs

pray slack our rage

with a futile thought

so I heard them strumpet

through the weeping dark

reverberating as the Sable laughed, howls

hot coals, abstract, to fill in the gap

as thus released my rain barrel.

And as he spoke a new man died,

so add blind dangling

that sudden light sound

within those holes

of years, for tears

to be bloodthirsty

is better than a droop.

Let’s toast

to the broken ribs of monstrous peak,

to the powerful crimson arms,

to 12 hanging chandeliers,

to 12 sheep hanging on the iron rod

beyond courtesy of snake to snake in their snake-pit,

to 12 hells lined up in forgotten time,

to mild brightness trickles from the stars,

escape takes off through loneliness,

always blowing quieter.

LEILA SAMARRAI

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.