Category Archives: Poetry

“A Crappy Poem for a Crappy . . .”

a crappy poem for a crappy planet maintenance

lately, i have not written poems
poetry, however, has always been my go-to

i feel crappy inside, and look thus on the outside
negative thoughts have been piling up in me
for too long of a while,
and they spread like fire of the wild

our planet’s state of being leaves me in despair
no care for tomorrow, no care for today
a gigantic dumpster is what we are turning it into
the forests, the valleys, the oceans, the rivers,
all of them get their shabby share

i know, i know
this poem is utterly crappy
but i cannot help writing it for each of us to see
how we supposedly maintain our planet
is being done ever so lousily

what are we leaving for our children,
for our grandchildren,
for our yet-to arrive fellow humans?

a crappy planet

not unlike these crappy lines

an egregious chunk of disarray!

​© hülya n. yılmaz

This poem is one of the three with which I have contributed to the April 2022 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press International.

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“. . . a grim reality . . .”

when the gravity of a grim reality
hits you, you don a mask
of an awkward laughter
at times, internal tears
become a trusted companion

the warning signs were there all along,
screaming from the top of their lungs,
only to be silenced under the pretense of
“Everything will be alright.”

what a gathering of meaningless words,
of make-believes with no end!

giving up your hard-attained abode
is nothing to smile about

yet

you do
yes, you do
bitterly so

and life

goes on
and on and on
with all its heaviness,
it passes you by

only a small breathing room is allowed,
one that is now on lease

so, you sit in one remote corner,
now on loan with a high interest rate,
you stay in its old, familiar comfort
for a moment or two,
hoping against hope
not to be noticed
for being seen in your nakedness
humiliates you even more

sure, life will go on
it always does

but it leaves you
under the gravity
of a grim reality

to deal with the debris!

hülya n. yılmaz ~ February 4, 2022 

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A HAIKU

have all leaves parted
how do they live with their angst
their branches as dust

​hülya n. yılmaz, February 2, 2022

In Turkish . . . not in HAIKU form, however . . .

dağıldı mı yaprakların her biri
bir yere tutunma çabası içinde ne yapar onlar
üzerinde barındıkları dallar bükülmüşken

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“Convincing the Self” ~ A Poem

at a crossroads
of a significant loss
of worldly nature, that is
emotions run high still

sixteen years of memories
embedded in these tired old walls
no amount of fresh paint
can wipe off those delights
each of them will accompany me
wherever i now go, wherever i shall remain
for the rest of my days

i am reminded of a poet’s words
an equally convoluted mind . . .
“With death being a reality,
nothing should be taken seriously.”

i, however, am taking my predicament
with scrutiny, under utmost seriousness
for i have acted impulsively, carelessly
many a year ago

having arrived at a point beyond sadness,
i neared my resolve quite fast though
i, thus, am uttering an eager greeting
to all my erroneous ways toward a peaceful “hello”
for i presently see in myself a grateful soul
with indispensable learning curves

no fault

no guilt

no self-blame

just accepting the self
exactly as it became to be

​hülya n. yılmaz, January 25, 2022

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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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After a long hiatus . . .

I Want . . .

Erato and Euterpe to mesmerize me.

I want them to lay me down to a restful sleep
to wake up by their side,
having dreamed of enchanting
poetic lines of my own creation.

I want on every breath of mine
the scent of Calliope,
inhaling and exhaling her Muse.

I want to be fed poetry.

I want my drinking vessels
to absorb poesie
day after day, night after night
never to exit my soul.

Calliope, Erato, Euterpe, come to me
to stay with me to eternity.

Throughout it all,
enthrall me!

“I Want . . .” was one of my poetry contributions for the September 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet IX, published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International. I have made some minor adjustments for this post.

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“Twin Passions”

Twin Passions

Romantic notions of our lives . . .
Did we not have them all?
Did we not yearn to leave a permanent evidence on Earth
. . . of our existence?

At the time of our birth, life’s canvas is blank.
Painting, sculpture, architecture, poetry, music,
literature, and dance are all likely prospects
for the shaping of our passions.

Soon, reality appears before us
with its corresponding realities.
Its shape-shifting trait then materializes
in the form of grandparents, parents,
guardians, siblings, distant relatives,
friends, neighbors, and teachers.

Everyone but we ourselves
have a concise imaginary account
of our passion-less future.

. . .

Against all resistance
from the practitioners of standardized education,
Heather Rosemary Sewell, Heather Jansch
as commonly known, nurtured her dreams
. . . of becoming an artist, that is.

Her two passions were drawing and horses.
Her sculpture of a horse, made of driftwood,
was, in her own description, “like line drawing.”

Her twin passions . . . etched in our eyes and minds
in utmost harmony. Here to stay.  

*Like last Sunday’s “The Seven Fine Arts and I“, ”twin passions” is another Ekphrastic poem with which I have contributed to the September 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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“The Seven Fine Arts and I”

the seven fine arts and i

a painter – unsuccessful
a sculpturist – clueless
an architect – only a wannabe
an artist of music – no chance
a dancer – failed after the beginnings

poetry and literature . . .
daring to try them out at least

 

*”the seven fine arts and i” is one of the three Ekphrastic poems I have contributed for the September 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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Back from fishing . . .

I Want . . .

Erato and Euterpe to mesmerize me.

I want them to lay me down to my sleep
and wake up by their side,
having dreamt of enchanting
poetic lines of my own creation.

I want every breath of mine
on the scent of Calliope,
inhaling and exhaling these Muses.

I want to be fed poetry.

I want all my pitchers, cups and glasses
to daily and nightly absorb poetry.

Calliope, Erato, Euterpe,
come to me please and stay
eternally with me.
Throughout it all,
mesmerize me!

*This ekphrastic poem, “I Want . . .”, will appear in the September 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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“Snail Mail”, a Poem

snail mail

tucked in inside various kinds of envelopes,
postcards and personal (or professional) letters
donned their two-option stamp:
domestic or international

they are now on their way
to become a mere memory
of the fast-disappearing past

long before emails won the popularity contest
having gained a steady support
at a record-breaking speed,
snail mail used to be the long-distance venue
with its two-option destination:
domestic or international

if you are my age,
you too have probably seen many a stamp
some, uplifting in their flower prints
or season-specific images;
others, destined to mark awareness
for many a fatal disease

who recalls ever seeing the Duck Stamp
of the U.S. Postal Services in 2020?
i do not, nor did i know about its significance
as far as helping people conserve wildlife
or its contribution to the visibility
of educational programs in the United States,
those that focused solely on largely neglected issues
of environmental and conservation concerns

yet . . . for years – clueless
about the notable mark of the Duck Stamp,
i have been donating to the one leading U.S. organization –
well-known in its efforts in this arena

clueless no more . . .

*”snail mail” is one of the three poems I have contributed for the June 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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