Tag Archives: Inner Child Press

“Twin Passions”

Twin Passions

Romantic notions of our lives . . .
Did we not have them all?
Did we not yearn to leave a permanent evidence on Earth
. . . of our existence?

At the time of our birth, life’s canvas is blank.
Painting, sculpture, architecture, poetry, music,
literature, and dance are all likely prospects
for the shaping of our passions.

Soon, reality appears before us
with its corresponding realities.
Its shape-shifting trait then materializes
in the form of grandparents, parents,
guardians, siblings, distant relatives,
friends, neighbors, and teachers.

Everyone but we ourselves
have a concise imaginary account
of our passion-less future.

. . .

Against all resistance
from the practitioners of standardized education,
Heather Rosemary Sewell, Heather Jansch
as commonly known, nurtured her dreams
. . . of becoming an artist, that is.

Her two passions were drawing and horses.
Her sculpture of a horse, made of driftwood,
was, in her own description, “like line drawing.”

Her twin passions . . . etched in our eyes and minds
in utmost harmony. Here to stay.  

*Like last Sunday’s “The Seven Fine Arts and I“, ”twin passions” is another Ekphrastic poem with which I have contributed to the September 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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Back from fishing . . .

I Want . . .

Erato and Euterpe to mesmerize me.

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

I want every breath of mine
on the scent of Calliope,
inhaling and exhaling these Muses.

I want to be fed poetry.

I want all my pitchers, cups and glasses
to daily and nightly absorb poetry.

Calliope, Erato, Euterpe,
come to me please and stay
eternally with me.
Throughout it all,
mesmerize me!

*This ekphrastic poem, “I Want . . .”, will appear in the September 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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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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“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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“Naren”

the other day
i met Anjana Basu
online
following a forgotten vision
one i had
most likely
eons ago

if
my unexplainable
however reliable
instinctive being
is right on the dot that is

at any rate

i pursued her
inquired about her life
even traveled to Allahabad
to see if her town of birth
resembled mine

i took a connecting flight to London
where she had been schooled

within a couple of hours
i appeared in Kolkata
at her doorstep

a gracious hostess

she invited me in
her home was grandiose
not in an empirical sense

oh no!

she knew
what alone had mattered in life
love and light shone out loud
through every nook and cranny
of her otherwise humble abode

she served us tea with milk and honey
it was prepared in a colonialism-free manner
true to her upbringing true to her mother-culture

she had placed
rashly-improvised store-bought delicacies
(i had after all showed up unannounced)
a delicate modest-in-size-tray showed them off

the plane food made my fingers think again
they resisted reaching out
with a strong will
much stronger than my eyes’ appetite
so, i declined with my utmost proper
nay-say-gratitude

we talked and talked
actually, she talked and i listened
to her mesmerizing novellas
her Black Tongue
the novel for which she had been recognized
as the winner of the Hawthornden Fellowship
(in Scotland)

her successful endeavors in script-writing
and more . . .

details about her accomplished self
she had no intention to reveal to me
had i not done my homework right

the subject then came to “Naren”

an epic story-teller at its best
disguised as a poem in free-verse
and thus, began Anjana Basu:

The words I have for Naren are purely prose.
Prose. Prose of a chest
A mat of hair against the sun. Sometimes
It’s counting the tiles on a floor
Held down. Or a bed field of crumbs
And a dirty foot. Even greying underwear.
Sometimes an evening spent in hatred
Following in one’s head the footsteps of a whore
Down some dark lane or a street of crumbling houses.

These are words for Naren.
Perhaps a synonym for rage or hate.
Or even an undefinable word called love
That you could find in rage or hate.
There are other meanings – even other shades
Left out. Footsteps of a child or whore
Or other women deliberately taken
And then the running back to a familiar bed.
I called it lost child.
There were other words too –
Lover, Boyfriend, ex-Husband, boy-husband.
It meant keeping company in an empty room
With haunted corners. With shame
And a telephone wire.
Company against reason or sense
Or the blotting out of a curtain –hiding
From pigeons or from seeking eyes.

These were words for Naren.
Are still perhaps.
Pretended love made in a mirror,
A shuddering belly and tonsils hurt
The way a face may flush or voice darken
Denying everything but lust or hate, or accidental love. Naren’s words.

when this wonder-filled wondrous woman
of unforgettable demeanor ceased her voice to be
her tangibly exquisite
enriching enchanting exfoliating
purity-extracting plate of human-ness
took the external load off of her
and lain there for me to devour

plenty of leftovers gathered up in an orderly row

i am on my way to bring them over to you

 

© hülya n. yılmaz, 2.15.2018

[This poem was submitted for the March, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press. The Year of the Poet has its regularly contributing poets from various parts of the world and features between three and four new poetry writers every month. Now in its fifth year, this book showcases -outside its monthly changing featured poets, the poetic works of fourteen “permanent” writers. The book’s 2018 offerings have been conceived to highlight a different civilization each month. Accordingly, it serves also as a collective educational undertaking to offer insight into various aspects of civilizations of the past and present.]

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“the world’s timeline knows . . .”

they had to be noted
while their desert of sand
still chuckled in giggles
with their newborns’ tickles
but also drained out persistent tears
that were soaked by parents’ eternal fears

wars were aplenty back then

are you with me?
do you see what i see?
on second thought . . .
never mind!
forget about me!
just look
please take a good look
with your heart’s eyes however
holding on all along
to the hand of your conscience too
surely you will heed
the desperate call for a minute-long silence
in the face of the so-called
ancient times’ wholehearted embrace
of building legendary and timeless monuments
of constructing age-old destructions

oh, the broken spirits’ tears!
oh, those souls-burning tears!

wars are too plentiful today

© hülya n. yılmaz, 1.20.2018

[This poem appeared in the February, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press. The Year of the Poet has its regularly contributing poets from various parts of the world and features between three and four new poetry writers every month. Now in its fifth year, this book showcases -outside its monthly changing featured poets, the poetic works of fourteen “permanent” writers. The book’s 2018 offerings have been conceived to highlight a different civilization each month. Accordingly, it serves also as a collective educational undertaking to offer insight into various aspects of civilizations of the past and present.]

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“love . . . what else is there?”

oh you dear little one
with gorgeous hope-eyes
which of them was robbed from you

ever so abruptly cruelly
in blood-chilling monstrosities

your mother or your father

maybe both

you are in hunger pains i know and as thirsty
as those war mongers’ obsession to slay
yet so helpless as they never seem to be

my entire being is craving
to cradle you into my body
back to your somewhat safe times
to sing to you inside all my insides
with the hope for a sedating deep sleep
to send you to your innocent dreams
so that they become you
or you them

i have just fetched
my dried-out mother’s milk
it will pour for i have willed it so
nourishing not only your tiny half-cut frame
but also the brutally smashed shards of your heart
an uncut diamond shattered before you were born

your wingless soul introduced itself to me
she too is invited to our feast

as for your angel-spirit
she was meant to fly up on high
so i let her free she now soars
above and beyond the sky
tucked in safely
in her safe haven

please don’t you crawl away in a rush
i do not want you to go there
not yet anyway

i am told
i am good at make-believe . . .

you can tell me how i did
when you and i once again meet

a deserved life of marvels is planted on your path
don’t you ever mind the vulgar stench of the killers

when compared . . .

(if such linking were sane
the scent that our dead and dying ooze
makes envious the newest blooms of the Sweet Pea

sleep my still unnamed little angel
sleep angelically as only you can do

my all-loving heart
and my determined mind
will know how to soothe
my for long unstoppable-y wailing soul
so that my mother-hands can knit
your receiving-blanket into an armor
invisible to the sadistic human beast

i will lay myself down next to you
i promise you i will not leave

until after your last breath . . .

you will at least face death
not in the hands of Man’s vomited filth
but rather in my love-arms

sleep Mother Earth’s untainted scream
and perhaps just perhaps in a dream
try to forgive me if you can
for all the deeds i could have done
but in my passionate paralysis did not do
and for all the miracles you had hoped i would proclaim
but in my emotive weakness have not done so

all that is anon left in me due to you for you
is the mighty strength to sway you in my womb
until forever onto your wasted pathway you must go

© hülya n. yılmaz (Revised from a 2017 poem and submitted to the international World Healing World Peace Poetry anthology to be published by Inner Child Press in April 2018, marking its fourth biennial publication)

As for this “I”, it still is striving to witness one day
that solely love rules in the world.

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Wishing to Time-Travel

Ma’rib

i time-travel frequently
to far-away places and times

do not misunderstand!
it is so not because i cannot cope
with where i am when i am who i am
it is simply so by choice
we all have that button
at our fingertips
do we not?

this time
i left for Ma’rib
to partake of its much-anticipated fall

no!

no!

better yet:
to witness a bit its oft-quoted glory

it was the years between  
. . .
(?)
surely
many a century
let’s estimate them to be
within the 8th century BC
and the 5th of AD
what matters is the fact
that i have indeed come back
to tell you a tiny story
all the way from its era of notable glory

look!
what you see
on the sand of its desert
at the bottom of its incredible Dam
are my footprints
marked forever on each

those fine particles between my toes
made a promise to me:
they will never give my ignorance away
if i were not to cancel my initial plans to stay
to which i replied in my heart’s tongue:
my spirit could not abandon them ever
for i had begun to fiercely shiver
in ecstasy so profound and prolific
that i could not help but compare
the touch of their excitingly hot stare
to my beloved King Solomon’s affair
with Sheba his Queen totally bare soul-wise
legendarily beautiful and well-dressed otherwise
that i had been admiring both
from afar long ago from there
where i am now and have always been

but then resurfaced
flooding along their insatiable hunger
(for the fresh blood of innocence that is)
the cold-blooded powers-to-be. . .

my time capsule rushed to bring me back

what –to my eternally aflame despair–
my ignorant grown-up-eyes did lack
was the growing notorious record
of my own era’s love for affairs of darkness

perhaps just perhaps
you would like to join me

my time capsule has reserved seats for many . . .  

© hülya n. yılmaz, 1.20.2018

[This poem will appear in the February, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press. The Year of the Poet has its regularly contributing poets from various parts of the world and features between three and four new poetry writers every month. Now in its fifth year, this book showcases -outside its monthly changing featured poets, the poetic works of fourteen “permanent” writers. The book’s 2018 offerings have been conceived to highlight a different civilization each month. Accordingly, it serves also as a collective educational undertaking to offer insight into various aspects of civilizations of the past and present.]

YOTP February 2018 Front.jpg.opt836x1254o0,0s836x1254

[Image enabled with the permission of the publisher, William S. Peters Sr., a prolific poet who by invitation has made personal appearances at numerous poetry festivals in a variety of countries -including Kosovo, Morocco, Tunisia, Macedonia, Jordan, Palestine. Several of his poetry books have been translated into different languages. William S. Peters Sr. is also widely known for his dedication, devotion and passion for humanitarian initiatives, all of which are presently in growing fruition. *Please note: The audio-interview used here is from three years ago and accordingly, the information delivered with it is not up-to-date.]

 

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Aksum . . .

December 17 was the last date when I had posted on my blog . . . I have truly missed being here . . . so, here I am with the first entry of 2018 (Happy New Year, by the by) . . . my three poems that will appear in the January, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet V, an anthology published by the globe-reaching Inner Child Press (monthly poetry offerings of the Poetry Posse and between 3-4 featured new poets). Entering 2018 strong in its 5th year, this publication will provide the reader with insights into a different cultural entity across the world in each of its issues. January’s focus was Aksum.

what i knew would simply not do

Ethiopia
the early Christian era
but Red Sea ruler?

~ ~ ~

empires surely rise

and
as we live it every day today
they also fall
out of history’s authentic tracks, that is
for only white men get to etch make-believe memories
in acid on the indestructible fabric of lies to come
together, of course, with co-travelers –their women
who in the footsteps of
their 19th century Orientalist counterparts
first become enchanted
(or better yet drunken)
by the foreign “object” of their own fantasies
but then upon their return to their home countries
adhere themselves in perfected loyalty to
painting, writing or chanting
pieces of fascinating stories
all of which serve to mesmerize
the self-appointed ”Subject”
of highest esteem in its collective existence

the “other” is doomed . . .
doomed beyond erasure
far beyond the abyss
of eternity

history’s selective books
again and again, as our times evidence anew,
mount permanently
those powers of self-erected “superior” thrones
in their self-designated importance
for generations and more and more generations to come
on self-constructed paper reserved for mass readings
however fast their seats’ physical capacity
may outgrow their miniscule competence
failing to make room for their incurable ignorance . . .

The Aksum Kingdom too is doomed
doomed to remain as “the inferior other”
not to be ever revered for
what it had in fact been, was and will be
namely, a domain of notable accomplishment
among our current world’s celebrated civilizations
worthy of equally noble presentations
as well as proud representations

it is doomed instead

if only this empire had not been discovered
to be an achievement of blacks
created as a “promised land for uprooted Africans”

if only this empire had not been revived
for its utterly memorable existence
through the efforts of enslaved
18th century black preachers
amid us

in the good old United States . . .

~ ~ ~

what is to be your mark?

Aksum’s origin
is not to be traced back to
Semitic kingdoms

 

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