“Your heart is the softest place on earth. Take care of it.”
Nayyirah Waheed
. . .
Filed under Reflections
. . .
no petting zoo
it was a strange encounter
a first-timer in my backyard
(“my” yard?
not in actuality
they were here
long before i settled in
without an ounce of humility)
unprepared this time …
(no fancy camera at hand
nor the skilled clicks of my phone)
thankfully
my eyes were opened wide
and i took the picture of the hawk
in its stately perching-pride
with my enchanted inside
its persistent presence
appeared close to mine
quite close i’d say
but it was intimated
not in the slightest
and I cannot say
that i was in my brightest
utterly sleepy at best …
the few-feet-long divide
was still a major delight
unlike “my” other little animals
that come and leave
as they ever so please
run or fly away at times
at a single wave of my hand
the hawk made a secure seat
out of a branch of a barren tree
right at the border of “my” land
amid many of others
that were dressed in dainty leaves
it then flew off …
close enough to the ground
seemingly showing off to me
what it was (and is) capable of …
i stayed on for a while
too long
for a cold mid-November-day
looking forward to its return
to its to-be-continued servings
of customized discoveries ahead
it did not come back …
it may have been so
for it probably did sense
how much i was taken aback
by its self-introduction of grace
besides
a living being like that
cannot be held in chains
it is after all
(and must thus remain)
as one of the freest avians …
so i turned to my good old
worn-out wind-chime
hanging downward on a hook
i wanted it to create a tune
the wind however
(contently in a deep nap)
simply refused to play along
i looked around
and saw that i had
(right at my fingertips)
a symphony of a collective sound …
“my” other wild birds
“my” leaps-happy squirrels
“my” big and small cotton-tails
“my” time-traveler chipmunks
had all gaily gathered
for an in-rehears-able
tap-dance routine
vying for my attention
about to show off once again
their daily acts of loyal affection
hülya n. yılmaz, 11.14.2017
Filed under Reflections
. . .
no petting zoo
it was a strange encounter
a first-timer in my backyard
“my” yard?
not in actuality
for they were here
long before i settled in
without an ounce of humility
and unprepared this time . . .
. . . no fancy camera at hand
nor the skilled clicks of my phone
thankfully
my eyes were opened wide
so i took the picture of the hawk
in its stately perching-pride
with my enchanted inside
its persistent presence
appeared close to mine
(quite close i’d say)
not in the slightest
was it intimated
and I cannot say
that i was in my brightest
utterly sleepy at best …
the few-feet-long divide
was still a major delight
unlike “my” other little animals
that come and leave
as they ever so please at times
it didn’t run or fly away
at a single wave of my hand
the hawk made a secure seat
out of a branch of a barren tree
right at the border of “my” land
amid many of others
that were dressed in dainty leaves
it then flew off …
close enough to the ground
seemingly showing off to me
what it was (and is) capable of …
i stayed on for a while
too long
for a cold mid-November-day
looking forward to its return
to its to-be-continued servings
of customized discoveries ahead
it did not come back …
it may have been so
for it probably did sense
how much i was taken aback
by its self-introduction of grace
besides
a living being like that
cannot be held in chains
it is after all
(and must thus remain)
as one of the freest avians …
so i turned to my good old
worn-out wind-chime
hanging downward on a hook
i wanted it to create a tune
the wind however
(contently in a deep nap)
simply refused to play along
i looked around
and saw that i had
(right at my fingertips at that)
a symphony of a collective sound …
“my” other wild birds
“my” leaps-happy squirrels
“my” big and small cotton-tails
“my” time-traveler chipmunks
had all gaily gathered
for an in-rehears-able
tap-dance routine
vying for my attention
about to show off once again
their daily acts of loyal affection
© hülya n. yılmaz, 11.14.2017
Filed under Reflections
Aksum . . .
December 17 was the last date when I had posted on my blog . . . I have truly missed being here . . . so, here I am with the first entry of 2018 (Happy New Year, by the by) . . . my three poems that will appear in the January, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet V, an anthology published by the globe-reaching Inner Child Press (monthly poetry offerings of the Poetry Posse and between 3-4 featured new poets). Entering 2018 strong in its 5th year, this publication will provide the reader with insights into a different cultural entity across the world in each of its issues. January’s focus was Aksum.
what i knew would simply not do
Ethiopia
the early Christian era
but Red Sea ruler?
~ ~ ~
empires surely rise
and
as we live it every day today
they also fall
out of history’s authentic tracks, that is
for only white men get to etch make-believe memories
in acid on the indestructible fabric of lies to come
together, of course, with co-travelers –their women
who in the footsteps of
their 19th century Orientalist counterparts
first become enchanted
(or better yet drunken)
by the foreign “object” of their own fantasies
but then upon their return to their home countries
adhere themselves in perfected loyalty to
painting, writing or chanting
pieces of fascinating stories
all of which serve to mesmerize
the self-appointed ”Subject”
of highest esteem in its collective existence
the “other” is doomed . . .
doomed beyond erasure
far beyond the abyss
of eternity
history’s selective books
again and again, as our times evidence anew,
mount permanently
those powers of self-erected “superior” thrones
in their self-designated importance
for generations and more and more generations to come
on self-constructed paper reserved for mass readings
however fast their seats’ physical capacity
may outgrow their miniscule competence
failing to make room for their incurable ignorance . . .
The Aksum Kingdom too is doomed
doomed to remain as “the inferior other”
not to be ever revered for
what it had in fact been, was and will be
namely, a domain of notable accomplishment
among our current world’s celebrated civilizations
worthy of equally noble presentations
as well as proud representations
it is doomed instead
if only this empire had not been discovered
to be an achievement of blacks
created as a “promised land for uprooted Africans”
if only this empire had not been revived
for its utterly memorable existence
through the efforts of enslaved
18th century black preachers
amid us
in the good old United States . . .
~ ~ ~
what is to be your mark?
Aksum’s origin
is not to be traced back to
Semitic kingdoms
Filed under Poetry
. . .
lend me an island
surround it with tranquil seas
i shall build a fort there
to keep all children away
from harm’s way
love alone will shelter that sphere
my grandson turns four today
i am in a trance with joy
for i lived to relive his birth
on that magical day
i cannot however possibly ignore
lost little anonymous lives galore
© hülya n. yılmaz, 12.7.2017
Filed under Impulses
“no longer the same one”
please do not tell me anymore
how to cross my sitting legs in a skirt
to hide well under my pants the private fabric
in what age-order to serve guests our coffee
what to do with the crumbs on the dining table
(no hand swipes on to my palms!)
not to laugh heartily in public
to wait for my turn in speaking up anywhere
. . .
my instincts had no trouble
accommodating the required obvious
catering to the needs and wants
other than my own
while i knew deep inside
that you all meant well
carrying me through life with your love
i am of old age now
and i have had enough
still conflicting no harm to anyone
holding not even an ounce of ill will
in any of my body’s cells
or inside the pure chambers of my heart
i am forevermore
as gentle as ever before
toward those
who had no business in mine
or continue to think they have the right
i have had my bountiful share
of personal sacrifices
for self-prolonging decades
and then some more beyond
. . .
i am of old age now
and i have had enough
please do not judge me anymore
for actions that i have not undertaken
nor for the spirit-lifting deeds
i was (and will always be)
happy to carry out
without inhibitions
with no hesitancy
through
with
and in love
love for one
love for all
a few chunks of real life
are awaiting me
as these days i find
in sweetest delight
i will not cease
to care about you
nor to eternally treasure you
in fact i would do so with my utmost might
whenever i am invited that is . . .
will you just please
try not to turn
my humbled joy and happiness
into a nonsense plight
© hülya n. yılmaz, 12.6.2017
Filed under Poetry, Reflections
“like an eagle”
İstanbul dons a large number of majestic forts
those structures from many an ancient history
may today not appear as powerful anymore
but the debris alone suffice to astound
the willing eye through a peek
at the haunting view of the mighty Bosphorus
together with the influential breaths
that numerous civilizations of the past
have generously left in its depths
i have not been there in a long while
only in an empirical sense that is
frequent visits of my fertile imagination
have otherwise sated my hunger and thirst
my longing for the dead who were left behind
and my cravings for the impeccable times
each of which was re-lived in harmony
amid a painstakingly caring love
i borrowed an eagle’s eye on this special day
perched atop one of the bastions and began to sway
palaces teahouses trolleys Bazaars cafés fishermen
rare carpet, Kilim and antiquities-selling ambitious shops
yachts one of a kind-mosques the famed Dolmabahçe Sarai
freighters speed boats Hovercrafts scenic jogging paths
do not interest me in the least. The eagle’s eye is a loan
of refined delicacy. I refuse to waste it for the mundane . . .
on the bottom of the Bosphorus all of a sudden
underneath a recent undercurrent, oh so sullen!
amid seagrass . . .
. . . i spot my brass keychain
of four distinctive keys
my elephant still carries on,
towing them heroically
its movable pretty trunk
waves at me ecstatically
i lead us all . . .
. . . to the astonishing Sinopian coasts
to my breathtakingly serene flat-sanctuary
i discover to my demise . . .
. . . it is no longer there
only then do i recall my dream of this year
on the night of the 2nd month’s 14th
and
my loaner eye weeps
~ ~ ~
From my newest book of poetry: Aflame. Memoirs in Verse. Inner Child Press Ltd. (August 2, 2017)
Also available at inner child press are the following:
An Aegean Breeze of Peace, a book of poetry that I have co-authored with
Demetrios Trifiatis (October 12, 2015) and
Trance (December 12, 2013) ~ My trilingual poetry book with my own translations between English, German and Turkish
Filed under Reflections
. . .
curses to that sea
she is idyllic
oh yes
but ever so merciless
why do lullabies not rise instead
for angel-breaths like Aylan Kurdi
who had a mere three-year-span
to be loved in tenderness . . .
~ ~ ~
From “hülya’s Poetic Impulses of Candor” in my newest book of poetry: Aflame. Memoirs in Verse. Inner Child Press Ltd. (August 2, 2017); available at inner child press
Also available at inner child press are the following:
An Aegean Breeze of Peace, a book of poetry that I have co-authored with
Demetrios Trifiatis (October 12, 2015), and
Trance (December 12, 2013) ~ My trilingual poetry book with my own translations between English, German and Turkish
Whenever War Robs the Life of a Child
oh, you dear little angel
with gorgeous hope-eyes
robbed from you abruptly, cruelly
your mother, your father, or perhaps, both at once
were taken away from you
by murders that instantly froze your blood
a bitter cold, grueling hunger pangs and
an unending thirst are now your steady companions
war mongers’ obsession to kill is real!
i crave to take you inside from the cold,
back to your times of parental safety
i crave to feed you
i crave to soothe your thirst
i crave to cradle you
to a slumber of ultimate peace
where you can remain as pure as
each of your dreams of innocence
i crave to fetch once more
that over-flowing mother-milk of mine
which fed millions like you before,
nurturing back to life
tiny broken frames and
shattered hearts
i crave to fly with you
into my glorious yesteryear,
where every soul was tucked in safely,
existing and living freely
for now,
just sleep, my nameless little angel
so that the foul smell of the dying
does not taint the delightful scent of your tenderness
my death-free love is on its way
it will rush to you along my gazelle-like gait
to mend your receiving blanket
with a carnage-safe shield
my broken heart will then self-mend
and my wailing soul will self-mute
the metamorphosis will soon be complete
sleep, my nameless little angel,
sleep alongside my dreams of peace . . .
hülya n. yılmaz, 10.20.2017
Filed under Poetry, Reflections
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