“Survival”

Survival

I imagine a garden, a gated community, surviving on its own . . . never opening its padlock to those who under their clothes tag along determined drones, ready to elicit an army of loners with clapping hands of “rahs” and “hurrahs”, reproducing at wharp speed to outsource peace . . . in their dire hope for love to be forgotten soon.

*I am aware that “Survival” is about one run-on sentence. Please, do not call the grammar police on me, as this structure was and is intended.

~ ~ ~

*From my book of prose poetry, Letter-Poems from a Beloved (published on May 5, 2020 by Inner Child Press International)

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“minds, contaminated”

minds, contaminated*

female virginity
eternal purity 
its lack: the primary taboo
before during after matrimony

timeless obsession
ageless restrain
tireless phobia

true loves chained
vibrant lives ruined

oh, my sweet home country
depossess your manhood already
conceive your women in whole
remember the wisdom they wore
countless centuries before

see the substance beyond the frame
stop being a fool of inordinate fame
make yourself a new name
the bodies are never the ones to blame

~ * ~

*A poem from my first poetry book, Trance, a collection of poetry in English, German, and Turkish (published by Inner Child Press, December 12, 2013)

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“Undressed”

Undressed

The fragile soul had never been undressed to this ultimate extent. Back then, she had decided to be a once-only lover. She should have known all along not to attempt such a fatal risk. Still, she does not regret being left this bare. Nor does she resent the one for whom she had stripped herself of expectations, guilt, fault, and blame.

The yet-innermost turbulence trashed her apart many a time. A violent slash tore her into a blindness of the temporary kind. The ego cast guilt, fault and blame on the other. But it also dared to expect. Not even massive masses of tears mended the scars. Nor did they suffice to revive the spirit from its raging death. The fragile soul had against all odds resolved to pace steadfastly its torturous path.

From the beloved then, she borrowed a new breath to ensure an absolute stillness of the heart. She tried in vain to regain her courage toward a gate that is opened ajar at best. She sought peace and salvation from the lover’s final request: not to expect, nor to blame; not to assign fault, nor to designate guilt . . .  just to be dead.

*From my latest book of prose poetry, Letter-Poems from a Beloved

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Enough!

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October 4, 2020 · 7:00 am

. . . having issues with the new WP Editor . . . please stay tuned. Thanks.

. . . having issues with the new WP Editor . . . please stay tuned. Thanks.

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A New Poem

disillusioned . . .

you must have faced a savage opposition
fanaticism ran deep also in your beloved country
your 1990 Nobel Prize for peace speaks for itself
you have overcome obstacles during your presidency

i often wonder these days
if your birth into the life of regular people
– not with a silver spoon in your mouth,
as we say here in the good ol’ US of A,
was what molded into the essence of you
your non-exclusive dedication to humanity,
to your people’s well-being and sanity

the entire world is now under the threat of a deadly virus
some countries’ leaders have taken – ever so swiftly –
effective measures to control its wide-reaching spread
among their populace – affectionately, all-inclusively –
everyone in every nation today needs such leadership direly
yet several self-serving holders of a seat of high command
go about their own business while they continue to demand
that we bow down, keep silent, and accept what is at risk,
not persist with our questioning
and not insist on our rights
which we are too close to losing
with a hastened move of the leading hand’s swing

oh, how welcomed it would be to have a peace icon like you
if only we could rise above these dark times – all intact –
as if reaching to touch a sky of hues in azure blue

disillusioned?
oh, yes, i am,
about the good i believed that was all-embracing-ly true

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, August 15, 2020

This poem is one of my three submissions that will appear in the September 2020 issue of The Year of the Poet, published by Inner Child International. The year 2020 has been designated to Nobel Peace Prize recipients. September’s focus was Michail Sergeyevich Gorbachev.

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On a Break . . . Week Two

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August 30, 2020 · 11:27 pm

On a Break . . .

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August 23, 2020 · 5:52 pm

Autobiographical Fiction

How Cold Is That Water?

Göttingen, oh Göttingen, how many childhood memories are you holding for me?

I believe this incident had occurred after my brother’s walnut-in-the-nostril experiment in Kindergarten.

            Germany was going through an icy cold winter season that year. My brother’s Kindergarten was on Christmas break. Dad had taken us to the visitors’ center of the building where he was conducting his research. For my brother and me, the  food showcase in the cafeteria downstairs was too enticing to ignore. After spending some time eating, drinking and listening to native speakers chat away, my parents took us for a short walk through the adjacent small park. A man-made pond apparently called my brother’s name. Before any of us could understand what was happening, he jumped in. The top of the pond was frozen, but his snow boots broke some of the ice. He was wet up to his knees. Then, he lost his balance, and went halfway in. When my Dad pulled him out of the water, he looked embarrassed at first but then managed to grin.

Our leisure stroll was over. Off we rushed home.

~ ~ ~

From Once upon a Time in Turkey . . ., my upcoming book of autobiographical short stories

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A Previously Posted Poem

exhaling ills at their worst . . .

with your arrival, dear newborn innocence,
inkpots uncovered the fading verse;
quills dipped into their dazzling universe,
and brought to life phenomenal instants
that had been sought out eternally

you helped reminisce and reflect,
showed once again how to hear, touch, smell and see;
but also to taste and to sense,
then, to forever inhale the newly dawned breath

exhaling ills at their worst . . .

© hülya n. yılmaz

 

 

 

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