Tag Archives: Inner Child Press

“Nanki-poo” ~ Poetry and the Opera

a traveling musician was he,

entering the stage in a cheer: “A wand’ring minstrel I!”

this character stunned many a prop of the two-act comic opera,

“The Mikado” or “The Town of Titipu”

each, a tongue twister of some sort

but a brain-teaser, too, for us – the non-Japanese

mikado stands, after all, for the Emperor of Japan

while it represents – online references claim the same:

“the great gate at the Imperial Palace in Kyoto”

no mind-boggling intent is actually there to spend

an age-old tradition of respect is merely in to maintain

when addressing nobility, that is…

where, then, do i come in?

let me make the attempt to explain:

Nanki-poo speaks of his father as the “Brutus of his race”

the world-renowned assassin of Caesar

for the Mikado “condemned his own sons to death”

charging them with “treasonous conspiracy”

one act’s revelation of this son’s escape from execution

is, please beware, of no notable importance here

the Mikado’s rise to the throne however, is

along with his lifelong pretense as a “fool”…

why, you ask?

allow me now to get to my final task:

we each seek a safe space in our memories, as i believe

an alternative reality to help us avoid self-destruction

for me to pretend i am a fool is a long-lost obstruction


no seat of any significance ever meant anything to me


it’s not the opera’s mikado i can relate to

or ever do

the daughter, i have in mind instead

one he had only from afar

she betrayed her own paternal kin

no conspiracy was there to wrongfully pin

she thought him the fool her entire life through

though to him she was the brightest shining star

one who refused his admiration, for she was dead set


now that he reached a most fragile age

would declare herself a saboteur of notorious fame

having always received either love or more of the same

without ever having given in return anything without rage

who today remains in hopeful despair and desperation as well

for her homecoming not to be too late to cast anew its desired spell


© hülya n. yılmaz, December 16, 2014

Source: One of my three contributions for the January 2015 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly book series published by Inner Child Press, Ltd.

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…reminiscing our beloved through poetry…

Welcome, dear reader! Also today, I am sharing with you a new poem. This one comes to you as one of my three contributions for the January 2015 issue of The Year of the Poet – the monthly book series published by Inner Child Press, Ltd. of which I have informed you last Sunday. I want to hope that you will come back next week to accompany me for yet another one. My best wishes for your new week!

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“The Twist” and Tunç dayım*


a pre-natal fascination it must have been

not only for him, for me too, when on my own

lured by the unheard-of piper’s glamorous tune

coveting a First World culture’s tempo-precision

falling into the magic of his feet’s swing-succession


1960s, for pity’s sake!

i, a mere wonder-detecting-eyed toddler

he, a tall cool-dancing swift-footed prince

with an affable smile on his handsome face

removing remarks from his balding greyed head

laughing hard at his pants for their bowlegged dent

those “futbolcu bacakları”* are insured, his pride would allege

for a rare high amount, and upon invitation at that!

by whom? we never learned enough to pledge


in 1941, awing the world, Chubby Checker gets born

Tunç dayım had thus far been moving fairly along

to witness the year 1960 for an album’s dramatic release

extracting joy from his music-filled youth of disease

“The Twist” had arrived – an all-American song

competing against his magical feet so strong

inside his shiny all-American shoes


that year saw in me a toddling and toodling little fire

my often sickly eyes lain on the twists and turns of his legs

leaving me behind in my sick-bed within a safe distance

frequenting his visits in sets of carnaval-colored attire

to balance my weakness with his weakened substance


in 1970s, self-centered-to-the-limit was i

the world-is-solely-about-me-all me-i was i

he – sentenced to an early death at birth

danced in grace to his reserved time’s drum

taking me always to a felt-deeply-inside-mirth

at each of my moments of the slightest glum

having lived with us for years when young

an attentive brother to me is what he had become

his selfless love and care had since often been sung

from me for him however, there was not a thing to come


he died, we learned afterward – on the stairways to his office

one late night in his attempt to rush to answer a call


late 1970s



2000 to the present year

the youngest and a most precious darling of the Erguens

gets forgotten

by me

the universe-turns-around-me-i of me


then a friend’s public post the other day

lends me a ticket to that now valued past

its stub shouting a valid grist,

“Come on, baby, let’s do the twist!”


Shared as well.

In my chamber’s core canal.


“Take me by my little hand and go like this.”

Once more. To tell me you forgive me

for forgetting you this long.

Your brother is among us still,

caring for me since you have left.

And i…

have learned,

have finally learned

not to let him slide by

while he is among the living yet.


*”dayım” equals “my uncle from the mother’s side” and “futbolcu bacakları” means “legs of a succer player” in Turkish, my native tongue. Crooked legs in men used to receive a light-hearted description while I was growing up in Turkey, succer being the country’s national sport and one that supposedly caused men the less-than-straight look in their lower body. This younger uncle had been a succer player since his very early ages, and always proudly referred to his legs under this common excuse, while he would don a huge sneaky smile for those of his happiest childhood times.

© hülya n. yılmaz, December 16, 2014




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“on a pedestal, no more – a poem trilogy”

Dear Readers:

Today, I am sharing with you my poem trilogy that was published in The Year of the Poet, a book by Inner Child Press where I was a featured poet this month – carrying such honor together with a fellow author.  In their imagery, these poems deviate significantly from the majority of my previous lyrical compositions.  I hope you will find their invitations to uncover my intended audience at least somewhat of enigmatic quality.

May the rest of your Sunday and new week a delightful one! As always, I look forward to your next visit.


the impotent puppeteer


not an inner beauty nor on the outside

unlike the tender roots where it sprouted

“a bad seed,” voiced only the wise


oh Medusa, how hath thou cloned thyself?

when hath thou destroyed

where hath thou buried

other Gorgons of Ceto

of Phorcys?


why, the choice to rejoice each dawning day

in the unsuspecting for their ills?

oh, how they added to thy antediluvian thrills!


he was no Perseus






oh Medusa, how thou…

with one of thy latest winding tresses

chanted from the chest of a confidante’s conniving hisses

secreted his sole devotee the ultimate scarlet sentence

slithering in and out of her…

suffocated their blood from its essence


he was no Perseus






a head, nevertheless, dons Athena’s shield today

a Gorgoneion,?  Not in the least.  Oh, nay!


Perseus, thy beloved mother knew its lethal envy for long

as hath thy father, the half-outcast, who did not belong


thy sister does at last



the well-meaning chauvinist


Hippolyte Cogniard and his brother The`odore

may be tempted to produce anew

their La cocarde tricolore

in 1839, after all, already

its roots penetrated the First French army

although Nicholas Chauvin – an apocryphal fighter

did probably spend not much time to ponder

what was to become of his exaggerated affection

for it to surpass time, space to infect grave degeneration

an innocent male of today owes him the concept’s doomed derivation:


a woman is obliged to appear pretty

full facial paint, short skirts, high heels are a must

men-attracting smiles should be frequent and a plenty

hair to be of buoyant design, unrehearsed – as on an odalisque bust


her beauty came from nature

its enticing aura lacked pretense

feminine from head to toe – with legs or without

she smiled – at her will and for herself

burst alluring laughters – when she desired


marriage also found her

inside a circle of cages

a mere twenty-four year-old…


the distorted-Chauvin-coveting one spoke:

what is it you expect?

where is your alternative?

who would accept you in his life?


years later, in rapid aging, he found love

dissolved swiftly his first marital union

wedded a woman less than half his age


on the other side of the globe

fences wore away

day by day

the twenty-four year old…



the learned ignorant


in a family of futile males

he reaped one day their parched tree’s single crop

none would dare to conceive the challenge to stop

his edification cured the lost honor of their patriarch


heading clans of men from many domineering generations

he bestowed upon the wives identical dispensations

for they birthed equally wasted boy-children

of fetal eminence


ages passed

indistinctive women attained nobility

as have the sons, their wives, the in-lawed ovaries

their descendants are donned with unrivaled extravagance


the sole daughter has been erased away

along with her nonmale offspring


a pre-natal larnyx had not been contracted to their matriarch…













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If I don’t, if you don’t, if s/he doesn’t…

Nazıms question

What Nazım Hikmet, the world-renowned exilic poet and thinker of Turkey stresses in his call for collective strength in harmony,  is as follows: “If you don’t, I don’t, we don’t blaze, how can the darkness emanate light?”

Nazım’s invitation, to me, is one to awareness – a timeless gift to generations to come.  If they were to be willing to listen to it, of course.  No different than what John Lennon intended with his song, “Imagine”:

The following lyrics – in sync with the rest of the song, seem self-explanatory:


Imagine there is no countries

It isn’t hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for

And no religion, too

Imagine all the people

living life in peace […]”

These remarkable visionary individuals are no longer among us.  We, however, are.  I, for one, have found my niche in the sharing of my awareness for this vital thought processing among the living: love for world peace – one I have been yearning for very long.   It came to me thanks to the World Healing World Peace Poetry Anthology 2014 initiative by Inner Child Press.

Please know I am writing about this marvelous project not at all because I happen to have a submission of my own.  I don’t.  I won’t.  If I had or were to plan to do so, I would have to step back.  Here, I mean.  For I have strict self-imposed rules regarding self-promotion.  And, you all know how I treat my own work contribution – as you have seen my quite subdued announcement of my poems in an anthology by another publisher.

The conceptualization of world peace by the Inner Child Press is simply me finding home.   Through collective poetry creation in order to attract attention across the world, spanning over the boundaries of countries.  What a thought!  In order to lend a long overdue balance against the power of  violence – a trait of our  world that has enjoyed dominance for way too long.  But, that, is a learned trait.  How can it stand – we may respond with a false sense of confidence –  against the strength of love, an inborn asset of each human being?  It can.  It unfortunately can.  And it does.  It has.  It will.  As long as we keep letting it.

Peace in love.

“Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.” – Charles Bukowski  (Source)


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“World Healing World Peace”

My Dear Readers:
You have known my writings for a while now; hence, you know that I don’t post a direct call for anything.  Out of character, I am sharing a long quote with you today, namely about a project that is close to my heart.  I have just about had it with warring mentalities.  With violence.  All around the world.  I believe a domino effect can and will be possible, if peace-oriented people unite.  I hope you will read the information and plea below to see what one large group of people – myself included – have been trying to bring long overdue attention to not only thoughts on but written words for peace as a wide-spreading conscientiousness among the world’s non-violent residents.  As always, you have my heartfelt thanks for listening.
[Quoted text begins here]

Inner Child Magazine

Back in 2012 Inner Child and Inner Child Press went Global with it’s first formal effort in working towards elevating the Consciousness of World Healing, World Peace through Poetry. It was a huge success.

This time around instead of running the effort as a Contest for Publishing we are looking toward the distribution of this consciousness we all contribute. We will be placing copies of this offering of the World Poets in the hands of all Member Nations of the United Nations (193) as well as each Voting Member of the United States Congress (535). we need to bring them to the consciousness of the People and make them succinctly aware of how we feel that they may become more responsive to the will of the People, regardless the Geography. To achieve this end we have gathered Souls all over the World to assist the effort, and we hope that you may join us as well in the sharing of the Links that more people become aligned. This not only affect us who are here, but those who are to come.

There are other ways you may help as well . . . consider making a contribution to the cause here : For Contribution

Check out this Month’s Feature at the Magazine and see how you can lend your voice to the good of us all here, and those to come.

[Quoted text ends here]



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