the monster under the bed
the path to take was as visible as
our reflection on a clean mirror
an old being
of rapid cognitive decline,
a mere television personality,
bought by foreign power,
installed into the People’s House
by the same intruder . . . twice
while this time, also swimming
in the illegally-earned money
of his president,
a non-American billionaire
clueless in the most basic knowledge
about the matters of the world
and willfully ignorant of other countries,
an unalphabet in the history
of the United States,
unfit to govern even a 3rd world country
void of morals, ethics, and shame,
emptied of any sense of responsibility,
and full of overflowing hypocrisy
his veins and few brain cells
tainted in and feeding from
racism
bigotry
misogyny
hatred for all non-whites
strutting his overblown ego
deviant and highly skilled in corruption
deception and gaslighting
having exhausted all available
and potential crooked ways
through and through
throughout his life
vengeful
evil
a 34 times convicted felon
for crimes, including treason and rape
a chronic liar of notorious fame
and . . .
it breathes
Faust? Or Mephisto?
the monster under the bed
© hülya n. yılmaz, 12.24.2024
The Monster Under the Bed, a poem
Filed under Reflections
“Hataların Bedeli”, a poem in Turkish
Hataların bedeli . . .
ağır mı ağır
can tokatlayıp duruyor kendisini
anne yadigarı . . .
baba yadigarı . . .
her biri yitti gitti
kalmayacak tek evladıma
elle tutulur bir hatıra
herkes gibi ben de yaptım birçok hata
fakat o ikisi yok mu,
şu ilerlemiş yaşımda vurdu beni diplerin en derinine
kalbimin tutağı paramparça
koymuştum onu ellerimin yerine
çıkabilirim içinden sandığım çıkmaz
dolandı kaldı nefes borumda
olmaz benden artık herhangi bir paha
bu geç mi geç saatten sonra!
© hülya n. yılmaz, 24 Ekim, 2024
Filed under Poetry
“Assigned Existences” – A Poem
Assigned Existences
Somewhere
someone has the nerve
to draw on a blank canvas
a sketch of your life; yes, YOUR life,
dictating to you how to live.
The same canvas, then, is made public.
The sketched you now have a broadly-recognized image.
YOU yourself, however, have been silent all along.
Somewhere
another someone
takes it upon him-/herself
to lend you word fragments and poor grammar.
Utterly popular has become that song,
taped on your behalf in absentia.
The recorded you now have a broadly-recognized voice.
YOU yourself, however, have been silent all along.
When, do YOU think, will your existence
be worthy enough to begin to live
YOUR life per a design
created by YOU?
* The poem, “Assigned Existences”, has been published in the June 2024 issue of The Year of the Poet, published by Inner Child Press International.
Filed under Reflections
An old poem
dying to life
heart slows its beat
blood rushes to head
at every grasp of the loss
asleep, awake,
or in a dream state
ears deafen to sounds
eyes, blind to colors
voice trembles by steady tears
food serves to deaden the thirst
elation departs
eternal craving remains behind
and keeps on and on and . . .
death comes
oh, yes! It comes
but not to kill . . .
it condemns to life
the undying void inside
*From: Trance (published on October 19, 2014)
This poem has initially appeared under the title of “Elegy – 3” in the September 2013 issue of the Inner Child Magazine.
Yaşama Ölmek
Kalp atışını yavaşlatıyor.
Kan başa akın ediyor
Ölümcül kaybı her algıladığında,
Uykuda, ayıkken
Ya da rüya altında.
Kulaklar sese sağır kalıyor,
Gözler, renklere kör,
Dinmeyen gözyaşları ile ses titremede.
Lokmalar susuzluğu katlediyor.
Sevinç veda ediyor.
Geride kalıyor biteviye bir özlem
Ve yaşamakta direniyor.
Ölüm geliyor.
Evet, geliyor.
Ama öldürmeye değil . . .
Ruhta bir türlü ölemeyen
İç boşluğunu
Hayata mahkum ediyor.
Türkçeye Çeviri © hülya n. yılmaz (6 Ekim, 2024)
Filed under Poetry
Mom and Dad
Mom and Dad
Alcoholic beverages
On Mesnevi Street
Apartment #6
Were aplenty.
Dad had a large collection.
Not that he drank a lot, no!
Our guests were always pleased.
My brother and I, of mature age,
Tasted the different liquors
Before Mom and Dad
So that
We won’t be tempted
To try them whenever with friends.
Their strategy worked superbly,
To which my daughter could attest.
Her father and I followed Mom and Dad
In their footsteps. She is a Mom herself now.
When her little precious darlings are old enough,
She might also teach them what my brother and I
Learned long before this day:
Home is the best place for everything.
© hülya n. yılmaz, August 31, 2024
“Like an Eagle”
An old poem . . .
Like an Eagle
İstanbul dons a large number of majestic forts.
Those structures from many ancient histories
May today not appear as powerful anymore,
But the debris alone suffice to astound
the willing eye through a mere peek
at the hauntingly mighty Bosphorus,
in sync with the influential breaths
that many civilizations of the past
have generously left in it to last.
I haven’t been there
in too long of a while;
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 all my cravings
for the impeccable times
have been re-lived, time and again,
in harmony,
amid the scents of a caring love
ever so painstakingly.
I borrowed an eagle’s eye
on this special day,
then perched atop a bastion
and began to sway.
Palaces, tea houses, trolleys, Bazaars,
cafés, fishermen,
rare carpet – Kilim and antiquities-selling ambitious shops,
yachts, stately 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
for a 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 sea grass . . .
I spotted my brass keychain
of four distinctive keys.
On it, my elephant carried on.
I towed it heroically.
Its movable, pretty trunk
waved at me ecstatically.
I guided us all
to the astonishing Sinopian coasts,
to my breathtakingly serene flat-sanctuary . . .
But, I found, to my demise,
it no longer was there.
Only then, did i recall my dream
of last year,
on the night of the 2nd month’s 14th,
and . . .
my loaner eye wept.
Filed under Reflections
“Still Fearful, . . .”
Still Fearful, but . . .
An ezan* carries my soul to Sinop, my picturesque town by the Turkish Black Sea. This call to prayer sounds like a plea, sent to me by my loved ones who lived and died there. Their absences are for me too difficult of a loss to bear.
Vividly alive in my mind today are my late uncle’s stories of yore; how everything was previously. The one about the mosque, in particular, emerges in full clarity. I know that modest structure by heart. It denoted Sinop’s civilized past. Today, mosques and places for leisure attendance anywhere tend not to go hand in hand, mind you! Yet, a now-famed café had found its home at this one’s feet long ago. People gathered there to eat, drink, and play games. Neither outsiders nor the townsfolk thought that doing so was a shame.
Most of my loved ones from Turkey are now gone. While I survived, I lack the survival-know-how. The last stronghold of my Sinopian family lives no longer. My father’s hope to make a home there for myself has vanished with his demise. My inheritance, a flat eyeing the tranquil sea, has become someone else’s precious prize.
I struggle for my existence on a borrowed land with much demand. Having borrowed my loved ones’ butterfly-wings, I am trying hard to thrive on my own. All along, I opt to leave my cocoon not too soon. Still spry, my spirit flies far and above. In times of despair, an ezan* carries my soul to Sinop, my picturesque town by the Turkish Black Sea. The call to prayer sounds like a plea.
(* “Ezan” is a call to Muslim prayer)
Filed under Poetry
Contemplations
When Information Delivery Is Condemned
While reflecting on the process of the midterm elections, I felt the need for a distraction as numerous other people evidently do. I glanced over the news feed. A most recent controversy caught my attention – the key words being the name Kyrie Andrew Irving and “antisemitism”.
Amazon has been enabling the purchase of the bestseller documentary and book, titled “Hebrews to Negroes: Wake Up Black America” – the same information that Kyrie Andrew Irving has shared, and has been accused of “promoting false accusations” about Jews since his words came under the radar of activists and lobbyists.
If anyone could make sense of this inquisition of Mr. Irving, please explain via reason and accurate referencing. While you are at it, do justify – by providing a rational discussion – how his act of information delivery goes against freedom of speech.
As a Liberal Arts professor and researcher in the U.S. over 40 years, I resorted to a multitude of reference materials throughout my academic career – some of those instructional materials were controversial; others, not. My teachings as well as scholarly activities were completed by the book; that is, within the rules, regulations and policies of the higher education institutions where I have served with honor. In sum, delivering referenced information has never been anything to frown down upon. Quite the contrary, it was applauded indirectly for the vast educational contribution to critical thinking and analyses. So, I ask: Why is a thinking individual such as Kyrie Andrew Irving being condemned publicly for bringing a legally (and broadly) sold documentary and book? Could the reason possibly be lying within his skin hue?
hülya n. yılmaz, 10.11.2022
Filed under Reflections
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