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.
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