Category Archives: Impulses

January 12, 2022 · 7:00 am

A Poem in Turkish and Its English Translation

Hani deriz ya, duvarların dili olsa . . .
benimkiler ne derlerdi arkamdan acaba?

Bunca zaman topladığım
hangi anıya verebilirlerdi ki
hak ettikleri gibi özel bir yer?

Hürriyetimin koluna girdiğim
ilk adımımı mı anarlardı
öncelikli bir özenle;
yoksa serbestçe evimin her köşesini
yerleştirmemi mi izlerlerdi yeniden?
Kendi zevkime göre.
Çoktandır unuttuğum bir hevesle.

Ofisimden yorgun argın dönerken yuvama,
kulak mı verirlerdi artık bastırmam gerekmeyen coşkulu şarkılara?
Çocukluğumdan kalma bir serbestiyle
çınlatmaya tedirgin olmadığım.
Genç kızlığımın sınırsız neşesiyle
bangır bangır inlettiğim şu yaşlı bedenimi.
Kendi doğamdan çekinmeden.

İlk torunumun,
Doğum Günü Hediyem’in yani,
can kardeşlerimle belgelediğimiz
birinci yaşını mı kutlarlardı bir kez daha?

İkinci torunumun,
Minyatür Prensesimin yani,
bebek salıncağını mı
sallarlardı o sakince uykusuna dalabilsin diye?

Hangi bir yaşantımı yazsaydım
çıkmaz mürekkep ile yanıbaşıma,
ki fotoğraflarını çekebilseydim
her birinin doyasıya,
iç burukluğuna çare olan bir nektar yerine,
buralardan çekip gitmeden önce?
Onları her özlediğimde,
her hislendiğimde
onların sıcak kucağına dalmak üzere.

Düşünüyorum da,
yerinden yurdundan edilen
sayısız onca insan
nasıl dayanıyor
böylesine bir kalp ağrısına,
ruh burkulmasına . . .

Hiç değilse ben
başka hiç kimse zorlamadan beni
çıkmak üzereyim yeni yoluma.
Çok zor olacak olsa da . . .

hülya n. yılmaz, 12 Ocak, 2022 

You know how we say, if walls could talk . . .
I wonder what mine would say behind my back?

To which of the memories I have gathered throughout these years
could they possibly do any justice, the kind of justice they deserve?

Would they commemorate with special care
the first step I took to hold the arm of my freedom;
or would they observe me in those days anew
when I set up every corner of my home freely?
According to my own taste and desire.
With a sense of enthusiasm, excitement
I had long forgotten about.

Would they lend an ear to the upbeat songs
that I no longer need to suppress, those
which I would chant on my way home
after a long, tiring day in the office?
Chants of the endless joy of my youth,
delivered to this aged body of mine
from the top of my lungs.
With no apologies for my true nature.

Would they celebrate once again the first year
of my grandson – my birthday present,
a landmark can kardeşlerim and I etched into my life together?

Would they sway the baby swing of my granddaughter –
my Miniature Princess,
so that she could ease into her sleep?

Which of my not-merely existed but lived moments
should I have written on my being with permanent ink,
so that I could take pictures of each one of them
to my heart’s content to have them by my side
as the nectar to ease my spirit’s unease
before I leave my home for good?
To delve into their warm embrace
at the first sight of my longing for them,
my paining for them.

Then . . . I think . . .
about the countless people
who have been and are still being uprooted
from their homes, their homelands . . .
how they endure such a heartache,
such a breaking of the soul.

As for me,
I am having to embark on a new journey
under no one’s force at least.
No matter how very difficult
that step is going to be . . .

hülya n. yılmaz, January 12 , 2022 

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June 6, 2021 · 7:00 am

“My Beloved Grandfather”

my beloved grandfather

he was still young enough to climb up and down
those multiple steep concrete steps

the most exciting part of his every single day
would announce itself with the arrival of the mailman

after his historically unique private home,
he lived in an upper-most flat of an apartment complex

the mailboxes were right at the entry of the building
down, way down the seemingly unending stairway

he would rush to get to that floor,
hoping that his children or grandchildren
had written to him once more

when i visited him the last time,
he mistook me for my Mom
and my daughter, for me

Alzheimer’s had become his steady companion,
along with the postcards he long ago secured
with his longing and love on his self-made pin board

*”My Beloved Grandfather” is one of my three poems that will appear in the June 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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Image

Thank You!

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January 3, 2021 · 7:00 am
December 27, 2020 · 7:00 am

A Proem

Proem

Bir varmış, bir yokmuş . . .

The phrase above echoes the opening lines of a fairy tale in Turkish. How often have I heard them as a child! Little did I know that, one hot summer day in 2016 while sitting on my small patio, I would conceive in those four words the title of this book, my first fictional prose – or better yet, my first autobiographical fiction. I cannot count the nights when my mother would read to me my most favorite children stories from classical Turkish literary traditions, each time starting with “Once upon a Time”. I do not remember at what age I began to talk legibly, but I suspect my first utterances were, “bir varmış, bir yokmuş” . . .

In our human existence, there is one core three-way reality: We are born, we live, and we die. Throughout that in-between-phase, we hope that our lives have mattered to our beloveds. It is the hope for permanence; that we live on beyond our death. This collection is my attempt to seek such a permanent memory for my loved ones. At the same time, it is my tribute to those beloveds of mine who are no longer here in the realm of what we perceive to be our reality. It is my way of proving to myself that their lives mattered and continue to matter.

Once upon a Time in Turkey is anything but a fairy tale. Hence, my reference above to the hybrid genre, fictional autobiography. In my stories, I indulge myself in taking the liberty to work hand-in-hand with those elements of literature that are inherent in and integral to creative fiction: the stories I share with you inside are true indeed. They are, however, dressed in imaginary attires – masks and costumes, if you will. While flashbacks comprise their stronghold, they do not come to surface in any particular chronological order. As a stream of consciousness, I have taken poetic license randomly in helping them step out of their cold-blooded and often sad realities. My intent was to construct a short-prose assembly in order to put in writing how I remembered my interactions with my loved ones over the many magical years throughout which they had gifted me with immense love, joy, happiness, and unconditional support.

Laughter, tears, surprises, enchantments, anticipations, fears, suspicions, regrets, resentments and loves . . . decided on that hot summer day in 2016 to wake up my spirit which had been asleep for too long. All the emotions, thoughts and experiences no longer wanted to be pushed back to the most remote corners of my consciousness. Nor did any of them choose to stay numbed inside my heart anymore. They demanded to be listened to. So, my unforgotten memories began to voice themselves in me.

It is my hope that you will join me around this gathering of tales; tales that traveled from my country of birth, Turkey to reach your  hearts. May you receive them in their intended spirit and feel joy, however small, alongside mine with which I have been privileged to live throughout my life as a Turkish girl, teenager and young woman. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The preface to my pending book of autobiographical short stories, Once upon a Time in Turkey

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November 8, 2020 · 7:00 am

“Am I a Woman Now?”

Am I a Woman Now?

I had heard it from some of my friends, but had never experienced it. “It” stands here for sexual fondling.

            In high school , I had to take a public bus; on my way to school and back home. A friend who lived in the flat below ours was always with me. We always stuck together for fear of what we knew from hearsay. That afternoon, we somehow got separated in the bus. It was packed. A man with a strong BO started getting close to me. It must have been either springtime or early autumn. So, I had no coat on; just my school uniform and my shoulder bag, filled with books. He managed to touch me inappropriately. I looked up and saw my friend intently examining my facial expressions and my overall body language. I held my tears back, but felt utterly dirty; all along thinking that I had caused him to do that to me.

            When we exited the bus at our usual stop on the main road, I couldn’t say a single word to my friend. She too was silent. As soon as I went home, I ran to my room, locked it and bawled. I was hysterical, not knowing what to do with myself. Someone knocked on my door. “Leave me alone, please!” That someone knocked again. “Please, I don’t want to see anyone. Please, go!” Then I heard Mom and Uncle Tunç pleading with me to open the door. They didn’t give up; finally, I did. My aunt was also there. I had forgotten that they were going to come over for dinner that evening.

            My aunt was a nurse. She wanted to talk with me in private. I let her. After I told her my story, all I could do was ask one question, again and again: “Am I a woman now?”

            I was a late bloomer when it came to sexual matters. My description of the incident must have given my aunt all the details she needed to know. What that man subjected me to was not a sexual assault; hence, under no circumstances, would he have violated my virginity. It was a sexual fondling, for sure, but not anything beyond that.

            I still kept crying for a while longer. My pride was hurt, to say the least. Also, I had now realized how naïvely I had lived to that age. My friend probably knew it all along. Perhaps that was why she seemed calm and collected on our way back home.

            Long after my high school years, I noticed the news about a female-focused social movement: The Purple Needle Campaign. Whenever subjected to an unwanted treatment by men in public spaces, women all over Turkey had been poking those males with specifically designed purple needles. I remember shouting out loud: “ Yes! Thank you!”

            The Purple Needle Campaign was launched on the 2nd of November, 1989. Its slogan read: “Our bodies are ours; stop sexual abuse!” Other similar initiatives have been materialized by the women of Turkey since. Not a moment too soon . . .

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

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September 19, 2018 · 5:00 am

. . .

If photographs were story-tellers . . .

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September 12, 2018 · 6:00 am

. . .

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September 5, 2018 · 5:00 am

. . .

In awe . . . incapable of articulating all the marvels my spirit has been dancing with . . .

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August 29, 2018 · 5:00 am

breathing in . . .

For this Wednesday’s “Impulses”, I am sharing you with you, dear reader, one of the most captivating sights I have been inhaling since my arrival at the Pyramids View Hotel on the Giza Plateau in Egypt . . .

20180827_181735.jpg

 

[Photo Credit: Self]

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August 15, 2018 · 4:00 am

. . .

aren’t you afraid to go to those places?*

must i fear to live?
no, you say,
and even add: of course not!

why, then, should i deprive myself
from experiencing a loving embrace
in countries that enchant me
by people so beautiful inside and out
who despite my lack of their tongue
encircle me
accept me
show their desire
to understand me
unconditionally

was i afraid to journey here?
of course not! no!
whatever for?
love is here for all

© hülya n. yılmaz, August 8, 2018

[*This poem draft is an actual account of my experience back in the States. A pure-hearted dear one had asked me this question when I told her/him about my travel plans for the summer this year. As soon as s/he heard my destinations -Jordan, Palestine, Morocco, Tunisia, Macedonia and Kosovo, the above-quoted question popped up. The rest is . . . history, repeating itself: The fear of the unknown. May you live only love-filled, i.e. fearless days!]

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