fast for three sets of ten-years breathe in the generous tears never exhaling in completion . . .
solitude grows into a safest companion lives pass by and handsomely multiply the longing still consents to no passersby but then sensation enters your frame’s aged wisdom is filled with its first ever self-belief your arid cells cry out womanhood – your birthright legacy in ceaseless trust all wed your blazing passion silenced since . . . heeding your throbbing psyche after having starved it for long you become one for a blissful while
the instant comes fast to divide
i hear you went on to your theories opting to instruct a joy for your intellect instead when did you resolve your time of bidding me farewell was just? what was to become of your devoted pupil you left with no respect to her aching pain?
loneliness cannot lie anymore for i had not been sated before hence the inconsolable aftermath
When the heartbreak after the death of a beloved is too much for my soul to surpass, my memory box yields a surprise: death itself battles a lethal fight against a gregarious force – the steadfast power in us which grows each time we send dear ones onto their so-called “final” flight. Our undying love never leaves their sight. Thus, death bows down before its own unwavering plight.
The fragile soul had never been undressed to this ultimate extent. Back then, she had decided to be a once-only lover. She should have known all along not to attempt such a fatal risk. Still, she does not regret being left this bare. Nor does she resent the one for whom she had stripped herself of expectations, guilt, fault, and blame.
The yet-innermost turbulence trashed her apart many a time. A violent slash tore her into a blindness of the temporary kind. The ego cast guilt, fault and blame on the other. But it also dared to expect. Not even massive masses of tears mended the scars. Nor did they suffice to revive the spirit from its raging death. The fragile soul had against all odds resolved to pace steadfastly its torturous path.
From the beloved then, she borrowed a new breath to ensure an absolute stillness of the heart. She tried in vain to regain her courage toward a gate that is opened ajar at best. She sought peace and salvation from the lover’s final request: not to expect, nor to blame; not to assign fault, nor to designate guilt . . . just to be dead.
I believe the records date back to the early eleventh century. You would know, my love, as we have also shared our profession. The patients would be seized for an extended procession. To the bloody altar, they would be slowly lowered down. They would begin to drown in the agony of their pain. With a swift gash, their appendix, liver or one of the intestines would appear in its carnage glory. The spectators’ eyes would revel in their gory inventory.
Can you see now, my beloved, how it had felt at the time of my alive-autopsied end?
Do you ever reminisce about our sensation? I do! I had lain on the emerald ground, unwrapping myself in the softness of your scent . . . alongside the compassionate creek of our first encounter . . . cradled by the rays of the afternoon sun.
Do you ever look back on the tiny ripples anew? I do! They had slowed down to honor our euphoric reunion. Witnessing our fiery souls flow into one another, learning and approving.
The wind envied our harmonious spread, and assembled its brutal forces. Thus came the abrupt end. Like a lightning. Fiercely brash.
I had kept my delicate “i” at bay, hoping for you not to float on. I have since pampered, re-dressed and preserved the ‘what ifs’ of our oft-resounding dread. They insist on haunting me yet. My old self thus is entangled in a merciless no-exit-thread.
Would you have possibly favored me instead, had I opted to defy the boulder at the barricade?
A warm zephyr became my wrap this morning. It reminded me of my Mediterranean’s gentle air. Its vigor of the past, however, no longer stunned me. It still felt lovely, but it faded in me as a memory.
I think I know why it arrived at my doorstep and touched me affectionately. After your brief visit in my dream last night, my version of you had stayed on my mind. No! I did not cry this time. So, please be at ease!
While I have the chance, I want you to tell you where I am today: even then when I hit many a bottomless pit in our days gone by, I have always been grateful to you. I thank you for all the spiritual gifts. I thank you also for all the heartaches. In sum: Thank you for all that which we meant to each other.
As you can see, I let you in only to thank you once more. Be well, dear heart! Be very well! Today and forevermore.
~ ~ ~
From my upcoming new book of prose poetry, Letter-Poems from a Beloved (the original poem was published in my Aflame, Memoirs in Verse, and appears here in its revised version)
A government office in our precious Ankara . . . it was not yet evident that you had been struck by dementia. We were in the lobby, waiting for one of the employees to call my number. Many people in the waiting hall seemed to be in some kind of a slumber. Business as usual in Turkey: addresses to modify, IDs to renew. And, I had been away for too long. With this process, there was no room left for me to prolong . . .
Your anxiety was probably higher than mine. I still felt like I stayed longer than necessary in that line. Already back then, you were quite fragile. Though, you gave me your usual alert, “Have confidence, my girl”-smile.
Dad, that day, you told me once again how proud you were of me. The fast fading light in your aged eyes mirrored your love for me repeatedly.
When I asked you for my favorite dessert, you didn’t skip a beat. The Café where we both enjoyed it was quite a treat. That afternoon, 2015’s high summer tasted like cool lemonade. A favorite phrase Mom used to formulate.
Sharing a rich serving of Dondurmalı Kazandibi with you was one of the last gifts life has given me of you. Less than a year later, we no longer had you.
Reuters article on the Taliban shooting of Malala Yousufzai
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