We say we love them.
And we most certainly do.
Then comes the end of their time.
We are not there. We are never there.
One by one, my elderly passed away.
Today still, my heart runs astray.
Neither my mind nor my heart
Is able at any peaceful point to find
The means to console me on my own way
They face death alone . . .
Leaving an unfillable void in our soul.
(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 11.29.2019
~ ~ ~
When my last elderly has transitioned on November 26, 2019 far away from me, this poem came into being.
“Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.”
~ Anais Nin
sigarayı, dumanını değil
kendisini bütünüyle yutarcasına
yeniden var olacakmışsınız gibi
öyle flu uzaklardan ya da rüyada değil
beni aranıza sarmalamışsınız gibi
hissedeyim diye kendimi
kucaklarınız içinde yumulmuşçasına
nasıl bir ileri yavaşlıkta
ne oldu sanki
onca takdir belgesi aldım da?
bana öğretilmeye sunulanların yerine
asıl değeri olanları kulak arkası etmenin
hiç mi bir cezası yoktur sizce?
bana bunun cevabını verin, ne olursunuz
© hülya n. yılmaz, 8.25.2017
i surprised him
the second he spotted me
behind his mommy
his little darling body
became a dance all by itself
his always smiling face
made room for even more
giggles many giggles
‘come on, grandma!’s
hand in hand
eyes locked on mine
my little enormous sunshine
‘you come to anne car’
ending in 1/3 of a question mark
with my yes already in his shiny heart
leaving his pre-school
amid the two grown women’s chatter
as untainted as out-of-this-world
as a human voice can ever be
“I love you, grandma!”
. . .
i love him so
his little sister too
that each such moment takes my breath away
but then together we all get to breathe again
laugh cry eat drink celebrate sleep be loved again
and on the many other ends of our truly splendid world
because of the few but contagious sick and sickening minds
under their equally plagued but money-pouring hands
© hülya n. yılmaz (4.6.2017)
With a lump in my throat for the millions of children killed “[i]n the past ten years, as a result of armed conflict,” for the millions who “have been disabled, […] are homeless, and […] have become separated from their caregivers.” From: The Invisible Trauma of War-Affected Children (My quotes’ source, a post by Robert T. Muller, Ph.D. dates back to April 27, 2013. Close to four years later, the numbers of the so-called “casualties of war” do not need a scientific reference, do they?)
Candayım, Mahmut Oğuz Ergün, Dr. Med. (5.7.1931-3.28.2015)
what telling stories did you embroider
in the tapestry of our family tree
your Life-support system was unplugged too hastily…
© hülya n. yılmaz, 3.30.2015
i still do
that of my loved ones that is
when the heartbreak is too much to surpass
my memory box takes me by surprise
and i realize . . .
how even death bows down before love
© hülya n. yılmaz, 2.12.2016
≈ ≈ ≈
This poem appeared as one of my three poetry contributions for the March 2016 issue of The Year of the Poet III, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press, Ltd. and consists of poems by eighteen writers, with between two and three featured new poets each month.