. . . 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
Winter is about to pull in
but the heart is unready for its arrival as yet.
~ Own translation (10.21.2016)
Filed under Impulses
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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