soul hurts . . .

sex trafficking, say the sources
if not, hunger and thirst,
painful, bruise-filled sleeps on concrete floors
no plush toys to comfort them
not that any one could give back
what their mothers and fathers always have

yes, children are gone,
thousands have disappeared into thin air

supposedly . . .

yes, innocence has been robbed
never to return
even if some of those most precious would . . .

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, May 19, 2019L

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“Mother’s Day” by Ana Juan

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[Credit: The New Yorker; Art Credit: Ana Juan ~ “Mother’s Day”]

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“where have all the children gone”

where have all the children gone . . .

harvesting the “lost” children’s organs,
drinking their blood from fancy cocktails,
robbing the lifeline of the still-developing pure
to abet their miserable thirst for longevity
for their waste-filled useless frames
the rich and powerful are for long on their way,
covering the innocence with the darkest hue of red,
bludgeoning thousands of little ones
who are still unaccounted for . . .

immigrants?
“let’s get rid of them!”

how was the US built in the first place . . .

only the brain-dead are being readily fed
make-believe stories, over-flooded with lies

if they did at some point in their lives at all,
the perpetrators are no longer capable to possess
a trait that remotely resembles one of the humane
so, they devour their stolen feast and move on . . .

in the meantime,
thinking hearts are in pain,
for the lives of all those children
have been proven to be in vain once again

it seems, there is nothing that can be done
where have all the children gone . . .

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, May 1st, 2019

 

Related Readings:

https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/us-politics/trump-border-children-immigrants-number-families-separate-us-mexico-a8407111.html https://www.nytimes.com/2019/04/06/us/family-separation-trump-administration.html https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/18/us/politics/us-migrant-children-whereabouts-.html

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The Comfort Zone ~ 1

I remember my initial studies of Western literary traditions. The divide that stayed in my mind was compacted in the statement, “Poetry for Poetry’s Sake”. Later on, I began to write poetry anew. I too subjected myself to such entrapment. Life has been teaching me a different lesson for a while though. Or better yet, a higher level of consciousness has been educating me all over again. My physical and spiritual eyes and ears have opened up to the realities of fellow humans near me, but also in far-away lands. Awareness has come to my doorstep with a vengeance. Every time my emotions prompt me to compile words about my personal being, I pause and listen. Listen with my soul. To the unfoldings all around the world. The suffering of humans is immense. I know, I am physically not able to do anything about that fact. Writing about them, however, is in my power yet. “Poetry for Poetry’s Sake”? I don’t think so! For, there is so much more that I can do to serve as a reminder what each of us is capable. If not through writing, then by listening and reacting to pained voices all over the globe for sure.

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 3.11.2019

*Posted previously on Facebook.

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her tears

in the still of the night,
amid complete strangers in uniform
keeping her away from her Mommy,
she is crying shriek wails
her face, trauma-distorted
in its meant-to-be beautiful glow

a mere 2-year-old child

innocence lost
purity, no more

a cold-blooded picture
speaks on her behalf

language . . .

what is it good for
when pain is inflicted
on purity, on the core love
between a mother and her baby?

losing it . . .

the tongue and all

the heart aches yet once again
and hurts on and on and on

where has compassion gone?

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 4.14.2019

*This poem came to me while I was reading the news about the 2-year old unnamed girl whose trauma has been captured in a moment after her forced separation from her parents at a US border. Her plight’s visual caption has apparently granted the photographer “a prestigious World Press Photo of the Year” recognition . . .

Border Patrol Agents Detain Migrants Near US-Mexico Border

[Photo Credit: PBS News Hour]

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“Mother Tongue”

Mother tongue . . .
Last night, I remembered Mom.

Not the first time. Oh no!
She lives in me, you see.
She has never left.
Nor has my Dad, my father-like older uncle,
My younger uncle,
Or my sister-like cousin,
All hearts of gold,
Unchipped, raw.

Last night welcomed me
In my mother tongue
To a setting that felt like home . . .
Again.
It had been too long of a while
When I last visited her . . .

A surprise guest made her entrance.
Homesickness, she said, is my name.
I knew her too well from decades ago.
She and I hit it off right from the first go.
Again.
We reminisced. She too had missed me.
Where was I all these years, she wanted to know.
Life, I replied, holding back my bittersweet tears.
What brought you to me today, she asked.

Mother tongue . . .

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 3.2.2019

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“Hello, Brother!”

i have been reading and reading
in a vain attempt to comprehend
the blatantly apparent hatred
behind the brutal killing of the late,
so i caved in to the comments’ content
under shared posts of mostly hate

to a dark place thus my spirit has left

then, i read again:
“A Muslim worshipper among the first people
to be killed in New Zealand’s worst ever
mass shooting” was being quoted
as having “greeted the murderer
at the entrance of the mosque
just moments before he was shot dead.”
. . .

“Hello, brother!”

then, i read again:
“Mosque attacks suspect gives
‘white power’ sign in Christchurch court”,
accompanied with a ‘smile’
. . .

“Hello, brother!”

i heard my ego-less self say to him,
“what, who hurt you so much
that you show no remorse about
what you have just done?”

then, i offered him a hug
with as much love as i could spare,
for i had been direly yearning
to make some sense, any sense
of his violent acts of despair,
for i needed to refute for myself at all cost
his being was merely that of a soul lost
. . .

a smile, however bitter, followed my offering,
along with the words of his first kill:
“Hello, brother!”

i now think and realize . . .
my voice came out more like a shrill
still, i feel that this humane version of me
presents to me an incomparably bigger thrill
hate took him over the threshold of the sane
as for me, i know i desperately want to remain
on this side, where love will help me sustain

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 3.16.2019

~ ~ ~

I was prompted to write this poem upon finding out the news on March 15, 2019 about the “two consecutive terrorist attacks at mosques” (Wikipedia) in Christchurch, New Zealand. After some soul-searching, I realized that I needed to suppress my own feelings of hatred, and made an attempt to approach the terrorist’s acts with peace. Have I been successful? Yes, as far as the hatred part. I would most prefer to love than hate. Still, this test was extremely difficult to bear . . .

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