My guest blog post…

Good Sunday!

I had been thinking about writing something quite different for my reflections column today. When, however, a guest blog post I had written for my friend, Anu Lal at the The Indian Commentator on the subject of higher education in the 21st century U.S. received attention beyond my expectation, I decided to share with you my quite fresh text (posted on 4th of July). I hope you also will think my deliberations (however lighthearted they may appear to be) on the subject matter to be relevant not only in academia but also in professions outside it – as several of my friends on another platform concluded.

I wish you a wonderful day today as well as a great new week, and, as always, look very much forward to your next visit.

And my guest blog post is at: DON’T THINK I AM AN APP!

 

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what is the matter with the world today?

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(Black Rose of Halfeti, Turkey)

 

My heart is heavy today. It has been for a while. Not because of an unfortunate development in my life, or in the lives of my family and friends. It is due rather to an ongoing accumulation inside that red ticking box of mine of the terrifying news from South Sudan, Chibok, Nigeria, Lahore, Pakistan, Southern Asia, Africa at large, Latin America, the Caribbean, Turkey, Germany and the United States. Coming to terms with the extent of violence that has occurred and keep occurring hasn’t been possible for me this time. Then again, I often get this way: become non-functional, if I let too much sorrow from around me seep through me. This time, I had to let it bleed to a poem attempt.

 

what’s the matter with the world today?

 

it is not one sweetest Malala only to feel forlorn

nor a love-filled Farzana helpless outside her unborn

the countless still remaining ageless nameless and faceless

halved alive after witnessing butchery of their newborns

or etched to the bones with their hunters so sadistic

their supplies had mercy to end it all at last

 

i think of

schools

babies

 

scorched dispensable innocents in sky-high districts

in routine safe A to B B to A making-a-living-transits

walking explosives under modesty cloaks in pregnancy disguise

the piloting sons their heroes they may not even a second despise

for mauling to their stone-aged lairs more and more younger child brides

 

i think of

schools

babies

 

papas selling infant daughters

mamas in silence guilty standing by

brothers uncles nephews proud to lend a capable hand

a bowed head from in-lawed blood-seekers no longer a demand

sisters aunts nieces even if at all around

don’t dare or care anymore to disband

 

i think of

schools

babies

 

hülya n yılmaz – June 28, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

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…where the spirit moved me today…

imageThe “Tarzan” of Sinop in Sinop, Turkey

Perhaps it is the arrival of summer in its loyal promise to don its sun just for me, for one minuscule moment of time, flooding its heat over my yearningly aged body with a bright touch of blue, all the way to the tips of my toes…the sensation in me ebbing in waves…or, maybe I am infected with that delicious microbe reappearing in my young self’s eyes yet once again, for no reason at all…I am taken aback by the irresistible chime of the break-fast bell under the wings of a dove about to land on my nostalgia for Sinop…

Can Yücel.semihcelenk_13510967644

Can Yücel is said to have been a lover of serenity, the simple life, whose images always reminded me of the Sinopian in the first picture but even more so after I learned how this famous Turkish poet had preferred to live  – not necessarily in a self-made hut but certainly catering to uncomplicated living. I admit: my obsession with remote areas and simplicity in all aspects of existence tends to overwhelm me when I least expect an ambush of that nature. Such as today. When the air in my study began to thicken taking away my breath, while my desire to materialize their reality intensified. No such luck! Therefore, I spanned overseas where both of these men special in their own unique ways lived and died. What a pity! I wasn’t moved to a new poem I could share with you. However, I lowered my translation bridge to one of Yücel’s poems…

Ukte

Dünyamın güzeli martılar
Sizden nasıl da yok yere korkmuşum
Kaşık Ada’nın orda!

Dalın üstüme dalın
Vurun beni, vurun
Denizanası kokan gagalarınızla!
Ah sizden ben nasıl da yok yere korkmuşum!

Bilmiyordum ki çünkü
Ben hem balığım hem kuşum

Ben ama hala anlayamıyorum ki
Bunca zaman niye sizden ayrı oturmuşum

Regret

My precious seagulls

How I had been fearing you for nothing

On the Island of Kaşık!

 

Plunge into me plunge

Strike me, strike

With your bills of jellyfish smell!

Alas! How I had been fearing you for nothing!

 

For I knew not

A fish also a bird I am

 

But I still can’t understand

Why all this time I lived apart from you

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…on Madiba (and myself): a post-humous poem…

Before I knew even an approximate location of his village of birth on the world map (for lack of geographic vision on my behalf), I had heard about the “freedom fighter Nelson Mandela of Africa” while I was still on Turkish grounds. My undergraduate years helped me intensify my admiration for him – though still not at all with any in-depth understanding of what he meant for humanity at large. Only later was I to attain the appreciation of his gift to people everywhere. Below, I am sharing with you a poem I wrote from the perspective of a little girl. While I refer to her as “a little girl”, she embodies the young woman who became the object of ridicule on account of her interest in a far away continent but also for behaving as if she were a native disciple of a most prominent world leader. She then meets Madiba, her object of adoration, after all. And when she does,  she complains to him about her unsuccessful attempts to connect with him – this time, her mannerism is that of a spoiled little child. In despair, she concludes she arrived too late. It was her lifelong wish to see her Madiba, after all. However, for her (unversed) celebration of integrity, dignity, fairness, persistence, love of freedom, peace and humanity – the makings of life’s aorta she learned from this legendary human being, there is no lateness. As she realizes it in her grown matter. For she is “no longer the same”…

 

what, did you say, your name is?

 

neither an African nor with any other honor

yet

i

dared

to wait for my turn…

Sir

 

too many call you father brother “our leader”

i have for long been reading their proud demeanor

from the ever so negligent sidelines

cursing my whiteness along most times

 

i, too, have known you all my life!

spreading your word has still been a strife

ridiculed when in my native land

to the mundane most would rather clap a hand

no one could utter Xhosa even the word

Zulu or Afrikaans? nowhere to be heard

 

i am grateful better yet in a daze

in disbelief of my timing of seeing these days

i beg of you imagine, Sir: Qunu

why did i deserve bunu*

i trekked ocean crests and river beds

slept in caves made tree tops my nests

doves and eagles flew with me to find my way

not even once did i go astray

 

tears now flood in me in red

from Sinop to Eastern Cape

what use? i am so gravely late!

 

 

Madiba Sir? my name?

 

hülya n yılmaz, no longer the same

 

*Impersonal pronoun in Turkish in the accusative case meaning “this”

[Inner Child Press Mandela anthology]

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Before I sign off for today, I would also like to refresh an announcement I made to you a few weeks back regarding the launch of my part-time freelance writing and editing business. Instead of adding another blog, I ended up creating my own webpage, Services for the Professional Writer.

As always, my best wishes are with you for your Sunday and new week. I look forward to your next visit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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As inspired by…

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 search

 

A few days of the past week, I have been working on a foreword for a collaborative anthology honoring Rolihlahla Mandela – Nelson Mandela, or Madiba, as he has been called affectionately by many people. Unfortunately, I had missed out on the chance to be one of the contributing poets to this book that is very dear to me. For, what I always focused on has been the humanist efforts of this “last great liberator of the 20th century (US President Barack Obama).” You have known my struggles along the way to accept the countless violations of the members of humanity across the globe as one of life’s most brutal realities. You also know a few of my scattered attempts to write against or about them or on account of them. Today is not different. Here I am, with your most appreciated visit, aiming to do exactly that: drafting a poem inspired by Madiba’s actions throughout his life. Should you desire to lend me feedback, I would greatly appreciate your kind act. It is a draft…so please, allow your comments to be as harsh as you would like them to be…

As always, I very much look forward to your next visit and wish that the rest of your Sunday as well as your new week will meet all your expectations.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

a mere twelve-year-old

when most of our youngsters

opt to bond with their electronics

for the sake of higher capacity, a newer model

amid extensive comfort and ease

only and always themselves to please

 

with no parental guidance

in a forgotten earthly place

he knew there was more to chase

how life at large needed his grace

 

against all odds…as we cluelessly say

 

he trekked through ordeals  infinitely rare

they must have appeared as could he no longer bear

he thought

fought in thought

in tireless patience

endeared his homeland for worldwide acceptance

justice soon followed for the separated

alienatists’ treasured thrones colors faded

 

“We can’t afford to be killing one another.”

 

it is likely Africa was his referent

the call for peace though spans far beyond

his soul after all wasn’t known as indifferent

he was aware of nations forever ghastly pawned

 

if killing one another is no option

then…

 

if i don’t she he doesn’t

lest they do or we

who in defense of justice for humanity will ever be

 

© hülya n yılmaz (June 7, 2014)

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The pain of others

For the 6.1.2014 post

 Credit to Patricia Polacco via Ken Jackson (facebook)

 

I had only one pregnancy, with only a slight complication. My daughter had her first child a little more than five months ago, with a complication more unsettling than mine. But in the end, we have been fortunate enough to have healthy babies who joined our lives filling them with precious love. Pregnancies of only internal interferences. Utterly welcomed ensuing births. And we both are a child of a parent or parents, defined by their irreplaceable love for us and for each of our children.

Then there was the very young Farzana Parveen, who was carrying a child as well – out of love by choice, the connector that matters most between human beings and has been time-tested again and again in different forms and extents. She, too, was the child of parents, assuming to have been brought to life also out of love. Yet, not at all as fortunate to be loved by them without condition. For her choice in marriage to and her pregnancy with Mohammad Iqbal, she was murdered by the same hands that must have at least once held her with love. And her senseless, brutal death, was – as claimed in the news – for the sake of the family’s honor.

The world-wide dilemma regarding this distorted sense of honor is not anything I want to dwell on today. I am merely trying to raise one question: What we, as co-humanity-occupants, can do in the face of such tragedies. Blame the involved society? I have. Get angry? I have. Feel sad? I have. Write about it, one pen at a time in order to raise awareness and accordingly, to inspire the will in others to react; spread the word; organize in the model of countless international organizations that exist for this or that cause; lobby to contribute to the formation of a world-wide regulation to hold accountable any society that excuses its barbarisms under the disguise of  “traditions”; …; …?

I know this issue is not solvable as easily as I have just made it sound like. Still, the idealist in me is convinced there is something to be done beyond keeping silence over such gruesome affairs destroying human lives. Even if it means to merely share a post, a link, a commentary, or a poem on electronic platform – our century’s seemingly most effective venue to reach masses across the world, I will continue to do so. I want to hope you will agree with my conviction: each of us possesses the power to mediate anything good that happens around us. To materialize such influence against the anti-thesis of good can be no exception.

 

honoring a mother-to-be,

another “honor” killings prey

 

in the hope-filled dreams for our children

we were once one – we had always been

living the privilege of a fertile womb

for eons in its rightful haven

with promise to a love-offspring

you are no longer

i met you again in your tragedy

the butchery of your blossoming life

and the one inside you to care for and adore

the internal pump on my left thus burnt at its core

the same times though in a different place

may have left intact your youthful grace

i mourn your brutally wasted self

for i wish to have been a kin to you

long lost, from afar

one who arrived in time to keep  your final breath ajar

(Draft, 5.31.2014)

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As always, I wish you a beautiful Sunday – however you may define beauty for your lives, and look very much forward to your next visit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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…fortunate and excited to share two news with you…

Books! Don’t you just love them?

th-1th-2th

For my blog.TRANCE Cover Front Final

At my publisher, Inner Child Press, ltd.

At amazon.com

 

Good Sunday! Just this past week, I have found out the following news, both from my publisher. Forgive me, if I only bring them to you this time. May the rest of your Sunday and your new week be as pleasant as it can be. As always, I very much look forward to your next visit.

~ ~ ~

The first news comes to you in a simple copy and paste act as follows: 

“Congratulations to Laura Lee Sweet, LaFaye Farrar, Keith Alan Hamilton, Robert J. Neal, Patrice N. Rivers, Hülya N Yılmaz and Lisa N. Wiley … they are the top 7 in Book Sales for the 1st Quarter of 2014. Find out why at: Inner Child Press Bookstore

The second news regards the fact that I now am on the verge of  launching my professional manuscript  review and critique services within the body of Inner Child Press, ltd. I am currently working on establishing my new blog, also right here on wordpress.com. This branching was offered to me by dear William S. Peters Sr.,my publisher (scroll down, once on the site),  thanks to his critical insight into my corresponding extensive experience in the fields of book and manuscript reviews and critiques. Review and Critique Services for Manuscripts of Fiction of All Length, my related blog site is yet under construction. Please visit it in about few short days, if you could; for I seek and will look forward to receive your thoughts, reactions, comments, suggestions.

 

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My Review on Goodreads of My Glass of Wine by Kiriti Sengupta

Composing a hybrid work of literature is a challenge in and by itself. To deliver in that work a content as phenomenal as spirituality intensifies the task at hand. In his third book, My Glass of Wine, Kiriti Sengupta accomplishes this difficult undertaking with apparent ease. Moreover, his keen insight in to the Indian mystical traditions has universal appeal, as his discussion and use of imagery – such as wine, intoxication, sun is inclusive of other spiritual teachings, Sufism, in particular. With his pen art, therefore, he succeeds in achieving what he quotes from Baudelaire: “Always be a poet, even in prose.” hülya yılmaz (Ph.D., Humanities)

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A modest review

The following short text comes with great enthusiasm that shook me after reading one of the early poems of Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom:

Is creative writing a learning objective or an innate quality, constitutes an age-old question. With Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom, the answer is multi-faceted, as his poetry eases the reader to a phenomenon of rare talent and impeccable ability in self-teaching. No ordinary evaluation criteria will do.

– hülya yılmaz, Ph.D., college professor in Liberal Arts, The Pennsylvania State University

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Via cell phones: State College, PA – Lagos, Nigeria

When Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom, the author of The Light Bearer (also available in the U.S.) asked me, if I could attend an event of high significance for him, namely his debut introduction to his readers in Nigeria, I was eager to do so. While I couldn’t be there physically, our cellphones managed to enable us a bridge between the continents. My words of endorsement of his poetry appear below, in the form and content I compiled them within a short amount of time that I had (not due to Kolade’s negligence but rather our time zone difference but also my heavy work schedule). I hope my enthusiasm will be well-served so that you may be interested in informing yourselves with this poet of rare talent who happens to be very young but his life  view and lyrical analysis of life issues exceed many heavily aged individual’s capacity. Please read my text picturing my actual presence there in the gathering room for his event, addressing his audience before he begins his book reading.

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A rare talent in composing poetry but also in raising awareness for world issues that matter against the backlash of pitifully mundane ados – perhaps the youngest peace ambassador.

This is hülya yılmaz from State College, Pennsylvania-USA. A warm hello to Lagos State, Nigeria. I feel privileged to be one of the guests at your unique event today in honor of Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom. Knowing Mr. Olanrewaju has been a privilege all by itself. There must be many who are eager to talk about his poetry, so I shall keep my comments on his rarely found poetic work brief. I allow myself to judge as such based on my extensive university career in teaching literature in all its various genres. There is a quote on poetry I am particularly fond of, and it is by the American poet and writer Charles Bukowski: “Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.” Kolade’s lyrical work demonstrates the materialization of the Bukowski conviction. Mr. Olanrewaju’s poetic voice demands attention.   For its clarity, genuine spirit, innovative and creative symbolic imagery, engaging diction and for its musical composition at the same time. There are many, just too many poems in his first book, The Light Bearer, that I could refer to and comment on and on. But, as I noted before, I am not the only one at this literary gathering who wants to shout out to all attending as loudly as I can what the significance of this unbelievably young but incredibly matured poetic genius. I will mention the titles of a few, almost all from about the middle section of The Light Bearer. While I do so, I want to hope that there will be time enough for someone to read these poems aloud for everyone to hear – hopefully again and again. One of them treasures his book on its earlier pages, “My Tongue My Culture”; the others, more toward the mid-section: “Doves in the Sky”, “The Pillars of Peace”, “Let Me Speak My Scars” and later in this notable book, “Beautiful Petals”. Obviously, I can’t and won’t manipulate the time allotted for your event, and will, therefore, only give you a poem by Kolade through which I got to meet him. I will always cherish that time.WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO BUY PEACE?

 

I sit on a mammoth mountain

 

Holding the map of a nation

I

Stare at map with fondness

 

While I savour the smell of peace

 

But mood wouldn’t be retained for long;

 

Map suddenly bleeds

 

Blood flows like the Red Sea

 

Children’s tears deafen my ears

 

Adults wail in agony

 

Brutality and cruelty kill without ceasing.

 

 

Peace is sick in Syria

 

Should we call violence to treat?

 

Love is jailed in Syria

 

Should we employ hatred to defend?

 

Humanity is assaulted in Syria

 

Should we call inhumanity to Judge?

 

Death is thief in Syria

 

Should we call Deaths to arrest?

 

 

War is a whore

 

It seduces death to be its lover

 

While being engaged to catastrophe.

 

 

Confusion parties within me

 

Violence must halt

 

But certainty of identity

of the STOPPER

eludes me

 

How can peace be so costly

 

When all we need to purchase is love?

 

An example of what he offers in the face of the prominent tribal mentality among the world leaders at large, isn’t it?

I promise, these will be my last words (for this event) – words that Kolade Olanerwaju’s poetic power practically gave me the insight to write about his book: Is creative writing a learning objective or an innate quality, constitutes an age-old question. With Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom, the answer is multi-faceted, as his poetry eases the reader to a phenomenon of rare talent and impeccable ability in self-teaching. No ordinary evaluation criteria will do. [My own words from The Light Bearer] Thank you all for listening, Thank you, dearest Kolade, for mediating my words through what I am sure to be an utmost lovely reading voice. Continued success to you, dear young friend!

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