Tag Archives: humanity
sinnlos die tränen
wenn eiskalt viele seelen
die menschheit schläft tief
(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 1.17.2018
Free Translation (self):
senseless the tears
if ice-cold the many souls
humanity is in a deep sleep
and other kings of vultures
are lulled to their eternal sleep
in their dens amid circles of doves
lambs cranes sloths deers and butterflies
compassion has reached the birth canal
[Credit for the Images: Summer Anne Burton at buzzfeed.com]
* This poem – here still in its raw version – will re-appear in An Aegean Breeze of Peace, a pending book of poetry, being currently co-authored by Dr. Demetrios Trifiatis (Greece) and myself (Turkey) to be published by Inner Child Press, Ltd.
(Photo: Free Online)
To have great poets, there must be great audiences too.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
If you are here right now, then you are a reader – regardless of how much of my text you will read (imagine: I arrived at this no-brainer-conclusion all by myself…gives out a sneaky smile…). Then, of course, there is the writer in you. And as one, you know how the mysterious concept called “inspiration” works at times (or how it doesn’t). William S. Peters Sr. to whom I am proud to refer as my publisher has done it again; namely, envisioning and implementing together with Jamie Bond the Year of the Poet – monthly poetry books birthed through collaboration between Inner Child Press Ltd. (ICP) and The Creating Calm Publishing Group.
In 2014, the permanent contributors from among the large number of the ICP authors had included Jamie Bond, Gail Weston Shazor, Albert ‘Infinite’ Carrasco, Siddartha Beth Pierce, Janet P. Caldwell, June ‘Bugg’ Barefield, Debbie M. Allen, Tony Henninger, Joe DaVerbal Minddancer, Robert Gibbons, Neetu Wali, Shareef Abdur-Rasheed, Kimberly Burnham and William S. Peters, Sr. In the new year, there will be several new names, including Ann White, Keith Alan Hamilton, Teresa E. Gallion, Katherine Wyatt and myself. I know the remarkable penmanship of all these dear individuals and our shared passion for poetry is evident in every communication we have within or outside the territories of the books of mention. Then, there are featured poets for each month outside the “Core” contributors to poetry, all of whom have the same dedication to this literary art. As the ICP web page states, “[t]he objective is to bring the poetry community together with the various cross demographic representations found in gender, religion, geography, culture and ethnicity. We hope you enjoy the myriad of perspectives represented here (The Year of the Poet).”
2015 will be filled with writing and reading poems for me each month (if not far more often). I want to hope you will be a reader of these poetry books that are bound to surprise you with the promised beauty of one poem after another, month after month.
May the new year be and become all that you wish it to be and become for yourself and your loved ones! I look forward to your visit in 2015.
are you chlostrophobic
you did very well the last time
staples nausea feverishness anxious about that intruder
acutely aware now of that overly tight of a loneliest space
breathing hurts regardless
the better choice, mri not doable, too early to discard the stitches
surgical endoscopy under general anesthesia a must
not major, considering
a setback nevertheless
when have i become this fortunate, dear Drs. C, A, D, P, Thu, S, Tho
to have you circle around me
not giving up
though perplexed from the onset
how do you manage
to turn nighttimes
into bearable patches
you beautiful sweet Ma, A, Me, S, T, D, B, L
and Alice, oh sweet Alice
your aged yet capable body catering to the troubled vessel of mine
those clear-sky-blue gorgeous eyes reading my face with caring intent
you are a unique woman – your soothing voice rises high
it’s the least i can be
amid you wonder-generating women of various ages
when time stood still for me
wrapped in the silence of death
a precious offering from you all would not
hülya n yılmaz (August 25, 2014)
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
to wait for my turn…
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”
~ ~ ~
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.
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
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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.