The fragile soul had never been undressed to this ultimate extent. Back then, she had decided to be a once-only lover. She should have known all along not to attempt such a fatal risk. Still, she does not regret being left this bare. Nor does she resent the one for whom she had stripped herself of expectations, guilt, fault, and blame.
The yet-innermost turbulence trashed her apart many a time. A violent slash tore her into a blindness of the temporary kind. The ego cast guilt, fault and blame on the other. But it also dared to expect. Not even massive masses of tears mended the scars. Nor did they suffice to revive the spirit from its raging death. The fragile soul had against all odds resolved to pace steadfastly its torturous path.
From the beloved then, she borrowed a new breath to ensure an absolute stillness of the heart. She tried in vain to regain her courage toward a gate that is opened ajar at best. She sought peace and salvation from the lover’s final request: not to expect, nor to blame; not to assign fault, nor to designate guilt . . . just to be dead.
you must have faced a savage opposition
fanaticism ran deep also in your beloved country
your 1990 Nobel Prize for peace speaks for itself
you have overcome obstacles during your presidency
i often wonder these days
if your birth into the life of regular people
– not with a silver spoon in your mouth,
as we say here in the good ol’ US of A,
was what molded into the essence of you
your non-exclusive dedication to humanity,
to your people’s well-being and sanity
the entire world is now under the threat of a deadly virus
some countries’ leaders have taken – ever so swiftly –
effective measures to control its wide-reaching spread
among their populace – affectionately, all-inclusively –
everyone in every nation today needs such leadership direly
yet several self-serving holders of a seat of high command
go about their own business while they continue to demand
that we bow down, keep silent, and accept what is at risk,
not persist with our questioning
and not insist on our rights
which we are too close to losing
with a hastened move of the leading hand’s swing
oh, how welcomed it would be to have a peace icon like you
if only we could rise above these dark times – all intact –
as if reaching to touch a sky of hues in azure blue
oh, yes, i am,
about the good i believed that was all-embracing-ly true
(c) hülya n. yılmaz, August 15, 2020
This poem is one of my three submissions that will appear in the September 2020 issue of The Year of the Poet, published by Inner Child International. The year 2020 has been designated to Nobel Peace Prize recipients. September’s focus was Michail Sergeyevich Gorbachev.
a new day is dawning tenderly
on rainbow-hued and ocean-scented sheets
the laughter of countless infants
appears on mouthwatering breakfast trays
our screen-free window is always wide open
it invites in the freshly-breeding families of house wrens
their united eyes watch their yet-to-be-hatched eggs
tap dance on cue – uninhibited and carefree
the matured ones chant the elating news the wind brings
amid a gentlest breeze – putting all worries at ease
the resulting love-songs taste like chilled lemonade
on a day of a hottest summer’s blaze
the world has just been declared a problem-free zone
I believe the records date back to the early eleventh century. You would know, my love, as we have also shared our profession. The patients would be seized for an extended procession. To the bloody altar, they would be slowly lowered down. They would begin to drown in the agony of their pain. With a swift gash, their appendix, liver or one of the intestines would appear in its carnage glory. The spectators’ eyes would revel in their gory inventory.
Can you see now, my beloved, how it had felt at the time of my alive-autopsied end?
Do you ever reminisce about our sensation? I do! I had lain on the emerald ground, unwrapping myself in the softness of your scent . . . alongside the compassionate creek of our first encounter . . . cradled by the rays of the afternoon sun.
Do you ever look back on the tiny ripples anew? I do! They had slowed down to honor our euphoric reunion. Witnessing our fiery souls flow into one another, learning and approving.
The wind envied our harmonious spread, and assembled its brutal forces. Thus came the abrupt end. Like a lightning. Fiercely brash.
I had kept my delicate “i” at bay, hoping for you not to float on. I have since pampered, re-dressed and preserved the ‘what ifs’ of our oft-resounding dread. They insist on haunting me yet. My old self thus is entangled in a merciless no-exit-thread.
Would you have possibly favored me instead, had I opted to defy the boulder at the barricade?
Have you ever eaten helva, my love . . . accompanied by the sizzle of the slowly melting butter – anxious in its wait to savor each sugar flake, while the aroma of the browning flour oozes into your delightful breath, and milk drops – raptured in a dance of a most delicate blend, craving the urge to taste the ultimate feast?
Have you ever made helva, my love, when its core ingredients were scarcely found?
* Helva is a traditional Turkish dessert; a sweet dish that is said to have originated in the Middle East and Central and South Asia.
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