I am here again (and happy to see you haven’t left me).
Before 2017 became a reality, I had already made several changes of various nature. At home, in my work space, my mindset, and my blog site’s layout, appearance, and so on. As for my post today, the image below is not “it. Listen on, if you so choose:
[Free Online Image]
Filed under Poetry, Reflections
to attend to the needs of self while accommodating those of the family.
Hoping to be back at my writing desk in the new year, I wish you all, dear reader- and-writer-comrades the best for now and beyond. ~ hülya n. yılmaz
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Ve o sonra dedi ki: Bir süreliğine buradan ayrılıyorum…ailemin ihtiyaçları ile ilgilenirken kendi ihtiyaçlarıma da eğilebilmek üzere.
Yeni yılda yazı masama geri dönmüş olmayı ümit ediyorum. Bu ayrılığımın süreci içerisinde, sevgili okur- yazar yoldaşlarım, hepinize bugün ve ötesi için iyilikler dilerim. ~ hülya n. yılmaz
[Resimdeki tahta salıncağa kazılmış yazı: “Uçabileceğime inanıyorum.”]
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Filed under Reflections
let us say the allowed space is five-same sized-car-wide
no-brainer right
each parallels the other and stays inside the lines
the first driver though takes up one-and-a half parking slot
the second stretches over the next one-and-a half
now feeling also fully entitled
the third cuts corners for the fourth
angry at the time’s poor timing
the fourth settles for the last stall
but wait
didn’t we just say
the allowed space is
five-same sized-car-wide
no-brainer you said
is it
© hülya n. yılmaz, 11.29.2016
[One Free Online Image – Annotated]
Filed under Reflections
we are born alone to die alone
the self is either warmed up in-between
or under a lonesome cold
only the corpses get stiff i thought
not so when emotional touch is no more
© hülya n. yılmaz, 11.8.2016
[Own photograph; at Light on the Lake Bed and Breakfast, North East, PA]
Filed under Reflections
Turkey: Thousands protest against proposed child sex law
The news was impossible to disregard. Regarded it, I have. Writing my reaction to it in nonfiction, however, was far too disturbing of a thought for me – an older woman, born into and raised in a modernized Turkey before leaving for the now similarly tainted United States in pursuit of an advanced academic career decades ago. So: I have resorted to poetry…yet once again.
My poem below first appeared here on October 19, 2014 in Turkish – the language in which I had initially conceived it, translating it to English shortly after. The photograph above of Nazım Hikmet, known as Nazım Hikmet Ran as well (1902-1963) had donned this page also back then. I am re-posting the poem in question with minor changes in their original articulations. This world-renowned exilic poet of Turkey had in persistence written – among numerous other humanity-related wrongdoings – on the objectionable status of Turkish women in their country of birth at large. I recognized Nazım’s deep-rooted concern inside me all over again in the face of the latest uproar in Istanbul, and so I reached for the prophetic conclusions he had drawn in his poem, “Kadınlarımız” (the italicized sections represent my direct quotes from Nazım).
Nazım Hikmet’i hatırlıyorum…
nasıl da iyi tanımış yurdun acı gerçeklerini
kadınımızdan biteviye esirgenenleri
ister olsun tek bir başına ister kocasının yanında
olsun varsın bir bebesi, o verici böğrünün öz yuvasında
ince, küçük çeneleri, kocaman gözleriyle
anamız, avradımız, yarimiz kadınlar
ama anaya yakışan saygıyı
analıklarında bile göremeyen analar
soframızdaki yeri öküzümüzden sonra gelen
doğurmasa, erkeğinin asla göze alamayacağı bir fedakarlıkla
hayatın yegane masumiyet hazinesini ona hediyeleyen
herkes ana oluyorları kendine defalarca yediren
gene de yüzlerinden tebessüm nadiren eksilen
aynı yorgun alışkanlık çemberine
mahkum edilen kadınımız
Nazım Hikmet’i hatırlıyorum…
nasıl da iyi tanımış senle beni,
onu şunu bunu
bizi sizi onları
bilmiş çok öncesinden bugünü geçmişi ve de geleceği
‘avradını, yarini’ analıklarında bile hiçe saymaya
ant içmiş erkeklerimizin tek toplar damarlı aile sofrasına
katmış cömert bir asaletle bu dahi destanına…
I am thinking of Nazım Hikmet…
How transparent our country of birth was to him
How deprived of life our women are
Whether single or decorating their husbands
With their babies cradled inside their selfless breasts
Our women with their fine, small chins and huge eyes;
Women that are our mothers, wives, lovers
But the kind of mothers
Who are robbed of motherly respect
Even in their motherhood
Our women who are forsaken
During meals for the sake of our oxen
Women who gift their men
Life’s ultimate treasure
A breath of innocence or more
If it weren’t for them
Whose men would never dare to undergo
The same great sacrifices of the self
Women who must tolerate
Their men’s oft-shouted ridicule:
Everyone can be a mother.
You are nothing special.
Women who nevertheless
Try not to neglect a smile from the face
Who are chained to the deadening same old tired rut
I am thinking of Nazım Hikmet…
How well he knew you me her us them
The present the past the future
Of his never-forgotten home
Of its single-veined patronizers
He knew it so well
That with his chivalric saga
He welded our women’s one-legged stools
Atop the food table of their men who seem to have sworn
To belittle their wives, their lovers even in their maternity divine…
Filed under Reflections
. . . into which November 9, 2016 – The Day After – keeps feeding still.
Related Readings:
The Incredible Reason You Might Start Seeing Safety Pins Everywhere
Dear White People, Your Safety Pins Are Embarrassing
Filed under Reflections
With my thanks to Inner Child Press, Ltd. for creating through its “Anthologies” another poetic platform under the guidance and leadership of Gail Weston Shazor, I share with you the poem of my contribution to Volume III of i want my Poetry to . . . (kindly note the short video-recording by Gail Weston Shazor following the end of my name down below).
i want my poetry to…
burn tears in your hearts
then bring them to the surface
before you decide you’d better cave in
to the pain and suffering etched ever so resiliently
in your past, present and future memories
when it’s time to have that wail explode
letting out that desperately patient standby “enough!”
i want my poetry to ease you then
into the arms of a selfless child-bearer
whose lullaby will tuck you in safely
under a snuggle-obsessed blanket-sleep
after having raised you from a darkest deep
together with the gentlest touch of other souls
which learned to utter only the tongue of love
their aura will entice you into a burial ground of ashes
where to lay to rest your ire and your innermost fears
to shed all your chains to be free of also the tears
which have been fiercely carved on earth
on its every hidden nook and cranny
since the birth of humanity
. . . be a break from life . . .
i want my poetry to weld with steel
the vital holes on your pails so frail
for you to be on your steadfast way
to flood in the universe with no delay
its tamest of waters on nature’s path
will gather for you to help you cleanse
your self-unforgiving self foremost
but won’t let you once forget all else
which you may have cursed in wrath
they will amass for you serene drops of bliss
to bathe under each the bitter ghosts of your ills
chafing away your immense boulder’s mass
for a modest few little whiles at last
. . . be a break from life . . .
i want my poetry to hold your hand
every time you must weather a storm
so that you know i too have been stained
the craftiest kind left me barren with all its might
hail rushed and wedded bloodcurdling thunders
lightening was only watching from afar at first
but then it exalted their union in a raucous roar
even snow flurries of my most loyal delight
showered the procession in a sliest twist
. . . be a break from life . . .
i want my poetry to waft you in the end
inside a cloud that is mate to the mild zephyr
to undiscovered lands as well to the Seven Seas
to the faraway councils of breath-taking skies
to the communes on the many luminous moons
to the cometic homes of ancient curiosities
in pursuit of the suns of the Egyptians
of the Hindu the Chinese the Japanese
of the Greek the Aztec the African
of the Navajo the Inca the Inuit
of the Sumerian the Roman
even though i don’t sing of elation alone . . .
© hülya n. yılmaz, 11.2.2016 (The inspiration came to me in installments: First, about a month ago; then two weeks later, and finally, last weekend.)
Filed under Reflections
curses to that sea
idyllic but merciless
why not lullabies instead
© hülya n. yılmaz, 10.27.2016
The title of my post today cites the name of only one child fed to the insatiable greed for power donned day after day by too large a number of supposed leaders of nations. The tragedy is that no list template is available to commemorate all the little darling delegates of innocence with their pre-death mark on earth; nor will such reminder be ever invented.
“Aylan Kurdi’s story: How a small Syrian child came to be washed up on a beach in Turkey”
[Image Credit: Free Online]
Filed under Reflections
we all have so many scars
that we have grown roots
now rotting fast
in that favorite place of many a gathering
your kitchen my kitchen those dearest friends’ kitchen
grandma’s kitchen mama’s kitchen dad’s i too can cook-kitchen
each cupboard smelling like their pain med
poorly prescribed for their end
witches’ brew in a cauldron before us
even the back burner’s simmer-dial
scorches the ancestral ladle right off of our hand
the same hand we thought could control our fingers
which in turn would glow to show us whether to stir clockwise
or counter-clockwise
with rigor or not
how many times
for how long
when
why
our embarrassingly short short-term-memory
convinces us to believe fairy-tales all over again
that maybe just maybe
a tiny batch of soul food
would drizzle out of such gooey gunk
enchanting us in to our prenatal sheath
thus gifting us with a little breather
in order that we can tend our scabs
tend to the gashes in our hearts
instead
the immortal spell-thrower
engulfs us
with a flood of burning ashes
spooned right out of the pot of our own churning
and
our bruises
while still in their nth round of incrustation
turn blood red once more
because our systemic veins are wide-open yet once more
© hülya n. yılmaz, 10.0.2016
Filed under Reflections
. . . I am back although I couldn’t make it on time to my 7:00AM slot . . .
![nature--sad-tree-munir-alawi[1]](https://hulyanyilmaz.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/nature-sad-tree-munir-alawi1.jpg?w=500)
[Recycled image]
. . . have always been intrigued
by the well-known last words
or better yet
for whichever reason
many avoid calling them for what they are
regrets
no exceptions
too soon or not
each of us must hand over to death
dear ones who have given us
an all-encompassing love
whom we loved beyond that
which charades as life
or
have we really?
how many counts
on our attendance record
when ready and willing
we stood by their turns of hardship
i love you because you are you
you are my grandchild
you are my child you are my child
my fragile-psyched in bubbles raised niece
my pearl-hearted sister’s precious heir
my mother’s alike my sister’s alike my daughter’s alike
my older sister though not in blood
my sweet forgiving long-time friend
my gentle-souled beloved short-time friend
my accidental acquaintance-friend
my mother-in-law
my mother my babies’ grandmother
with all your flaws
with all your fears
with all your insecurities
with your self-defined selfish self
come inside my everlasting embrace
it is opened again and again for you
i love you
i just do
and then
they are gone
some
to eternity
others
deep into our erroneous past
life of their molding for our sakes
earth we thought entailed a world
the ground shaping our treks
having fooled us before
with its disguise of solidity
is no more
so we get swept away
from what seemed to be an indestructible fort
into the raging squalls of a river
that rushes to join with its sea
with no mercy
and are engulfed by constant undertows
we manage to stay afloat
long enough
to ask for their forgiveness
in the final moment
we remember
time never waits for any of us
to say i’m sorry to each soul we hurt
we remember
that there is no grace period for the span
between our first and last breath
© hülya n. yılmaz, 10.5.2016
Filed under Reflections
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