Category Archives: Reflections

“Follow the Yellow Brick Road”

Before the journey begins . . .

Today, I will be on a plane heading for Saudi Arabia. From there, my connection flight will take me to Amman, Jordan. First stop on “the yellow brick road”! I most certainly could live without Dorothy’s tornado effect but nevertheless, I feel like I am about to run into a whirlwind of exciting discoveries galore. The road ahead of me promises ‘yellow’, lots and lots of ‘yellow’ as in brightest sunshiny days; with wonders to meet one ‘brick’ at a time. Thanks to poetry. For poetry. Through poetry. For the next two months, I will be traveling extensively in the Middle East and The Balkans for various poetry events, with the high probability of tasting vino at its divine Western European source (I have heard that the Trevi Fountain has changed its primary hue . . . smiles, sneaky smiles . . .)

Once the jet-lag is over, I will be back for my usual blogging days. I hope you will stay tuned to walk with me one ‘yellow brick’ at a time on this road.


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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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. . . are we “remembering too much”?

“Throw everything away, forget about it all! You are learning too much, remembering too much, trying too hard . . . relax a little bit, give life a chance to flow its own way, unassisted by your mind and effort. Stop directing the river’s flow.” ~ Mooji


Image Credit (Biya River in the Altai Republic)


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. . .

you were on foreign soil
Mom chose not to hurt you there
then the day of your arrival came . . .
i saw your soul’s sorrow for the first time

i still see you in my heart’s eyes
through the parents-room left ajar
how hard you cried sobbing all along
what i thought to have lasted for too long

Dad i now know more than ever before
what it means to have our fortress gone
i am after all on a desert void of any oasis to come . . .



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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




Filed under Poetry, Reflections

. . .

BABAM.2016.Tıbbi Bakım Evi Odası

[Photo Credit: Süleyman Yılmaz, my brother; Ankara, Turkey 2016]

wishing for revolving doors

door #1

you sound different
not like your usual self
confused sad in despair?

then comes your desperate plea
after hearing which i choose to flee

i’ve decided, my girl
i’m coming to stay with you

how could i be so indifferent!

door #2

i see through the mundane
i not only hear but i also listen
i sense something is just not right
i can almost touch and feel your plight

of course, Dad!

© hülya n yılmaz, June 24, 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


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

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Filed under Poetry, Reflections