An Old Poem, Re-visited

edify what remains in me, i beg of you!

fast for three sets of ten-years
breathe in the generous tears
never exhaling in completion . . .

solitude grows into a safest companion
lives pass by and handsomely multiply
the longing still consents to no passersby
but then sensation enters
your frame’s aged wisdom
is filled with its first ever self-belief
your arid cells cry out womanhood – your birthright legacy
in ceaseless trust all wed your blazing passion
silenced since . . .
heeding your throbbing psyche
after having starved it for long
you become one for a blissful while

the instant comes fast to divide

i hear you went on to your theories
opting to instruct a joy for your intellect instead
when did you resolve your time of bidding me farewell was just?
what was to become of your devoted pupil
you left with no respect to her aching pain?

loneliness cannot lie anymore
for i had not been sated before
hence the inconsolable aftermath

i am emptied

© hülya n yılmaz – April 14, 2014 (From the “letter-poems to the beloved” project)

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“The Meeting”, a Poem

The Meeting

a painting by Pablo O’Higgins
catches the eye
it is said to be
representing unity within humanity
the banner on this artwork claims thus:
“Build a free world. No masters. No slaves.”
Signed: “Makers of the world united”

a portrayal of men only . . .
Caucasians only . . .
clothing . . . differentiated by class
mimics and gestures of the few front-view men
stress who has the last word

unity within humanity?
“Makers of the world united”?
i, for one, do not think so!

this visual art is more like an emphasis on hierarchy
amidst various segments of societal authority . . .

*This poem appeared in the April 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet (volume VIII), published by Inner Child Press International. The theme was to compose an ekphrastic poem (as in Ekphrasis Poetry) in view of the painting of focus below by Pablo O’Higgins.

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“Hoping Against Hope”, a Poem

hoping against hope

at the Tunis Carthage airport . . .
as soon as i entered the passenger lounge
“Litany” greeted me and resonated throughout the waiting area
that piece clung on to the once-innocent heart
memories came flashing back to the core of the soul
emotions fought with one another to be the one to lead
sorrow dominated, followed by a sense of anticipation

what if . . . what if all was not lost?

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A Short Story

Pneumonia and Mom

“Mom, Emine Hoca will make the first selections today! Then, all teachers will narrow down the candidates to 3. From those 3, only 1 will get to be the queen, and the other 2 will walk behind her as her maids of honor. I so want to be the queen!”

            “Hülyam, it’s alright if someone else is chosen. Every one of the girls in your class has a chance to be the queen or a maid of honor. And so do you. Your teacher’s task is not easy. You all are so very pretty.”

            “Yes, but, Mom, I really, really want to be the queen! Emine Hoca showed us the drawings of the queen’s costume and what her princesses will wear. The queen’s dress is the most beautiful!”

            “Sweetie, please, keep in mind that you may not be among the 3. That won’t mean you are not as pretty as your classmates. Don’t forget: your teacher can only choose 3 from among you all.”

            “I know, Mom. But I think she will pick me. She loves me so. I am her best student. Whenever I go back to school after being sick, she hugs me and welcomes me back with a big shout to class. You know that!”

            “Yes, darling, I know. But still . . .”

            Without waiting to hear the end of Mom’s sentence, I left for my room merrily. I had my schoolwork yet to finish before I could start my day-dreaming of the day.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

            “MOM! MOOOOOM! I got it!!!! I am the queen!”

            “Oh, Sweetie, I am so happy for you!”

            “Thanks, Mom. I am so excited. You will start sewing my costume right away, right?”

            “Of course, my darling. But first, I have to buy the materials.”

            “Can you do that now? Please!”

            “Once your Dad is home, we will both go out and get everything I need. Okay?”

            “Thanks, Mom!”

Swimming in glee, I went to my room again. Schoolwork could not wait. And “23 Nisan” was just around the corner. What a marvelous day that was going to be! I, the queen of the entire children’s parade, was going to walk in our city’s biggest stadium, 19 Mayıs Stadı that I had seen only in pictures. And on one of our most important national holidays, at that. In front of thousands of people. Oh Ankara, I so love you! Emine Hoca, I so love you!

            As soon as Dad came home from work, Mom left with him to buy the materials for my costume and headwear. I was going to have a tiara on my head!

            Time went by too slowly for me. Whenever Mom had an hour or more to spare from all the household chores she did every day, she was working on my queen outfit. She was coughing a lot. Her face was quite red. Her eyes were red and a little swollen. Her nose was running. After dinner one evening, right before I went to my room to try to sleep early, I noticed Mom resting her head against the top of one of the arm chairs in our sitting room (the formal living room was kept for the many guests who visited my parents quite frequently). She didn’t look like Mom. Her face was even redder; her nose, even more so. Her overall demeanor was sluggish. She did not even notice that I was standing at the doorway looking at her intently.

            “Good night, Mom. I’m going to bed. You know about my exams tomorrow. I will study a bit more and then will go to sleep.”

            “Alright, Sweetie. Don’t be too long. You need your rest. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, my darling.”

            I couldn’t just leave her there like that. I turned around and asked: “Mom, are you alright? You look different.”

            “I’m fine, Sweetie. Just a little tired, I guess. You go ahead and get a good night’s sleep.”

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

23 Nisan Çocuk Bayramı was a dream come true! The stadium was full. The long walkway in front of the many stations where the parade stopped to receive applauses was dry enough after the heavy rain that had hit the entire city earlier that morning. I felt like what I thought queens would feel every single day: on cloud nine. My costume was perfect. My tiara was perfect. The way Mom made my hair was perfect. Everything was perfect.

            On that Sunday, I overheard Dad talking to Mom in their bedroom. He was trying to convince her to see the doctor asap in the morning. Pneumonia was nothing to mess with.

            Only much later would Dad tell me how sick Mom was throughout the time I kept pushing her to finish my costume. She had been running a high fever all along. It is only after Dad’s confession that I put two and two together to understand why Mom was wearing a heavy coat on a beautiful day in April and had even a scarf around her neck.

Thank you, Mom. Not only for that stunning costume you made for me. But for your selfless love.

*This short story is currently placed in my upcoming new book of prose, Once upon a Time in Turkey . . .

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“Death’s Angst”

Death’s Angst

When the heartbreak after the death of a beloved is too much for my soul to surpass, my memory box yields a surprise: death itself battles a lethal fight against a gregarious force – the steadfast power in us which grows each time we send dear ones onto their so-called “final” flight. Our undying love never leaves their sight. Thus, death bows down before its own unwavering plight.

~ ~ ~

This poem has first appeared in my latest book, Letter-Poems from a Beloved, published on June 21, 2020 by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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“white privilege”

white privilege

whites assume me to be one of their own,
though i am a woman born and raised in Turkey
the melanin in my skin is quite light, you see . . .

my birthplace – geographically speaking,
a Eurasian country, gave me a bubble of safety
life was all about parental and sibling love for me there
my extended family contributed to the gentle joys
of many an unforgettable daily affair

not even once did i have the need to tell anyone that i want to live
i just lived, and was let be

Black Turks / Turkish Blacks?
i had not heard about them much,
other than those who were celebrated on stage;
theater actors / actresses and ballet dancers, that is
a true fan of Black musicians i was in my teenage-years

nothing substantial was to be found
in those school books of Turkey’s yesteryear
i discovered the centuries-long plight
the Black population endured in the U.S. of A
from a multitude of outside sources in print
and thus, knew way back then
that awareness needed to be raised
for discrimination in any form and shape and to any extent;
not staying silent in the face of injustice and inequality was a must
that none of us should ever allow anyone to willfully pretend
how ‘everything is just fine and dandy’ while racism is blatantly praised

so, a few pieces of information were gathered
as acquired by this “white” person, privileged at birth
who was objectifying the subject right from the start,
incapable of grasping the brutal reality
which routinely hit Blacks people hardest globally

but hey,
i was ready for an intellectual discussion . . .

what a hypocrisy!

following my formal early education,
i perused several volumes on the Ottoman Empire
the horror of what the Black Eunuchs had to survive
turned for me into a recurring nightmare,
haunting me for many a year
most of them were castrated
when they were assigned to provide
private services in the Harem of the Sultans 

i had lived inside a safe bubble, as i said initially
hence, that uncovered segment of the pre-Republic Turkish history
left me in an overpowering shock
such historical accounts had been, after all,
dismissed predominantly all along
it must have been vital to help us, the modern-day Turks,
to continue to proudly gild our precious fame
as a nation of humility,
grace and hospitality . . .

decades later, a name crossed my path:
activist and poet Mustafa Olpak
he was talking about “Dana Bayramı”,
“a traditional Afro-Turkish Spring Festival”
at my advanced age, i had come to hear first-hand finally
how Black people struggled to preserve at least a part of their past
in my otherwise beloved birth-country
some were held as slaves between the 14th and 20th century,
suffering under the Ottoman regime’s fire;
others, as Mr. Olpak said, “ascended into rank” within that empire

as we all are aware,
power structures come and go
that is the call
one day, each of them will fall
the oppressed survive them despite it all,
and cultural accounts in the likes of Mr. Olpak’s,
thankfully, take hold

still . . .

as a “white” woman of Turkey, i am in despair
because for this horrifying shame, there is no repair
going through all kinds of emotions,
i am desperate to spread the word,
for whatever it might be worth

in my concluding thoughts,
i am reminded of a profound Tolstoy-quote:
“I simply want to live; to cause no evil to anyone but myself.”

looking back, way back, as well as viewing my here and now
one dominating fact surrounds my entire life, and it remains intact:
no one ‘caused me any evil but myself’

not even once did i have the need to tell anyone that i want to live
i just lived, and was let be

because i am being seen as “a white”, you see . . .

~ ~ ~
This poem was included in I Want to Live, an international anthology published on March 1st, 2021 by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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Remembering . . .

Remembering the unforgettable ride to Sinop at the Turkish Black Sea where my dear late uncle took us way back when . . . (I have not been to Uzungöl, the location depicted by this photo but witnessed similarly breathtaking sceneries. That breakfast spread looks so good right there!) / Artık hayatta olmayan can dayımın bizi Sinop’a götürürken gördüğüm unutulmaz Karadeniz manzaralarını hatırlıyorum. (Bu fotoğrafın odağı olan Uzungöl’ü hiç görmedim ama nefes kesen benzeri güzellikleri gördüm o yolculukta. Şu kahvaltı sofrasında bulunmak ne güzel olurdu!)

Photo Credit: Free Online (Uzungöl, Turkey)

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An Online International Literary Journal (Taking Immense Pleasure in the Work of Others)

The Facebook Page: INNSAEI JOURNAL
infoinnsaeijournal@gmail.com

My introduction here is an utterly modest one. I want to hope that you, dear reader, will find and take the time to inform yourself about the accomplishments of the incredible INNSAEI team, Orbindu Ganga and Tejaswini Patil Dange, with which they have marked their literary journey in a short amount of time.

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Poems, continued . . .

Come Closer!

I am known as “The Girl with the Pierced Eardrum”.
I have embraced my fame.
If you are the same, we all have everything to gain.

Come closer! Much closer! Do not fear!
I am here for you to see.

Can you not hear the beatings of my heart?

Listen to that which is inside me,
and you will know right away
we are, in fact, not that far apart.

*This poem was one of my three with which I had contributed to the January 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet VIII, published by Inner Child Press International.

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“Emory Douglas”

Emory Douglas

1968
Summer Olympics
The medalists’ podium for the 200-meter race

America’s own two Black athletes,
Tommie Smith and John Carlos –
One, the recipient of the gold medal;
The other, a silver-medalist

Visual history depicts these winners’ fists
Inside black gloves as they raise them into air

To bring to the attention of the world
The centuries-long oppression of Blacks,
AKA the good ole American way

As Smith and Carlos make their unspoken voices heard,
Their medals are being taken away

Standing against the brutally discriminatory
and fear-, hatred- and violence-filled white-domination
is enough reason to strip them both
of their justly earned honors,
you say?

Nay!

A white Australian runner, Peter Norman –
A silver-medalist, chooses to stay with his fellow athletes,
Though sans fist, to show solidarity
He thus lends hope to humanity
And reminds us all of the foundation of our existence:
Unity within diversity. Unconditionally. All-inclusively.
Watching unjust actions unfold for even one of us silently
Is, after all, complicity. Put simply.

Still . . .
The Black athletes
Get their Olympic medals stripped off
They had, however, earned them justly

Promising careers, ruined . . .
In the hands of the white powers that be

How about the rights to practice Civil Rights advocacy?

Huh, what a laugh!

Such freedom for Blacks does not come for free!

In the year of 2014,
A visual art project, “We Can Be Heroes”,
Makes waves across the borders of many a country
The piece is crafted collaboratively
Between the Australian artist Richard Bell
And the American graphic designer Emory Douglas

Bell and Douglas not only eternalize
For the 1968 Olympic medalists
Their moments of protest on an Olympic-athlete stage,  
The stance they took against discrimination and inequality;
But also demonstrate injustices to be witnessed globally

As it is evident throughout the volume in your possession,
Our collective efforts geared toward poeticizing
Some segments of the once diligently-recorded reality
Jointly, we are anon sharing the marvel of a phenomenon;
Namely, how Bell’s concept of ‘Liberation Art’,
Coupled with Douglas’ talent in design and illustration,
Grew larger than life and entered the annals of history
In the form of a silent yet utterly vocal iconography

*This poem is one of the three I have submitted to the February issue of The Year of the Poet VIII published by Inner Child Press International.

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