. . .

“The most important thing in music is what is not in the notes.” ~ Pablo Casals ~

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“The world does not deliver […]”

“Stop worrying about your identity and concern yourself with the people you care about, ideas that matter to you, beliefs you can stand by, tickets you can run on. Intelligent humans make those choices with their brain and hearts and they make them alone. The world does not deliver meaning to you. You have to make it meaningful.”

~ Zadie Smith ~

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While I agree with what I have concluded to be the gist of this statement -only we are responsible for lending/creating/imagining/discovering/etc. a meaning to living, there are certain conceptualizations with which I am not in agreement. (There, of course, is a good chance that I am reading too much into the intended message of the assertion quoted here. Still, I am set out to indulge myself in some furthering thoughts. I want to hope you will bear with me.)

Firstly, the reference to “identity” seems to be rashly dismissed. Is it not one’s identity that -in its evolving states -is the most essential work we have upon us, for us? A look at the Identity Theory brings to our attention; or rather, re-introduces the concept of “Consciousness“. How would we arrive at the capable state of ‘concerning’ ourselves “with the people [we] care about”, if we were to “[s]top worrying about [our] identity […]”? Is it possible for an individual to achieve ‘consciousness’ regarding others, if s/he were not aware of the self in the first place?

Then, there is the reference to “[i]ntelligent humans” who are singled out in their ability to “make [t]he world meaningful”, but, who is intelligent, according to which standards, according to whom, where? “The world”, after all, does not comprise a singular entity. From various regions of the globe, sets of established communities of the field of psychology have had and continue to have ongoing debates on the subject of Human Intelligence. Under their work of expertise, multiple theories have been conceived, designed, refined and advanced upon. None is a closed case as far as evidencing unanimously, let alone throughout the entire world what ‘human intelligence’ is, nor can such finding be claimed when the numerous past decades are concerned. 

I believe many of us would agree that [t]he world does not deliver meaning to [us]” and that “[we] have to make it meaningful.” However, the contention that such outcome depends on the intelligence of an individual appears to be an exclusionary thought process at its best.

Too psychological of a commentary? Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. Would you like to spend some thought on it and then share your deliberations for all the readers’ sake but also for mine?

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. . .

There is no end to the opening up that is possible for a human being.Charlotte Joko Beck

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. . .

I have lived one, two, three, and many other ones and made it through while I have realized that I, indeed, no longer was the same person nor did my spirit feel the same way as before those storms. Yes, I am talking about a transformation that has left in me a solid semi-tangible compartment comprising of various sub-parts on the way toward an acknowledgement of the storms of the past and the present (but hopefully, the upcoming ones as well), the acceptance of all of them and developing coping “skills” in order to process them with soul intact.

How about you? Is there anything that you would like to share with me and all the other reader-writers of this platform on this subject matter? It would be a true pleasure for me to hear from you. I would then know and seek comfort in the fact that this emotionally and spiritually challenging process is nothing for the sole traveler to deal with alone on this journey we call “life”, inclusive of all of its joy offerings –blue moments, but also its generous servings of trials and tribulations.

Regardless, whether I hear from you in concrete terms have a magic-filled Sunday, a Sunday that would be the announcer of countless other wondrous days. May you have an abundance of blue moments.

 

 

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“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. And you may not even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm is all about.” ~ Haruki Murakami

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Finish This, Finish That . . .

Self-explanatory . . . or, is it?

Finished, finished, when it is completely finished, there is nothing to finish.
Soen Nakagawa

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Wishing to Time-Travel

Ma’rib

i time-travel frequently
to far-away places and times

do not misunderstand!
it is so not because i cannot cope
with where i am when i am who i am
it is simply so by choice
we all have that button
at our fingertips
do we not?

this time
i left for Ma’rib
to partake of its much-anticipated fall

no!

no!

better yet:
to witness a bit its oft-quoted glory

it was the years between  
. . .
(?)
surely
many a century
let’s estimate them to be
within the 8th century BC
and the 5th of AD
what matters is the fact
that i have indeed come back
to tell you a tiny story
all the way from its era of notable glory

look!
what you see
on the sand of its desert
at the bottom of its incredible Dam
are my footprints
marked forever on each

those fine particles between my toes
made a promise to me:
they will never give my ignorance away
if i were not to cancel my initial plans to stay
to which i replied in my heart’s tongue:
my spirit could not abandon them ever
for i had begun to fiercely shiver
in ecstasy so profound and prolific
that i could not help but compare
the touch of their excitingly hot stare
to my beloved King Solomon’s affair
with Sheba his Queen totally bare soul-wise
legendarily beautiful and well-dressed otherwise
that i had been admiring both
from afar long ago from there
where i am now and have always been

but then resurfaced
flooding along their insatiable hunger
(for the fresh blood of innocence that is)
the cold-blooded powers-to-be. . .

my time capsule rushed to bring me back

what –to my eternally aflame despair–
my ignorant grown-up-eyes did lack
was the growing notorious record
of my own era’s love for affairs of darkness

perhaps just perhaps
you would like to join me

my time capsule has reserved seats for many . . .  

© hülya n. yılmaz, 1.20.2018

[This poem will appear in the February, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press. The Year of the Poet has its regularly contributing poets from various parts of the world and features between three and four new poetry writers every month. Now in its fifth year, this book showcases -outside its monthly changing featured poets, the poetic works of fourteen “permanent” writers. The book’s 2018 offerings have been conceived to highlight a different civilization each month. Accordingly, it serves also as a collective educational undertaking to offer insight into various aspects of civilizations of the past and present.]

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[Image enabled with the permission of the publisher, William S. Peters Sr., a prolific poet who by invitation has made personal appearances at numerous poetry festivals in a variety of countries -including Kosovo, Morocco, Tunisia, Macedonia, Jordan, Palestine. Several of his poetry books have been translated into different languages. William S. Peters Sr. is also widely known for his dedication, devotion and passion for humanitarian initiatives, all of which are presently in growing fruition. *Please note: The audio-interview used here is from three years ago and accordingly, the information delivered with it is not up-to-date.]

 

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. . .

More often then not, I have posted quotes here from a large number of poets, dramatists, novelists, thinkers, visual artists as well as no-label-individuals. My intent has always been to offer their sentiments about, contemplations on and analyses of the various layers of life and death to you as a platform from which we all may better understand one another. Today, I am leaving you with words by Marcel Proust. Read them, enjoy them (or not), reflect on them and share your own responses to them, should you so choose. Marcel Proust is no longer among the empirically living. We, however, still are…

My destination is no longer a place, rather a new way of seeing.”

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