Tuesday, September 1, 2020



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,
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 12:56 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.
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.
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.
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.
Bad, bad doll! How far is it
to the bog swamp then?


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 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.

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