Category Archives: Poetry

Family

love was the guest of honor
it outshone the burning sun
the light of each soul glowed
the embrace was immense
warm kind giving and sweet

yet my blood family had passed away long ago

how ignorant of me
to think love’s eternal gift
had left me once and for all
the exceptional family i carry love-genes from
the precious one that walks on Earth with mine
the unconditional one friends pour into my soul
have always been there while i mourned

love was the guest of honor
it outshone the burning sun
the light of each soul glowed
the embrace was immense
warm kind giving and sweet

and i began an incredible journey
among my beloved’s family

how could i not

love was the guest of honor
it outshone the burning sun
the light of each soul glowed
the embrace was immense
warm kind giving and sweet
© hülya n. yılmaz, 7.15.2018

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in mid-air

flowers . . .
in a bouquet of colors
freshly rain-showered

indoor plants . . .
showing of their well-earned drops of sweat
in their temporary home, the wild outdoors

one bird-seed-tower . . .
a multi-flat avian-condo
emptied before it dangles on its shepherd hook

the other feeder . . .
a villa compared to its safely distant neighbor
ready to cater a larger-than-ever-squirrel convention

a chipmunk . . .
re-arranging the patio furniture
sending out disapproving looks

a broken ground-light . . .
waiting to be glued to health
having taken the Gorilla Glue as its mate

the non-smoker-worthy ashtray . . .
cuddled up with a Citronella bucket
enchanted by the lure of a cozy tryst

last year’s garden art . . .
each piece as vibrant as it was then

the old loyal Bistro set . . .
trapped in its primal space
vying for one more breath
taking on a growingly greener tint in plain sight
right before this summer’s seats’ snubbing eyes

blah blah blah
enough already!
all is cool and dandy
but i need the bowl of candy
unless she moves out and abound
my sweets will eat chat and frolick around
hungrier by the second is my family
this woman is surely an anomaly!
she’d better hand over
at least the cottony bunny to me
if she doesn’t i will forever be her archenemy

© The Hawk of Happy Valley
c/o hülya n yılmaz, June 27, 2018

 

 

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a poem-trilogy

In recent times, I have been experimenting with my poems as far as their thematic bond whenever a demand was in place. The year of 2018 alone has now seen my poetry in connection with one another. The latest example are my three poems below, all of which will appear in the July issue of the international anthology, The Year of the Poet made available in print to readers every month. This month’s focal civilization was “Oceania”, and the following poetic narrative is what dictated my contribution:

entitled, 1

does the name “Cook” James Cook
as in Captain James Cook that is
sound familiar to you
no, you say?
how can that be!
he has a monument in his name you see
for the monumental service he has done in 1774
he proudly did vandalize torture butcher and colonize
the natives of Vanuatu Islands of 500 BCE
whitened them ever so graciously with a new name
The New Hebrides . . .

you get it of course
there was nothing “new” about the host-land
up until that year ambushed it mercilessly
then . . . there were no more
the same as they were before

the white legacy

isn’t it just grand?

entitled, 2

Kudos to the British!
they worked also 19th century
to their advantage
they took home the bounty
yet once again

the poor unknowing Spanish!
a rushed glimpse of the Tuvalu islands
did not suffice to make them stay

Alas!

they thus failed to discover
the land’s richness in phosphate
mined by the islanders
profits fed-exed to the Commonwealth

entitled, 3

there once was an island called “Nauru”
1,400 people lived on it in peace
they spoke their native tongue
they had their native culture
phosphate was in abundance . . .

the year was 1843 then

45 years later

only 900 survived

together with their phosphate

their language and culture?
out the window they went . . .

© hülya n yılmaz, June 15, 2018

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Related Links/Readings:

Vanuatu.History.People.Location
Tuvalu.Culture.History.People.Facts
Nauru.Land.People.Culture.Economy.Society.History

 

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*”instead of . . .”

i surprised him

the second he spotted me behind his mommy
his little darling body became a dance all by itself
his forever-smiling face made room for giggles
many many giggles

then joyous ‘come on, grandma!’s

hand in hand
eyes locked on mine
my little enormous sunshine!

‘you come to anne car’
ending in 1/3 of a question mark
with my yes already housed in his brightly shining heart

leaving his pre-school . . .
amid the two grown women’s chatter
as untainted as any voice can ever be:
“I love you, grandma!”

i love him so
his little sister too
that each of my exchanges with them
takes my breath away

and i think . . .
together we all get to breathe again
laughing
crying
eating
drinking
sleeping
celebrating
loving and being loved again

yet on the many other ends of our world
because of a few power-fed sick minds
and their equally loveless bribe-filled grinds
children die
die die die

and die again

*This poem was posted here once before. When I recently got to see my grandson and my granddaughter after a long period of time had passed, I could not help myself but re-visit that most memorable day.

From my newest book of poetry:
Aflame. Memoirs in Verse. Inner Child Press (August 2, 2017)
Available at inner child press
Also available at inner child press are the following:
Trance (December 12, 2013), my tri-lingual poetry book with my own translations between English, German and Turkish, and
An Aegean Breeze of Peace, a book of poetry that I have co-authored with
Demetrios Trifiatis (October 12, 2015)

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“Naren”

the other day
i met Anjana Basu
online
following a forgotten vision
one i had
most likely
eons ago

if
my unexplainable
however reliable
instinctive being
is right on the dot that is

at any rate

i pursued her
inquired about her life
even traveled to Allahabad
to see if her town of birth
resembled mine

i took a connecting flight to London
where she had been schooled

within a couple of hours
i appeared in Kolkata
at her doorstep

a gracious hostess

she invited me in
her home was grandiose
not in an empirical sense

oh no!

she knew
what alone had mattered in life
love and light shone out loud
through every nook and cranny
of her otherwise humble abode

she served us tea with milk and honey
it was prepared in a colonialism-free manner
true to her upbringing true to her mother-culture

she had placed
rashly-improvised store-bought delicacies
(i had after all showed up unannounced)
a delicate modest-in-size-tray showed them off

the plane food made my fingers think again
they resisted reaching out
with a strong will
much stronger than my eyes’ appetite
so, i declined with my utmost proper
nay-say-gratitude

we talked and talked
actually, she talked and i listened
to her mesmerizing novellas
her Black Tongue
the novel for which she had been recognized
as the winner of the Hawthornden Fellowship
(in Scotland)

her successful endeavors in script-writing
and more . . .

details about her accomplished self
she had no intention to reveal to me
had i not done my homework right

the subject then came to “Naren”

an epic story-teller at its best
disguised as a poem in free-verse
and thus, began Anjana Basu:

The words I have for Naren are purely prose.
Prose. Prose of a chest
A mat of hair against the sun. Sometimes
It’s counting the tiles on a floor
Held down. Or a bed field of crumbs
And a dirty foot. Even greying underwear.
Sometimes an evening spent in hatred
Following in one’s head the footsteps of a whore
Down some dark lane or a street of crumbling houses.

These are words for Naren.
Perhaps a synonym for rage or hate.
Or even an undefinable word called love
That you could find in rage or hate.
There are other meanings – even other shades
Left out. Footsteps of a child or whore
Or other women deliberately taken
And then the running back to a familiar bed.
I called it lost child.
There were other words too –
Lover, Boyfriend, ex-Husband, boy-husband.
It meant keeping company in an empty room
With haunted corners. With shame
And a telephone wire.
Company against reason or sense
Or the blotting out of a curtain –hiding
From pigeons or from seeking eyes.

These were words for Naren.
Are still perhaps.
Pretended love made in a mirror,
A shuddering belly and tonsils hurt
The way a face may flush or voice darken
Denying everything but lust or hate, or accidental love. Naren’s words.

when this wonder-filled wondrous woman
of unforgettable demeanor ceased her voice to be
her tangibly exquisite
enriching enchanting exfoliating
purity-extracting plate of human-ness
took the external load off of her
and lain there for me to devour

plenty of leftovers gathered up in an orderly row

i am on my way to bring them over to you

 

© hülya n. yılmaz, 2.15.2018

[This poem was submitted for the March, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press. The Year of the Poet has its regularly contributing poets from various parts of the world and features between three and four new poetry writers every month. Now in its fifth year, this book showcases -outside its monthly changing featured poets, the poetic works of fourteen “permanent” writers. The book’s 2018 offerings have been conceived to highlight a different civilization each month. Accordingly, it serves also as a collective educational undertaking to offer insight into various aspects of civilizations of the past and present.]

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. . .

20180307_150455

[Photo Credit: Self]

hand in hand with its clouds above
the mountain mist sheds its blanket
as if to invite me to eavesdrop
where three little black birds went astray
hours ago into their vast depth quietly

i inhale but hesitate to exhale
in my respect for this collective silence
even those Nature’s darling hyper minions
had tucked in their calm under their wings
who am i what on earth am i
to interrupt their cherished harmony

the remainder of last night’s snow
begins to take a nap high above and below

i sit then stand up next i want to jump
up onto the horizon of the self-revealing sky
to soar beyond eternity
in tight embrace of my third eye

hülya n. yılmaz, 3.7.2018

 

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. . .

20180307_085020

[Photo Credit: Self]

they faded away
into the mist above the mountain
little black birds of three
as small as my i lately appears to me

was it over there
where my near-sighted past aimed to see
or right here much farther away
at a distance anew
where today my mind dares to seek
an imagined door ajar
in the vastness of the land and its sky

little black birds of three
as small as i surely am to me
as small as we all are in reality
despite our effort-ed pretense

there is only one enormous entity
that is aware of our stature so miniscule
nothing at all next to the eternal grandeur
to continue to spread before and thereafter
behind us generations’ of lives later

the unfathomable expanse of the universe . . .

three little black birds
two little birds
one little bird

hülya n. yılmaz, 3.7.2018

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