Tag Archives: Inner Child Press International

“Storms”


sitting on the porch
breathing in the soft breeze

a rare occurrence these days

fierce wind storms forced
the age-old trees in the back to bow down
so much so that the property owner
started to cut them off of the ground
that frail human attempt failed miserably
the branches, as thick as a tree stem, stayed strong

for the time being . . .

lately, they are gasping for air, maybe their final ones
another explosive storm
will surely make its way

exhausted, those trees are doomed to cave . . . 

hülya n. yılmaz

This poem is one of my three contributions to the monthly book, The Year of the Poet, published by Inner Child Press International.

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“I Want My Poetry to . . .”

i want my poetry to
be a break from life

i want my poetry to
burn tears in your hearts
then bring them to the surface
before you decide you had better cave in
to the pain and suffering, etched ever so resiliently
in your past, present and future memories,
when it is 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
who learned to utter only the tongue of love . . .
their aura will entice you into a burial ground of ashes
where to lie to rest your ire and your innermost fears,
to shed all your chains to be free of also the grim tears
which have been fiercely carved on Earth
on its every hidden nook and cranny
since the birth of humanity

                                                i want my poetry to
be a break from life

welding 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 will not let you 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

i want my poetry to
be a break from life

holding your hand
every time you must weather a storm
so that you know i too have been marred
the craftiest kind left me barren in 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

i want my poetry to
be a break from life

wafting 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 comet-ic 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 do not
sing of elation alone . . .

~ * ~

“Be a Break from Life” has first appeared in I Want My Poetry To . . . Volume 3, an international anthology published in March 2017 by Inner Child Press, Ltd.

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Gorillas? Thank You, I’ll Pass!

Gorillas? Thank You, I’ll Pass!

Please, oh please!
Let me never run into one,
Unless he is on TV,
An e-gadget,
Or inside a magazine.
Better yet,
In a menagerie,
Most preferably.

Even his much smaller kind
Is hostile in his squabble.

Oh, yes! We two siblings
Do still remember the battle
On that wet afternoon in 1961.

The entry of a supposed ‘Petting Zoo’
Outside a friendly German town
Is all where it started.

The back of my brother’s raincoat
Had suddenly left for the cage in strips.
The culprit was a seriously little monkey.
It must have waited to test his powerful grip.

I doubt that there were gorillas somewhere nearby.
Would any of us little escapees have wanted to reveal
A private compound for them?
No way!

Even if it were today,
I would shout out:
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll just pass
Today, and any other day!”

hülya n. yılmaz, June 6, 2022

This ekphrastic poem is one of the three with which I have contributed to the July 2022 issue of The Year of the Poet, published by Inner Child Press International.

Photo Credit: Max Pixel Mammal Nature Monkey Animal Monkeys Cute Baby
Photo Credit: Max Pixel Ape Baby Gorilla Mountain Gorilla Hand Monkey

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“A Crappy Poem for a Crappy . . .”

a crappy poem for a crappy planet maintenance

lately, i have not written poems
poetry, however, has always been my go-to

i feel crappy inside, and look thus on the outside
negative thoughts have been piling up in me
for too long of a while,
and they spread like fire of the wild

our planet’s state of being leaves me in despair
no care for tomorrow, no care for today
a gigantic dumpster is what we are turning it into
the forests, the valleys, the oceans, the rivers,
all of them get their shabby share

i know, i know
this poem is utterly crappy
but i cannot help writing it for each of us to see
how we supposedly maintain our planet
is being done ever so lousily

what are we leaving for our children,
for our grandchildren,
for our yet-to arrive fellow humans?

a crappy planet

not unlike these crappy lines

an egregious chunk of disarray!

​© hülya n. yılmaz

This poem is one of the three with which I have contributed to the April 2022 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press International.

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After a long hiatus . . .

I Want . . .

Erato and Euterpe to mesmerize me.

I want them to lay me down to a restful sleep
to wake up by their side,
having dreamed of enchanting
poetic lines of my own creation.

I want on every breath of mine
the scent of Calliope,
inhaling and exhaling her Muse.

I want to be fed poetry.

I want my drinking vessels
to absorb poesie
day after day, night after night
never to exit my soul.

Calliope, Erato, Euterpe, come to me
to stay with me to eternity.

Throughout it all,
enthrall me!

“I Want . . .” was one of my poetry contributions for the September 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet IX, published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International. I have made some minor adjustments for this post.

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“Snail Mail”, a Poem

snail mail

tucked in inside various kinds of envelopes,
postcards and personal (or professional) letters
donned their two-option stamp:
domestic or international

they are now on their way
to become a mere memory
of the fast-disappearing past

long before emails won the popularity contest
having gained a steady support
at a record-breaking speed,
snail mail used to be the long-distance venue
with its two-option destination:
domestic or international

if you are my age,
you too have probably seen many a stamp
some, uplifting in their flower prints
or season-specific images;
others, destined to mark awareness
for many a fatal disease

who recalls ever seeing the Duck Stamp
of the U.S. Postal Services in 2020?
i do not, nor did i know about its significance
as far as helping people conserve wildlife
or its contribution to the visibility
of educational programs in the United States,
those that focused solely on largely neglected issues
of environmental and conservation concerns

yet . . . for years – clueless
about the notable mark of the Duck Stamp,
i have been donating to the one leading U.S. organization –
well-known in its efforts in this arena

clueless no more . . .

*”snail mail” is one of the three poems I have contributed for the June 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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“My Beloved Grandfather”

my beloved grandfather

he was still young enough to climb up and down
those multiple steep concrete steps

the most exciting part of his every single day
would announce itself with the arrival of the mailman

after his historically unique private home,
he lived in an upper-most flat of an apartment complex

the mailboxes were right at the entry of the building
down, way down the seemingly unending stairway

he would rush to get to that floor,
hoping that his children or grandchildren
had written to him once more

when i visited him the last time,
he mistook me for my Mom
and my daughter, for me

Alzheimer’s had become his steady companion,
along with the postcards he long ago secured
with his longing and love on his self-made pin board

*”My Beloved Grandfather” is one of my three poems that will appear in the June 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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“Skin Hues”

skin hues

what i am about to say is a no-brainer, for sure
my intent is not to assault your intellect
but rather to express the most obvious
so that none of us attempts to disrespect
the basic reality of our humanity
any longer

we are all born with melanin in our bodies
some of us have more of this natural pigment
while children are blind to such nuances
(unless they are taught at home)
as adults, some of us beg to differ
we then choose to go against the stream,
disrupting the most natural flow:
all for one, one for all
for the sake of harmony within humanity

skin hues, thus, become a means to hate,
to hate unconditionally and passionately
it is only a matter of a short time then
before that hatred turns into sizable inheritances
for generations to come

on account of our outer traits . . .

on account of variations in our pigments . . .

what a badge of shame
to wear as the heritage of one’s family!

“skin hues” is one of my three poem contributions to the April 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet VIII, published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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Diego Rivera: “Religions Are a Form of Collective Neurosis”

“God does not exist”

picture an eminent mural by Diego Rivera, please
Dreams of a Sunday in the Alameda, for instance,
with a sign in the hands of Don Ignacio Ramírez:
“God does not exist”

a public furor ensues
the artist is asked to remove the inscription
he refuses to abide by such demands

the painting goes into a 9-year-long prison
Rivera finally agrees to eliminate
the controversial phrase
but first, he avows his atheist stance
and attests his views on religions:
“a form of collective neurosis”

“God Does Not Exist” is one of my three poem contributions to the May 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet VIII, published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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“The Meeting”, a Poem

The Meeting

a painting by Pablo O’Higgins
catches the eye
it is said to be
representing unity within humanity
the banner on this artwork claims thus:
“Build a free world. No masters. No slaves.”
Signed: “Makers of the world united”

a portrayal of men only . . .
Caucasians only . . .
clothing . . . differentiated by class
mimics and gestures of the few front-view men
stress who has the last word

unity within humanity?
“Makers of the world united”?
i, for one, do not think so!

this visual art is more like an emphasis on hierarchy
amidst various segments of societal authority . . .

*This poem appeared in the April 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet (volume VIII), published by Inner Child Press International. The theme was to compose an ekphrastic poem (as in Ekphrasis Poetry) in view of the painting of focus below by Pablo O’Higgins.

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