. . . and no, I am not talking about a sewer system or running water!

the privilege of worrying over matters of life
too many on Earth haven’t even heard of
let alone
having ever had a turn
at the luxury of taking them for granted

i have been thinking of those
with utmost attention these days
you have probably guessed one or two
or sensed what has possibly been on my mind

believe me you are not in any riddle-like thrall
i just am convinced
convinced strongly indeed
that none of us need a new news feed
about this world we call ours after all

© hülya n. yılmaz, 5.22.2017


Filed under Poetry, Weekend Reflections

. . .

After a long day of mentally trying work, my recycled iPad entertains my late evenings by proving that there is a good number of soul-soothing Turkish TV series worth watching -at least for a while. There are also those kinds among them, which seem to seek a soul-torturing impact; or, which “aim at the vein” as we put it in Turkish (“Damardan Vurmak”). I happened to be quite captivated by one of the feel-good selections one night, when a line repeated several times in one episode alone finally attracted my attention: “Ölüm var. Ölümden öte köy yok.” Death exists. There is no other village beyond it. If you have ever read or watched Pollyanna, there is a real good chance that you will recall the initial church scenes where the pastor ended his Sunday sermons with a threat, in a frightening tone of voice: “Death comes unexpectedly!” Now, you can probably better picture my reaction -or my popped-out eyes at such finger-pointing and roll-calling, for that matter . . .

And so, . . .
in the middle of what was supposed to be a lighthearted show,
I was reminded of that much-dreaded inescapable exit from life
Thus began in me a totally new Impulses-Day-posts-strife . . .

~ ~ ~

The Turkish poem of mention may be read in its entirety at Ölümden Öte Köy Yok and it is written by Mehmet Akif Gülhan. As for the Turkish TV series in question, it is/was called Aşk Yeniden.

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Filed under Impulses


can you picture me with a flower in my hand

let me guess
you said yes

don’t do that again
don’t rush to me that is
with your answer as of yet
you first must listen to my story-let

i had convinced myself not too long ago
that i had enough of those nature’s prides
killer thorns adamant that they must stab my left
‘wait through this last time until the storm subsides’
was what i uttered the soul for it felt bereft
adding ‘you can then find peace in letting it go’
fate however told me
that blossom was not my last to woo

then came along a spectacular bloom
asking the hurt in me to play along
i recognized its incredible colors
though it was from a distance
i had seen it before
its incense was nothing to ignore

i was so afraid
i’m afraid i still am
as they were and are ever so real
and stampede all over the tiny me 
all those agonizing fears
fears of all kinds fears galore

but i am ready to dare to get to know it more

having blossomed on the gentlest soil no doubt 
petal by petal this flower came to me 
each was donning a soothing scent
it sprinkled utter sweetness into my soul
as if to tip-toe
through my window
it enticed me with a dance
so enchanting that i now think
i must have fallen into a trance

“Under the Tuscan Sun”
an all-time favorite of mine
i must share with you its trademark line



i just changed my mind

watch it one day
you too may then say
what the older woman claimed
about the title of my poem today . . .

© hülya n. yılmaz, 5.20.2017


Filed under Weekend Reflections

. . .

the need to withdraw
from the present the future
to be able to let go
the nagging angst
over agonies of the past

three balloons were stashed away to last
color-coded in advance with care
favorites but only for me to bear

Erie was vicious that day
the wind was not letting me be
the leading path all frozen up
turned out to be quite a display
over-the knee-deep snow
escorted me from the side
together they put on a dangerous show
to prolong my long-awaited rite

on my poorly prepped frame
the cold felt like a shower of icicles
oozing through every closed-up pore
each tiny drizzle staked to my life its claim

i had never before realized
i had so many orifices
after a while i simply gave up
trying in vain to hold on to my layers

with two crystallized fingers
i held one balloon at a time
which color came first
did not really matter in the least

my lips continued to renounce
even a mumble of that dreaded word
heart’s tongue however
had bloodied tears to pronounce

none of the balloons went very far
one by one they landed on the shore

quite suitable for the beloved two
who had deceased in that distant land
surrounded by three ancient seas

though it too first hugged naked trees
arriving then on familiar soil
the third was to become
my soul-paralyzing challenge yet
it had to be buried along the dead
for that beloved had made
an indefensible fatal mistake
by time and time again setting ablaze
even the debris determined to survive
from among the resilient remains
of my few rebounding cells still alive

© hülya n. yılmaz, 5.16.2017

winter-icicles-dropsnature-rev[Free Online Image]


Filed under Impulses, Poetry

Bir şairimizden ‘annesi için’



Reflections Of The Heart by Pino Daeni / Pino Dangelico (1939-2010)

Issız bir mezarlık, kimsesiz bir yer
Gölgesinde ulu, loş bir mâbedin
Bir yığın toprakla bir parça mermer
Sırrıyla haşr olmuş orda ebedin.

Bir yığın toprakla bir parça mermer,
Üstünde yazılı yaşınla, adın;
Baş ucunda matem renkli serviler
Hüznüyle titreşir sanki hayatın.

Seni gömdük anne yıllarca evvel
Gözyaşlarımızla bu ıssız yere
Kimsesiz bir akşam ziyaya bedel
Matem dağıtırken hasta kalblere.

Kimsesiz bir akşam, ezelden yorgun
Hüznüyle erirken Dicle’de sessiz,
Öksüzlük denilen acıyla vurgun
Bir başka ölüydük bu toprakta biz.

Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar (1901-1962)

[Source: “15 Ünlü Şairimizin Anne Şiirleri”]


Filed under Weekend Reflections

Sevmek, kuru kuruya değil, onlar gibi sevebilmek

 kuru kuruya sevdiniz mi siz hiç?

On this day of “Impulses”, I am thinking back on “love” -the kind that is gifted to the bad, the capricious, the inappreciative, the unlikeable, the obnoxious, the mean-hearted, . . . in the same generous, accepting, understanding, tolerating, nurturing, forgiving way that it is reassured infinitely for the good, the thoughtful, the thankful, the likable, the agreeable, undemanding, the kind-hearted, . . . the kind I had been blessed with until the last living hours of my mother, my father, and my maternal uncle.

Then, there is “love” -the kind that I have always known as an idiom in my native tongue, “kuru kuruya sevgi”. The kind that is the same as giving someone water from a dry well . . .

[More to follow someday]



Filed under Impulses

A Coffee Break ~ Bir Kahve Molası

16-940x940[Photo courtesy of the Turkey Ministry of Culture and Tourism]


Filed under Weekend Reflections