Category Archives: Reflections

April 1, 2018 · 10:27 am

“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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March 28, 2018 · 10:28 am

. . .

Until the Story of the Hunt is told by the Lion, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter. – African Proverb

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Having dealt in college with papers examining the colonialist and post-colonial representational and re-presentational discourses within human history -with my prominent focus being on the literary reflections, the African proverb of my citing today did strike me with such an impact that I knew I had to share it with you right away. The on-goings in the world, in the U.S. in particular, are happening right before our eyes. And, though, not each of us is aware or willing to admit, we bear witness to irrefutable abuse and misuse of facts. Even as we all live through the history of the matters in question. History books, however, will compose different tales. To the dismay of those who have been, are being and continue to be mistreated throughout their lifetime . . .

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March 25, 2018 · 11:05 am

Rumi and I

My early schooling in Turkey was one such that included the study of classical poets. I, therefore, “met” Rumi at a very young age. I remember having been enchanted by the melodic tempo of our teacher’s reading voice. I believe she had mostly read from his Divan and Mesnevi. Did I understand the meaning of those verses? No. I always waited with my landmark eagerness for our teacher’s explanations. Then, many years later, came a time when I found myself at the mercy of my own reading from Rumi. For my dissertational research, that is. About 2 years after earning my degree, an extended book manuscript of mine was published. In it, I had torn apart  a considerable number of 19th and 20th-century German-speaking writers who had been inspired – positively or negatively, by these two timeless poets from the Muslim Orient. Just when I was about to conclude (!) that I had seen all of Rumi’s available writings, and that I could claim some authority over their content, his following words showed up. (It could very well be, of course, the quote below belongs to someone who may be laughing right now at my gullibility . . . for having constructed a Rumi-line).

What, regardless, are your thoughts regarding the cited sentiment?

“Do you think I know what I’m doing? That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself? As much as a pen knows what it’s writing, or the ball can guess where it’s going next.” ~ Rumi

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March 18, 2018 · 11:00 am

. . .

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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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March 11, 2018 · 11:03 am

“is what we call ours, ours?”

my life in Turkey was multi-colored
brown and dark brown were the most favorite hues
served inside delicately painted frailly little cups
they were devoured by the dearest indulging
who passed the age-limit
with flying collars

thanks to a multitude of gatherings
i watched joyfully time and time again
many rites of simple pleasure
and observed how my ancestors consumed
the thick strong- and bitter-looking taste
sweetened only by a delicious mix
of laughter-typhoons and mouth-watering
gentlest lullaby-like mesmerizing-ly gorgeous
collective-art of masterful story-telling
often a jamboree of exotically aromatic spices
materialized right before all the senses of the gathered
while they sip by sip went on to starvingly inhale
the short-lived though lastingly multi-layered hot vapor
that oozed through the syrup-attired
ready-to-be-painted-already walls
of our little but heart-heated home
all the way to my behind-the-doors dancing steps
then into my heart’s vast collection of inestimable memories

Turkish coffee
Ah!

soon after i graduated
to my loved ones’ passable grade in age
i accumulated all around me
an army of those intricately hand-made
ceramic art pieces . . . one by one
not even the slightest trace was left behind
of the dark matter that once belonged to their insides

worse!
i started to call them “mine”
resorting however with no waste of a second
to olden plausible lessons in my own defense
i riposted to my inner voice:
Turkish coffee was after all
solely in the custody of the Turks
besides . . .
everyone in my familiar
but also foreign vicinities knew
how it long ago was baptized as “ours”
having held on to the reign
for countless memorable years
so powerfully controlled
that the world still speaks of them today!

then . . .

i became
an older grown-up
and re-conceptualized:
what if that knock-out flavor
which offered itself to us to savor
and those magically aromatic spices in it
were never ours to claim as “ours”
but rather invented and toiled over
by civilizations of the long-forgotten past
not unlike the one of the Sabaeans whose Ma’rib
the hub-city of their regime’s middle epoch
that is largely claimed to have earned its fame
not only for its spectacularly built temples
and other monuments but also maybe more so
for its agricultural prosperity

“Turkish” coffee?
“Turkish” spices
that enhance its perception?

what if its creation
had nothing to do with Turkish-ness

what if its construct
was rooted in the Sabaean ancestry

what if . . .

what if
we stopped to care
about things so mundane
and would re-learn instead
our gifted one-and-only destiny
allowing thus to be immortally re-born
the intended core element of our original self
which many moons ago was the sole stronghold
of that which we, the people
of the so-called “modern” times
ever so dismissively
insensitively
ignorantly
dare to label as “humanity”?

© hülya n. yılmaz, 1.20.2018

[This poem is my third that appeared in the February, 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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March 4, 2018 · 11:50 am

“the world’s timeline knows . . .”

they had to be noted
while their desert of sand
still chuckled in giggles
with their newborns’ tickles
but also drained out persistent tears
that were soaked by parents’ eternal fears

wars were aplenty back then

are you with me?
do you see what i see?
on second thought . . .
never mind!
forget about me!
just look
please take a good look
with your heart’s eyes however
holding on all along
to the hand of your conscience too
surely you will heed
the desperate call for a minute-long silence
in the face of the so-called
ancient times’ wholehearted embrace
of building legendary and timeless monuments
of constructing age-old destructions

oh, the broken spirits’ tears!
oh, those souls-burning tears!

wars are too plentiful today

© hülya n. yılmaz, 1.20.2018

[This poem appeared in the February, 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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February 25, 2018 · 12:00 pm

“love . . . what else is there?”

oh you dear little one
with gorgeous hope-eyes
which of them was robbed from you

ever so abruptly cruelly
in blood-chilling monstrosities

your mother or your father

maybe both

you are in hunger pains i know and as thirsty
as those war mongers’ obsession to slay
yet so helpless as they never seem to be

my entire being is craving
to cradle you into my body
back to your somewhat safe times
to sing to you inside all my insides
with the hope for a sedating deep sleep
to send you to your innocent dreams
so that they become you
or you them

i have just fetched
my dried-out mother’s milk
it will pour for i have willed it so
nourishing not only your tiny half-cut frame
but also the brutally smashed shards of your heart
an uncut diamond shattered before you were born

your wingless soul introduced itself to me
she too is invited to our feast

as for your angel-spirit
she was meant to fly up on high
so i let her free she now soars
above and beyond the sky
tucked in safely
in her safe haven

please don’t you crawl away in a rush
i do not want you to go there
not yet anyway

i am told
i am good at make-believe . . .

you can tell me how i did
when you and i once again meet

a deserved life of marvels is planted on your path
don’t you ever mind the vulgar stench of the killers

when compared . . .

(if such linking were sane
the scent that our dead and dying ooze
makes envious the newest blooms of the Sweet Pea

sleep my still unnamed little angel
sleep angelically as only you can do

my all-loving heart
and my determined mind
will know how to soothe
my for long unstoppable-y wailing soul
so that my mother-hands can knit
your receiving-blanket into an armor
invisible to the sadistic human beast

i will lay myself down next to you
i promise you i will not leave

until after your last breath . . .

you will at least face death
not in the hands of Man’s vomited filth
but rather in my love-arms

sleep Mother Earth’s untainted scream
and perhaps just perhaps in a dream
try to forgive me if you can
for all the deeds i could have done
but in my passionate paralysis did not do
and for all the miracles you had hoped i would proclaim
but in my emotive weakness have not done so

all that is anon left in me due to you for you
is the mighty strength to sway you in my womb
until forever onto your wasted pathway you must go

© hülya n. yılmaz (Revised from a 2017 poem and submitted to the international World Healing World Peace Poetry anthology to be published by Inner Child Press in April 2018, marking its fourth biennial publication)

As for this “I”, it still is striving to witness one day
that solely love rules in the world.

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February 21, 2018 · 12:00 pm

. . .

“The most important thing in music is what is not in the notes.” ~ Pablo Casals ~

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February 18, 2018 · 12:00 pm

“The world does not deliver […]”

“Stop worrying about your identity and concern yourself with the people you care about, ideas that matter to you, beliefs you can stand by, tickets you can run on. Intelligent humans make those choices with their brain and hearts and they make them alone. The world does not deliver meaning to you. You have to make it meaningful.”

~ Zadie Smith ~

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While I agree with what I have concluded to be the gist of this statement -only we are responsible for lending/creating/imagining/discovering/etc. a meaning to living, there are certain conceptualizations with which I am not in agreement. (There, of course, is a good chance that I am reading too much into the intended message of the assertion quoted here. Still, I am set out to indulge myself in some furthering thoughts. I want to hope you will bear with me.)

Firstly, the reference to “identity” seems to be rashly dismissed. Is it not one’s identity that -in its evolving states -is the most essential work we have upon us, for us? A look at the Identity Theory brings to our attention; or rather, re-introduces the concept of “Consciousness“. How would we arrive at the capable state of ‘concerning’ ourselves “with the people [we] care about”, if we were to “[s]top worrying about [our] identity […]”? Is it possible for an individual to achieve ‘consciousness’ regarding others, if s/he were not aware of the self in the first place?

Then, there is the reference to “[i]ntelligent humans” who are singled out in their ability to “make [t]he world meaningful”, but, who is intelligent, according to which standards, according to whom, where? “The world”, after all, does not comprise a singular entity. From various regions of the globe, sets of established communities of the field of psychology have had and continue to have ongoing debates on the subject of Human Intelligence. Under their work of expertise, multiple theories have been conceived, designed, refined and advanced upon. None is a closed case as far as evidencing unanimously, let alone throughout the entire world what ‘human intelligence’ is, nor can such finding be claimed when the numerous past decades are concerned. 

I believe many of us would agree that [t]he world does not deliver meaning to [us]” and that “[we] have to make it meaningful.” However, the contention that such outcome depends on the intelligence of an individual appears to be an exclusionary thought process at its best.

Too psychological of a commentary? Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. Would you like to spend some thought on it and then share your deliberations for all the readers’ sake but also for mine?

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February 11, 2018 · 12:00 pm

. . .

I have lived one, two, three, and many other ones and made it through while I have realized that I, indeed, no longer was the same person nor did my spirit feel the same way as before those storms. Yes, I am talking about a transformation that has left in me a solid semi-tangible compartment comprising of various sub-parts on the way toward an acknowledgement of the storms of the past and the present (but hopefully, the upcoming ones as well), the acceptance of all of them and developing coping “skills” in order to process them with soul intact.

How about you? Is there anything that you would like to share with me and all the other reader-writers of this platform on this subject matter? It would be a true pleasure for me to hear from you. I would then know and seek comfort in the fact that this emotionally and spiritually challenging process is nothing for the sole traveler to deal with alone on this journey we call “life”, inclusive of all of its joy offerings –blue moments, but also its generous servings of trials and tribulations.

Regardless, whether I hear from you in concrete terms have a magic-filled Sunday, a Sunday that would be the announcer of countless other wondrous days. May you have an abundance of blue moments.

 

 

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“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. And you may not even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm is all about.” ~ Haruki Murakami

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