Category Archives: Poetry

“what else is left to do?”

what else is left to do
but to bow in highest respect
before the pens of a power
that overrules the brutality of the
segregationist
colonialist
chauvinist
ethnicist
sexist
racist
surpassing time and space
as only the unwavering ink can do

now is the only time
and here, the only place
where we must and shall
unconditionally embrace
for one loss from our unity in diversity
is a cause for an irreversible tragedy
that will appoint us with no delay
to the expiry of our humanity

© hülya n. yılmaz, February 18, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the March issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

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“a coincidence”

“Guyana Pastoral” kept calling me
from a place i dare not describe
i had no knowledge of the language
it was dubbed as Guyanese Creole
i still have no knowledge of the language
but assume to understand some words in it
it was the composer i just had to “get” anyway
and i believe i now have
Guyana’s Ambassador-at-Large
David Dabydeen
an explorer of the history of Guyana,
UNESCO’s Executive Board member
presenter of “The Forgotten Colony”

a mere sand particle at the sea colonies . . .

the owner of the incredible response
to J.M.W. Turner’s “Slave Ship”-painting
Turner’s depiction of African slaves in chains
being thrown overboard . . .
Dabydeen’s contemplation
on the ‘submerged body of a drowned slave
in the foreground’ of the piece,
his fantasy- and history-melding
upon the slave’s portrayal
his compelling act of reclaiming
and redeeming of the past
amid the shadows of his insights into
and studies of “the horrors of slavery and
colonization”, under the ever-so-thickening
clouds that carry on the darkest fame of
European barbarians, among which he ‘stages’
the migrant predicament
stating it as it is in an interview:

I’m inclined to think that Britain has
heavily depended on us for its material
and cultural development. The tribe had
an important say and influence in the
[British]development. You can’t be
a Guyanese without being a Brit and
you can’t be a Brit without being a
Guyanese, or a Caribbean.

recognition came along, it indeed came along
for Dabydeen would not leave any of it alone
along his steadfast extraordinary way
he helped the British develop some more
for he wanted the cast over the bloodied pools
under the blood-soaked beds no more
he helped the world develop some more
so, he co-edited a monumental how-to-book
for the walking dead of colonialist barbarisms-at-large
the Oxford Companion to
Black British History
which went down to history
as “a magisterial excavation of Black Britain”

one award after another accompanied Dabydeen
not merely for his editing work but rather as
a poet –the winner of the Commonwealth Poetry Prize
a masterful novelist
a model scholar
a literary-icon-educator
the Director of the Centre for Caribbean Studies
and Professor at the Centre
for British Comparative Cultural Studies
at the University of Warwick
and much more . . .

a coincidence?

I think not!

my discovery
of the Highly Esteemed David Dabydeen
was meant to be

for it has materialized
at a time of an utterly-trying
professional hardship of mine
not to exclude all those contemplations
on the value of poetry to me
a life-ring in a turbulent sea
with a nearby-view of the long-lost years
to no longer be
David rescued me
a professor passionate in teaching
a heavily-faded scholar of some merit
however depressed or self-oppressed
a struggling writer of fiction
a poet starving for self-attention
with much to tell and speak of yet
including the ‘migrant condition’
though not of Black History alone
nor purely of David’s “Slave Song”

besides
i wouldn’t know where to begin
and doing disservice to any gems
is not cannot will not be mine to claim

so,
it is my own path that i will follow
believe me there is significant sorrow
in that which i am able to pierce
through at least one lightless shadow

so,
i shall proceed
whenever wherever the ground is opportune
of course, always all ways
with fiery thanks from the soul
to that magical tongue
called the Guyanese Creole

© hülya n. yılmaz, February 18, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the March issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

 

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“Falling Leaves”

spiraling down
a bunch of dry leaves
landed on the asphalt
if my car did not crush them
drivers behind me surely did
the warm early-fall breeze
was too laid-back to enable
those beauties of nature’s recent past
one more minute to last
you may ask

what’s in a few dry leaves?

a mere excuse for me to contemplate
my travels in less fortunate lands

in one of them, called Palestine,
i had seen frivolous mercilessness,
that which stems from us,
the supposedly humane human species
for whose hate-filled greed
the innocent was being crushed
under the fancy tools of modernity
eagerly crafted by none other
than our so-called humanity

i screamed in silence
“enough already! when, where do you stop?”
facing such sorrow,
even my lungs could not keep up
they abandoned me in my shout
thus they keep falling prematurely
one new-growth of a leaf at a time . . .

 

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 10.1.2018

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Filistin aklımda . . .

A poem in my native tongue, in response to the silence we resort to in the face of atrocities with which the innocent are being erased from the face of the Earth:

Filistin’in masumları,
kalbimden dilime taşan
tuzlu damlalarla birlik olmuş,
umutsuz bir ümitle haykırıyor.
Sessizce.
Için için.

Ne çare!

Insanlık uykuda.
Insanlık unutkan.
Ben dahil.
Insanlık seçici.
Insanlık kendi rahatında.
Ben dahil.

Umursamazlık,
Vurdumduymazlık
Günün sloganı.
O kadarla da kalmıyor:
Her yeni günün odağı
Konumunda
Tahtını koruyor.

Acaba, diyorum,
Bir dakika sussak,
Susabilsek yani,
Mazlumlardan kendisine yol döşeyen
Postalların asitte bekletilmiş bağcıklarıyla
Birer birer eritilip yitenlerin
Çığlıklarıni dinlesek,
Ya da sosyal medya hatırına olsun,
Dinler gibi yapsak?

Acaba, diyorum.
Sadece, acaba . . .

(c) hülya n yılmaz, 18 Eylül 2018

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“Positano”

Hayat, sana teşekkür ederim!

many a moons ago,
i fell in love
with Positano
in a book
in the film of that book
but long before that,
in a single image of it
which was donning a small balcony
overlooking a cliff over a calm sea

i am in Skopje now
not in Italy
not even close . . .
sitting on a small balcony
with a stunning view of the city
its surrounding mountains
strut justifiably
their majestic beauty

the Sun has watched over me
looked after me
saw me fall asleep last night
in my lately ailing body
waited patiently
to wake me up early this morning
to its spectacular show
to let me know
i have to heal faster
i just must
for life’s unimaginable offerings
are here for me to see

there is no sea
not here
i have however seen aplenty
already
devoured each one by one
along the way
they all are inside me
and forever, they will stay

forgive me, Positano
i am still in love with you
but with Skopje too
though also with Monastir
Larache
Assilah
Petra
the Dead Sea
Bethlehem
Mar Saba
Ramallah
Madaba
Mount Nebo
Wadi Musa
Amman
Giza

many a moons ago,
i had concluded
my own life was just that:
as good as it got
back then . . .
the universe, however, had
something totally different in mind

i am falling in love
with its every nuance over and over
i keep my spirit’s eyes wide open
as i do so with my soul’s arms
while i fly on a magical spread
on and on and on . . .

i am on a small balcony
Skopje is the name this time
its magical mountains
span expansively before me
with a full view
over a unique sea
of this Macedonian city

Hayat, sana teşekkür ederim!

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 9.12.2018

[Photo Credit: Self; View Inn Boutique Hotel, Skopje)

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“breakfast”

i am about to eat the new day's first meal
in Nefertiti's legendary presence
the Pharaohs may object
but my soul
uncorrupted
is ready to commune with all
for all

at the end of the "Sound and Light" show last night
while the Pyramids stood upright
having defied the impact of many a deadly earthquakes
not having caved in to the soft silky sands underneath
standing majestically erect
evidencing the fatal flaw
of modernity's claim
that it was humans
who built these World Wonders
though Man can still not prove
the technology required for their construction
had been available to men or women back then 

while i half-heartedly listened
to the theatrical staging of perhaps one of a kind
my soul entered the Sphinx and the Pyramids
there, i met my past life again
the last musical piece was most-intoxicating
each move left me in contemplative tears
my entire life passed by my core essence
all beloveds who had stepped on Earth
leaving their frames behind
their spirits intact
watching over humanity 
caring for them
waiting patiently
for their hearts' eyes to open ajar

they assembled before me one by one

i lost the count
an all-inclusive assembly of humans
how can anyone ever do such a math

and the Ultimate One . . .
invisible untouchable mute
only to be conceived
not to be conceptualized
but only to be conceived
as Rumi asserted time and time again . . .

i am one
one is what i am
i am all
all is what i am

i am not becoming 

i am

here and now

hülya n yılmaz, 8.28.2018

 

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[Photo Credit: Self; A view from the balcony
of our hotel on the Giza Plateau in Egypt]

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“boys and soccer”

we just took a short walk
to the hotel across the Wall
a well-to-do tourist trap
with nothing at hand to impress
i had already inhaled the history
all the Graffiti Art represented
on that monument of collective shame
the entire land is a museum a gallery
bearing its all to the visiting-pure at heart
a gift shop? i can do without!
gifts are all around
the children's smiles 
their eager words of "Hello"
the warm embrace of their hearts

many boys are before my eyes now
they are playing all kinds of games on the street 
where our comfortable hotel is to be found
soccer catch-a-ball bike-tricks 
hesitant to look us in the eye at first
but in pure smiles a few minutes later
giggle-like laughs back from our end

how they move about at ease
as were all of their families' trials over
a tragic list of events on the walls of their homes
as profoundly etched in memory
as the Wall of collective shame 

oh humanity
why are you so deep asleep
while in bed
when awake as well
take down the walls
as only you can
open your eyes
stop seeing selectively
only united can we embrace ultimate love
not if we take sides electively 

oh humanity
take down all walls of collective shame
each of us needs love's image alone
in our souls' all-embracing precious frame
from this moment on to everyone's eternity


© hülya n. yılmaz (8.12.2018)

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[Photo Credit: William S. Peters; Location: Bethlehem, Palestine]

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“at Jordan’s Jarash Festival”

sitting in the Roman amphitheater
in anticipation of the global gathering of poets
transported in time and space
i am in an amphitheater in Turkey
my country of birth
and feel Side in me
Efes comes alive inside
Bodrum joins in joyously
her world-renowned white would go so well
with the various earth tones
Jarash offers in abundance
as does Amman at large
my adored host town for the summer

Oh, Jordan
i may have fallen in love with you . . .

i haven’t been to my homeland
in too long of a while
i cannot recall the last time i inhaled
the magical aroma of Side Efes Bodrum
my childhood and youth companion Ankara
Istanbul my grandparents’ initial home
the entire globe’s focus of wonder
sitting on its unique throne
between two continents
in all its centuries-rich glory
while Sinop my adopted Turkish hometown
still keeps me at an ocean’s distance
from her picturesque beauty
since my last loved one’s death

housed yet homeless
for the lacking geography
the home-scented soil’s delight
the gut-laughter’s home-grown fillings
and the condition-less-ly all-embracing air

Oh, Jordan
i may have fallen in love with you . . .

i am enchanted by your Amman
your Zarqa your Al-Karak your Jerash
your people’s mesmerizing warmth
your beloveds’ heart-generosity
your rare gem of natural beauty
your out-of-this-world valleys
your majestically high mountains
your incredible all-encompassing history

in trance with the dance
of poetry’s magical tunes
accompanied by age-old Ud
as brought to life by the tenderly masterful
yet modest hands of a lyrical gift of the ancient past

never mind the to-me-foreign phonetics!
my loss of course but i refuse to fret it
for there is one sound
one sound alone
and that is all there is:
in the soul we are united
through the soul we all speak

shared smiles shine brighter than the noon sun
lighting our blurred paths in the darkest of our nights

poets and non-poets alike
men women young or old
from all walks of life and space
together with children’s delightful giggles
easily evidence pure innocence is acutely in place

Oh, Jordan
i may have fallen in love with you . . .

© hülya n. yılmaz, July 27, 2018

 

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“torn”

how can you even begin to understand
when all you ever saw was a callous-hearted photograph
of a savagely soul-emptied land
or grasp the devoted dedicated commitment of its people
to their justly attained long-labored traditions and customs
cradled within the tenderly nurtured gentle realm
of their age-old civilization?

how can you even begin to conceive
where these precious fellow-souls
gather the countless pieces of their insides
after witnessing the slaughter of their babies
or what happens to that infant-innocence
if it survives the annihilation of its elderly
long enough to avow that it will further survive?

why don’t you look around
can you really not see
the multitudes of suffering abound?

torn inside and out
you still just go about . . .

“Business as usual” rules, you say?
better yet, the passé overrules
any likely change in our busy-ness
and stays put on its mighty swing set
to carefreely sway its mundane existence away
from the highest high of a ceiling
to the deepest hole in the ground

© hülya n. yılmaz, June 31, 2018

This poem was my contribution to Palestine. A Conscious Poetic Offering, an anthology of global endeavors, compiled by Gail Weston Shazor, the Director of Anthologies at Inner Child Press International, soon to be published by Inner Child Press International. Nizar Sartawi, the Director of International Relations at Inner Child Press International -educator, poet, literary translator shown in the picture, has kindly translated the poems I have read on various occasions in or near Amman, Jordan into Arabic. My special thanks go in abundance to all these much-cherished individuals.

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[Photo Credit: William S. Peters Sr.]

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One Day Later . . . from Amman

To connect to the Internet has been somewhat of a challenge here, in Amman, where I am deliriously enjoying an incredible stay for about a month. So, my Wednesday post comes to you belated, dear reader. Bear with me not only as far as this delay but also when the content is concerned, as I am re-visiting a poem I have shared with you before. There is a difference this time, however, and that is where else I have presented this piece of my poetry: At the Jarash Festival of Culture and Arts in Jordan. In the future, I hope to write much more about my wonder-filled experiences in this gorgeous world region. For the time being, I will suffice to let you in on a secret only: My reading of the poem below on two different occasions has met a gracious acceptance, for which I was and continue to be most thankful. I have had the privilege to recite my poem first in Al-Karak, Jordan for The Jarash Festival of Culture and Arts and then, in Amman for the Orthodox Club. While I read “routines” in English, Nizar Sartawi, our incredible host in Amman, has in his beautiful voice read it in Arabic. Mr. Sartawi, educator, is a prolific poet in English and Arabic and a prominent literary translator. With this post, I am extending my heartfelt thanks not only to dearest Nizar but also to his graceful wife, Zulfa, both of who embraced us as their family in their gorgeous home in Amman. An eternal shout of “Sukran” to you, dearest Zulfa! An eternal “Sukran” to you, dearest Nizar! 

routines

i wake up to just another day
and am soon on my way to work
a school bus waits at the curbside
its hugs, ready for the bubbly children
a parent or a grandparent is always there
seeing their babies off to their safe returns

i think back and reminisce in peace
about my own child’s schooling ease . . .

children get born also
in other parts of our world of course!
children are cherished also
in other parts of our world of course!
children are loved also
in other parts of our world of course!

some struggle to stay alive
some can only try to struggle
death finds them when too young

though it does not routinely arrive
with the intent of a personal kill
they are often left behind
without a caring guardian

for the rest of their butchered lives
they await their pre-determined fate

the notoriously grim reaper has for long
been contracted by psychopaths after all
from in- as well as outside their nations of birth

in those dispensable long-forgotten geographies
a school bus might succeed in a lucky appearance
in “neutral” zones or at a “no dispute-border” for instance
as a rare sight for sure
a notable source of pride
but only until the moment
its door begins to open wide
either to gulp down tiny corpses
or to spit them out bone by bone

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, August 2, 2017

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[Photo Credit: William S. Peters Sr.]

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