Tag Archives: Inner Child Press International

“A Duet with Xue Tao”

A Duet with Xue Tao

Xue Tao:

My soul, conforming to this crescent,
dwindles
and flying, now chases a gathering of skies.
Its fine light form, against the darkness, fills
again
and, from all this world of men, its circle can
be seen.

[Xue Tao, “Moon” in The Brocade River Collection]

hülya n. yılmaz:

a gentle wind
lowers itself onto the arid leaf
thirsty for the attar of a new breath
awaiting in patience the first drop
underneath layers of the frozen white

it whispers promises anew
unlocks the box after Pandora leaves

she has been tricked . . .

no ill seeps through this time
the bolt’s ice will not be melting yet
in joyous dance unite hope and smiles
dreams and love recover again

Goethe calls out as if for me:

“Muses, help me with art,
To suffer joy’s pain!”

Ludwig Uhland’s painless joy
cuddles me with a kissing breeze:

“Oh fresh scent, oh new sound!
Now, poor heart, fear not!
Now everything, everything must change.”

[hülya n. yılmaz, “a gentle wind” in Aflame, Memoirs in Verse]

 

(c) hülya n. yılmaz (October 19, 2019)

This post displays one of my three poems that have been included in the November 2019 issue of The Year of the Poet, published by Inner Child Press International.

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“A Duet with Zhuo Wenjun”

A Duet with Zhuo Wenjun

Zhuo Wenjun:

Love should be pure, as white as snow on the mountain,
And as bright as the moon amid the clouds.
I heard of your duplicitous intentions,
So I came to break off our relationship.
Today we drink a cup of wine and bid farewell,
Tomorrow we part ways at the moat.
I walk alone above the imperial moat,
And watch the water flowing eastward.
Cold and sorrowful,
A bride at her wedding should not weep.
I want a man who loves me with single-hearted devotion,
And we will stay together as our hair turns white.
A loving couple should be like the shimmering fish
Wriggling at the end of a bamboo rod.
A man who values loyalty
Is worth more than money can buy.

[Zhuo Wenjun, “Song of White Hair”]

hülya n. yılmaz:

once the aged soul
has undressed to the core
layers of her body-fabric become vain
waiting for an annihilating frost to set in,
the inconsolable void might attain its resolve
fanaticizing that the fangs of lost love
have begun at last to will to eat away
the one punica granatum in decay

one red droplet at a time . . .

[hülya n. yılmaz, “a crying Pomegranate” in Aflame, Memoirs in Verse]

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This poem is one of my three that have been included in the November 2019 issue of The Year of the Poet, published by Inner Child Press International.

 

 

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“The Igbu Landing

The Igbu Landing

Denial came as it still tends to do.
“It’s only a legend”, shouted the well-to-do.
In his time or now, he was no legend however,
Roswell King, the white overseer.
His ink had mastered a horrifying account;
Not far away, but from a plantation nearby.
Pierce Butler was the name of the God-forsaken place
Where the white overseer once again put history to shame.
Those died in mass suicide were given not one single name.

© hülya n. yılmaz, March 15, 2019

This poem has been published by Inner Child Press International in the April 2019 issue of The Year of the Poet VI.

* An excerpt from the source, Igbo Landing Mass Suicide: “While many historians for centuries have cast doubt on the Igbo Landing mass suicide, suggesting that the entire incident was more legend than fact, the accounts Roswell King and others provided at the time were verified by post-1980 research which used modern scientific techniques to reconstruct the episode and confirm the factual basis of the longstanding oral accounts.

In September 2002, the St. Simons African American community organized a two-day commemoration with events related to Igbo history and a procession to the site of the mass suicide. Seventy-five attendees came from different states across the United States, as well Nigeria, Brazil, and Haiti. The attendees designated the site as a holy ground and called for the souls to be permanently at rest. The Igbo Landing is now part of the curriculum for coastal Georgia schools.”

 

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“my ABCs”

my ABCs

one morning, as i found out
i had learned my ABCs
from A to V, that is
Venezuela
Argentina
Colombia
Suriname
Paraguay
Uruguay
Ecuador
Guyana
Bolivia
Brazil
Chile
Peru

yes, oh yes!
i now know my ABCs
but only in South America . . .

Asia? Europe? Africa?
Australia? Antarctica? North America?

not as of yet . . .

© hülya n. yılmaz, December 31, 2018

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This poem is one of the three I have submitted for the February 2019 issue of The Year of the Poet VI, published by Inner Child Press International.

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“indigenous”

indigenous

are we not all?
indigenous, that is?

at some point or another
our host country has feasted itself
with our native tongue, customs
traditions – our native everything
but then, our origins’ uniqueness began to melt
into our new home’s sphere
we were in no despair
we were devoted
and quested
to make it
here

our religion began to change
as did our original language
our ways of life altered themselves
we also had much baggage
from our long-gone past
we needed to adapt fast

did i say “indigenous”?
are we not all?

© hülya n. yılmaz, December 31, 2018

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This poem will be published by Inner Child Press International in the February 2019 issue of The Year of the Poet VI.

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“Mesoamerica”

Mesoamerica

an area spanning from central Mexico
to Honduras and Nicaragua
encompassing diverse
civilizations of the
pre-Columbian era

what did those cultural entities do
is what i wonder about when i read
generic definitions as the one above
what were the landmarks of distinction
of this region’s “flourished” civilizations?

like we, they too were no doubt divided by language
religion, social class, economics and politics
how did they cope with those divides
is to me the must-be-asked question
did they ever quest for peace?

do we, in full reality, quest for peace?
if so, why then do we not have it yet?
what can i alone, we together, strive
to achieve a stronghold on that too
slippery road of our differences?

their faith was in multitudes
as were their tongues
not any different,
the rest of their
construct

we are looking at ourselves
in the same inexorable mirror
and do not see what we actually are:
bones, joints, flesh, hair and organs inside
all of which we all will have left for the other side . . .

© hülya n. yılmaz, December 30, 2018

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This poem will be published by Inner Child Press International in the February 2019 issue of The Year of the Poet VI.

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“Cherokee to Ho-Chunk”

Cherokee to Ho-Chunk

it is not only the volume as far as their names
but also their inherent cultures’ vast and timeless bounty
that made today’s North America, the supposedly
newly discovered world’s 3rd largest continent

and, each of their tribes suffered

Native Americans, that is

they faced pain beyond

humanity’s capacity

they were subjected to tortures
to butchery, to slavery and to conversion
to Christianity – or else, they would have met death

we all sit now in our own comfort on their land
having pushed them into the most remote
corners of low lands of their country
either pitying what has become of them over time
or admiring their enduring strength, integrity, dignity

how, amid immensely bloody tragedies, they still do rise
to shout loud and act out their ancient words of wisdom
as to how to live with respect for every dab of our world
in honor of not merely the two-legged animal species
but, of our four-legged counterparts, too

regardless of what any of us has / not done in person
collectively, we bear the onerous weight of annihilating
an entire indigenous people, together with their languages,
cultures, generations-surviving rich history and daily lives;
of guiding them to their irreparable shameful demise

how many times have i cited your wise insights
not having a clue whom to give the credit to
dear members of the Cherokee, the Apache,
the Iroquois, the Pawnee people, the Sioux,
the Miwok, the Shoshone, the Osage Nation,
the Navajo, the Lakota people, the Ute people,
the Sauk people, the Cheyenne, the Crow Nation,
the Nez Perce people, the Ho-Chunk, the Ponca,
the Paiute, the Omaha people, the Hidatsa, the Odawa,
the Chumash people, the Mandan, the Duwamish people,
the Iowa people, the Cahuilla, the Modoc people, the Otoe,
the Yakama, the Pima people, the Chiricahua, the Arikara,
the Missouria, the Sac and Fox Nation, the Omaha people,
the Meskwaki, the Odawa, the Washoe people,
the Patwin, the Goshute, the Serrano people,
the Maidu, the Quechan,
the Oneida Indian Nation,
the Yankton Sioux Tribe, the Kumeyaay,
the Indigenous peoples of the Northwest,
the Chinookan peoples, the Clatsop, the Miami people,
the Tulalip, the Mandan, the Hidatsa and Arikara Nation,
the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes . . .

forgive my silence
forgive my ignorance
i bow before each of you

forgive my daring, desperate plea
that which i brought along with me
in my quest to seek wisdom from thee
it is said to come from a Plains Indian, you see:

“Give me knowledge, so I may have kindness for all.”

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This poem was submitted to the January 2019 issue of The Year of the Poet VI, published by Inner Child Press International

 

 

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