Tag Archives: life

. . .


We all have two lives. The second one begins when you realize you only have one. 


Filed under Impulses

“The art of life is to stay […]

wide open and be vulnerable,” Ram Dass declares in one of his (probably well-known) statements, and adds: “yet at the same time to sit with the mystery and the awe and be with the unbearable pain- to just be with it all. I’ve been growing into that wonderful catchphrase, ‘be here now,’ for the last forty years.”

Eagerly, I take Dass’ words as an advice worth to treasure through my persistent struggles to accept life “as is” because his vision is fully legible to me: living having been conceived as a continuum, not as finality.

Dedicated to all the advice-bearers who are unaware that no individual reaches the same state of existence on the timeline of -to sugarcoat it- difficult moments.  

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…what happens in-between…

we are born alone to die alone
the self is either warmed up in-between
or under a lonesome cold

only the corpses get stiff i thought
not so when emotional touch is no more

© hülya n. yılmaz, 11.8.2016


[Own photograph; at Light on the Lake Bed and Breakfast, North East, PA]

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. . .


[Image and Text Credit]

Winter is about to pull in
but the heart is unready for its arrival as yet.

~ Own translation (10.21.2016)

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. . . with my thanks to all who don’t play down the dark side of life

we all have so many scars
that we have grown roots
now rotting fast
in that favorite place of many a gathering
your kitchen my kitchen those dearest friends’ kitchen

grandma’s kitchen mama’s kitchen dad’s i too can cook-kitchen
each cupboard smelling like their pain med
poorly prescribed for their end
witches’ brew in a cauldron before us
even the back burner’s simmer-dial
scorches the ancestral ladle right off of our hand
the same hand we thought could control our fingers
which in turn would glow to show us whether to stir clockwise
or counter-clockwise
with rigor or not
how many times
for how long

our embarrassingly short short-term-memory
convinces us to believe fairy-tales all over again
that maybe just maybe
a tiny batch of soul food
would drizzle out of such gooey gunk
enchanting us in to our prenatal sheath
thus gifting us with a little breather
in order that we can tend our scabs
tend to the gashes in our hearts


the immortal spell-thrower

engulfs us

with a flood of burning ashes
spooned right out of the pot of our own churning

our bruises
while still in their nth round of incrustation
turn blood red once more
because our systemic veins are wide-open yet once more 

© hülya n. yılmaz, 10.0.2016 


Filed under Reflections

. . .



September 14, 2016 · 7:00 am

“a heart’s burial”

it wasn’t meant to be
that much i do know
your print on my soul
will not reason though

atop the shards of my shell . . .

one may conclude i do move on
while without cease i continue to quest
for my long forgotten unrecognizable self
which only with you was always at its best

with no sign of relent
my trapped-in you-heart is set
on repeat rewind
rewind repeat . . .

outside my four chambers
i keep waiting for that evasive day
when i may feel warmth again
to succeed in putting it to its final rest

© hülya n. yılmaz, 8.20.2016


Filed under Impulses, Poetry, Reflections

In my facelifted writing corner

hqdefault[Click for Image Credit]


missing you
not because of a need
or for a want

the yearning is different from before
neither acute nor painful only aware
that the mirage of you has its pillar no more 

these days
fairy tales
fail to impress me

i go on missing you
the version i was convinced i knew

in blunt terms

time hasn’t healed anything
though promised by many it would do so

how can it i now dare to ask
it lacks the essence of life after all
your new versions transpire as proof 


who decided to soak heart-wrenching losses
in colors other than red anyway


© hülya n. yılmaz, 8.20.2016












Filed under Impulses, Poetry, Reflections

…a mid-week musing…

pencilin in death

Photo Credit: Self

Date: Summer 2005

Location: Ada, Sinop – Turkey

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. . . lack of dignity in crying?

In the words I quote below, Dejan Stojanovic – a contemporary poet, writer and essayist, conceptualizes a human quality I lack when one were to take into consideration only my reaction to tragic life events:

“To hide feelings when you are near crying is the secret of dignity.”

It would be a dramatic understatement for me to even claim that my case ever involved a mere “near crying” state. Tears run in abundance. Whenever the suffering and pain of others have my attention – regardless of my proximity to them. Then, there is also the matter of my own suffering. While I handle pain rather well, the emotional hurt I experience in the face of heart-wrenching occurrences is too stubborn to let me hold back the salty drops. But, I am not apologizing. For I hold the conviction that the release of one of our inborn emotions cannot serve as a basis to measure dignity. Would you agree? I would love to hear from you either way while I continue to hope that our psyches will grant us with a far less rigid definition of this human characteristic.

In the meantime, I leave you with my emotion-laden words. They came to me at a time when I was in a most vulnerable state of being, facing a rash and harsh demand for a loss to life. As you will probably also conclude, the following lines evidence that my self-judgment as I have started my post with is not severe after all:

ripped off of its cage

hot iron presses upon the open heart

defeated not yet deceased

the body continues to beat

(hülya n. yılmaz, 5.20.2015)


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