Tag Archives: love

Çünkü

Ben sana hep üşüyordum,

Çünkü kıştım..

Nakıştım, bakıştım..Inkar

etmiyorum da bunu..

Seni sevmek gibi büyük işlere

Kalkıştım..

Ve lütfen inkar etme;

Sana en çok ben yakıştım…

[Poetry Source: Özdemir Asaf]

 

I was always cold for your warmth,

for I was winter…

an image, a glance..And

I don’t deny that..

I dared to undertake big affairs,

such as loving you…

Please don’t resist;

I was the best match to you…

[Translation Source: Self]

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hani

Nazım copy

Hani derler ya,

Ben sensiz yaşayamam, diye.

Ben onlardan değilim.

Ben sensiz de yaşarım;

Ama,

Seninle bir başka yaşarım…

[Poetry and Image Source: Nazım Hikmet]

 

You know what they say:

“I can’t live without you.”

I am not one of them.

I’ll live also without you;

but

with you,

my life would surely be something else…

[Translation Source: Self]

 

May it be through Turkish, English or any other world language – how do you define “living”? How about “life”?

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Elegy – 3

giving up love

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Picture and Image Source: True Love never dies

While, in my view, nothing in life is ever as simple as the text above concludes, the heart, in immense despair, still tends to agree with the claim.

 

heart slows its beat

bloodrush in the head

at every grasp of the loss

asleep, awake,

or in a dreaming state

ears, deafened to sounds

eyes, blinded to colors

trembling voice in constant tears

thirst, hunger serves only to numb

elation departs

to leave behind

a fatal craving

to carry on and on

 

death comes

yet, not to kill

condemns to life

that undying void inside

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Mothers’ Day 2013, or, A Celebration of Life and Death

Today, I invite you to a special celebration.  A celebration of life and death in love.  I have compiled some of my old and new poems in commemoration of two remarkable mothers who lost their lives to cancer, each within one year after they had been diagnosed for another illness.  My mother, who died when 48.  And her niece, who has reached a mere age of 31 – my first-blood cousin, or better, my non-biological sister.  What kind of a celebration does that make?  One of survival through learning to cope by speaking out.  In my case, by putting pain of this extent on paper.  To rise above the fact that these incredibly selfless mothers live no longer.  It is also a celebration of a different kind, though, for only through my poems I am  able to bridge the mothers to their living daughters.  There is thus a narrator, who is simultaneously also a participant in this – at times imagined, at times realized – communication: Myself.  As for the precious daughters: One is my own, the other, my cousin’s – the youngest member of this, to me, unique group of women.

 

In the memory of my mother ~ ~ ~

The only language my mother – her name was Hesna – and I used was that of love on the inside and Turkish on the outside.  I haven’t been able to celebrate Mothers’ Day for the last thirty-two years.  So, today, I take the liberty of leaving a poem I had written for my mom in her and my external language in my second year of high school – seven years before her death.  It has been always some comfort to me to know how much she had liked it:

 

Yavrundan Sana

 

Yağmur yağarsa dışarıda, gözyaşlarım sanıyorum.

Ağlayan bir ses varsa, senin sesine benzetiyorum.

Veda eden bir yüz görsem, senin yüzünü buluyorum.

Ruhum bir an daralsa, senin ruhunu hatırlıyorum.

Ufukta bir karaltı belirse, onda hemen seni tanıyorum.

 

Neden mi? Bilemem ki anne!

 

Didinen, uğraşan bir kadın görsem şekil değiştiriyor birden.

Annelerin kraliçesi, benim annem oluyor aniden.

Nedimelerin de her biri üstelik ayrı birer kraliçe, anne!

 

Sensizliğimi bir an hatırlasam, nankörce

Artık gözlerim buğulanmıyor anne.

Nasıl ki öyle tasavvur edemiyorum seni de

Ağlamayı bırak, sihrimiz kaybolabilir anne!

 

For my One and Only ~ ~ ~

After my daughter reached the age of an aware linguistic communication, I made sure to expose her at home to English and Turkish at the same time.  As a foreign language teacher also back then, I knew firsthand the importance of acquiring a language outside one’s native tongue.  You may want to skip reading the first two of the three poems below – about, for and to my daughter, as they are in Turkish.  Unless, you want to experiment how the language looks or sounds like (exactly how it is written).  The third is in English and one of my newer and saddest poems – reflective of an immensely trying divorce ordeal she, unfortunately, had to endure also:

 

[1]

Bir Taneme (1995)

To my One and Only

 

Gerçekte olamaz bu hiç, ama

keşke izleyebilsem seni her attığın adımında.

Kötülüklerini bir bir durdurabilsem zamanın.

Hoşçakal, hele elveda, hiç demesem sana.

 

Manasısın yaşamımın, aslısın, esasısın,

isterdim ki o nur yüzün asla ama asla asılmasın.

Metin ol, her zaman yürü kendi yolunda,

çok, ama pek çok seviyor seni bu ana.

 

[2]

Bir Taneme (2001)

To my One and Only

 

Nereye gitti yaşam?

Nerede o sevenlerim?

Miniciktim. Biriciktim;

Göçtü hep beni iyi bilenlerim.

 

Pek zormuş büyümek!

 

Uzak kalmak sevenlerden,

dünya dertlerine direnmek,

aman beklemek gelip geçenlerden.

 

Kalp ağrısı

Yılların ağırlığı

Sevenlerin ayrılığı

Alın yazısı…

 

Gene de sen gül, Yavrum!

 

Yaşam öylesine de güzel ki,

zorlukların yanında

birçok hoş zevkleri de var ki.

 

Yeter ki, başın hep dik olsun!

Gözlerinde dolu dolu heyecan;

Seçtiğin yollar hep açık;

Sevdiklerin gercek dostlar olsun.

 

[3]

twinning with *Munch – silent scream (2012)

 

onto death, I want to lay the self

my One and Only’s hope eyes erase the bed

before the head makes contact

 

onto death, I want to lay the self

deadlock is all I feel

what have I become?

what, though, had I been?

 

the husband…former already?

 

weary, distraught, ruined

my One and Only’s sun face takes a shadow now and again

 

it all began with her inside me

love took off to eternity with her every smile

my only precious bond to life

for whom I pushed aside the self

not one small regret

the one for whose hope death does not get me today

 

I made us a home, I glorified it

on my own for long, too long of many years

filling in for all marital lack: a promise is a promise after all!

 

years left, tens of years passed away

multiplied into trying decades

 

once looked aback, there exists a husband…

my One and Only’s sun face takes a shadow now and again

her graceful, not yet disheartened soul wound up

on the verge of a leap onto her own life

 

but…how about…

no, no, not possible!

 

once my One and Only is no longer home

having set onto her own path

the husband and I…

ways of ours ever so apart

how long, until where?

if the self can remain as self, that is!

 

onto death, I want to lay the self

my One and Only’s hope eyes erase the bed

before the head makes contact

 

onto death, I want to lay the self

deadlock is all I feel

what have I become?

what, though, had I been?

 

*  Edvard Munch

 

In the memory of my cousin, and for her one and only ~ ~ ~

I have written the final poem for the latest birthday of my cousin’s daughter, to honor not only her but also to commemorate the death of Hesna Yasemin, her long-deceased mother.  For, a cancer detected too late due to wrongful diagnosis robbed her of any opportunity beyond a mere one year to celebrate her daughter’s much sought birth.  There is, of course, much more to say about this beautiful young individual who is growing into a fine woman herself.  In order to preserve her privacy, however, I am only sharing my one poetic work on her tragically short life with her mother.  I make sure, though, to leave her within an imaginary talk her mother has with her in absentia:

 

Lilia, *mein Schatz

you won’t know me

I left too soon

 

you were born of love and longing so strong

made me feel immortal by your side

merely a year, though, is all we had aside

 

you are a young woman now,

beautiful, bright and loved very much

no longer the tiny darling in my arms

precious but ever so fragile,

sending me beams for immense joy

shaming even the cancer of its call

 

it is your birthday today

I am not there for you again

 

but don’t be sad as you are not on your own

also the one with whom you locked eyes long ago

in my in-laws’ house, on the ground story

when we were cradling you, a newly born beauty

the one who probably mirrored me to you

for the color of her skin, hair and eye

whose both arms better secured you many a meal

before you glided into a sleep so deep and real

embraces you always with my and her love combined

whom I introduced to you in her mother’s tongue

 

you know, mein Schatz, you have met her online anew

the one who signs her e-mails hülya *Teyze for me and you

 

*Schatz (German): treasure, darling, dear

*Teyze (Turkish): aunt; also “auntie”, in non-biological sense

 

A dream allows a reunion between the living and the dead ~ ~ ~

The final poem for today – one of my older works from a spirituality-oriented period in my life, retells a dream of mine in which another dream took place.  In the framing one, I am having a direct conversation with my cousin.  The verses are heavy in sadness first, as I am in despair having to relate to her my dream in which I attend to her infant daughter after her nap, change and dress her, play with her, inhale her sweet smell, laugh and giggle with her.  But I also observe how my hands transform into those of my cousin’s very shapely upper extremities.   My sorrow over this precious chance to experience her baby girl’s life, when her own mother is no longer, then, takes me to that over my mother’s void in me.  I ask her why she hadn’t called for me instead.  Toward the poem’s end, the sad tone eases, as I find strength for survival out of my death inside by diverting my attention to my daughter, who needs me very much.  For, she is too young yet.  The poem reaches a slow end with my promise to be there for her daughter along with my own.  Not without acknowledging the immense load of such responsibility along with my doubt in being able to fulfill it, as these two mothers have been exceptional in every aspect of their beings:

 

Anneler ve kızları(2001)

Mothers and Their Daughters

 

Rüyamda gördüm gene seni.

Hıçkırıklarım bile bozamadı büyünü.

 

Yalnız değildin bu sefer, yavrunu da düşledim;

bir tek beni istedi uyandığında tutulmaya,

giydirilmeye, altını temizletmeye.

 

Güldürdüm, oynadım bebeciğinle, kendiminkiymiş gibi;

sevdim, kokladım, okşadım onu.

Ellerim an an seninkilerine dönüştü;

sendedir şimdi onun sıcaklığı, mis kokusu.

 

Nedense belirsiz bir yerde kalmayı yeğledin…

Senin yerine ben tattım, özlemini o miniciğinden.

 

Merak etme, iyi bakılacak yavruna;

sen huzurda kal yeter ki, sırdaşım, kardeşim!

Rahmetler arasında bul burada olmayanı!

 

Arada bir sorarsın herhalde hatırını annemin;

bilirsin seni çok, pek çok severdi.

Acaba neden önce beni istetmedi?

Ona yavrusundan en son haberleri götür,

Üzülmesin, sadece gülücüklü olanlarını!

 

Bitmedim, tükenmedim henüz;

ne de olsa bence küçük bir yavrum var.

O eşsiz varlıklarınızı yaşıyorum dolu dolu,

kendi yavruma yansıtmak umuduyla;

yaradanın ender iki ruhunu

bulsun diye kendi benliğinde.

 

Bilmem gücüm yetecek mi, ya da ömrüm?

Bir tarafta annem, bir tarafta sen

Kızım ve kızın ise burada…

 

Tamamlamaya çalışırken yarım özlemlerinizi,

yavrunu da yavrumu da unutmadan;

hem de onlara sizleri doğru tanıtarak,

acaba eşsizliklerinizi aktarabilecek miyim?

 

Tanrım, meğerse iki meleğini göndermişsin yanıma!

Yavruları burada, beraber benim biricik yavrumla.

Sığınıyorum sana, güç vermen için bana;

öylesine zor ki devam etmek arkalarından,

içtikten sonra onların muhteşem suyunu.

 

Ama biliyorum, anladım artık, bir görevim var benim:

Ne kadar zor da olsa,

birçok zaman umutlarım da kırılsa,

üzüntü ve yorgunluklarımla da sonuçlansa,

onlarsız onların tadını vermek yavrularımıza.

 

MAY THIS YEAR’S MOTHERS’ DAY FOR YOU BE FILLED WITH GOOD MEMORIES!

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Dying into love

Last Sunday, my reflections were all about thanking you, dear reader.  As on any day of your visit, also today I have my thanks for you but also some thoughts on the relationship between love and death.  Love – the essence of life.  In the loss of which immeasurable pain rules, seizing the soul in its gradual death.  At times, taking along also the remainder of the person, as my contemplations on three famous examples will show.  All women.  The biographical details on each are widely known.  Therefore, I won’t bore you with a repetition.

Jeanne Hebuturne, the last love of Amadeo ModiglianiSylvia Plath, the love and wife of fellow poet Ted Hughes and Camille Claudel, the lover and muse of  Auguste Rodin.

 “Modigliani”, the film begins with Jeanne Hebuterne before her jump to her death, asking, if we ever lived love, “real love” to the extent that we would “condemn” ourselves to “eternity in hell”.  As she has:

In the film, “Sylvia” the poetess suffers immense pain grieving the loss of her husband to an affair:

Her repeated utterances, “I’m going to die, I’m going to die” foretell her dying into love before her suicide takes place:

In the same titled film, Camille Claudel’s destruction following the end of her affair with Rodin, for whom she is claimed by respected biographers to have been the muse, is very difficult to watch, for she is in infinite despair:

She doesn’t commit suicide.  But also her life ends as she, too, dies into love.

Death.  A topic requiring an open-ended discussion of phenomenal context.  An attempt I won’t even pretend to be able to make.  My only intent is to offer a definition of it through research compiled in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: “[T]he irreversible cessation of organismic functioning and human death as the irreversible loss of personhood.”

An all-consuming love is what the three women of my focus had lived.  How their “organismic functioning” and “personhood” had terminated in ‘irreversible’ manner, does not matter.  What the loss of their love consumed off of them, does.  I know for I have been there.  Not once, not twice but three times already.  After the loss of my first love.  Following my mother’s death – by its encyclopedic definition.  When I lost my late love.

As for my love for my daughter, my only child, my fear over my own death compares nothing to the anguish I feel and have felt since her birth for any hurt she may have to suffer.  But, this issue deserves an entire reflection column all by itself.  And I better get you to my conclusion for today.  Namely, the following statements of fame attesting to the fact that there, indeed, is death for some of us before death – into love, of the heart/inside, of hope, of inspiration, of awareness:

“It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.” – Thomas Mann

“The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves until one day there are none. No hopes. Nothing remains.” – Arthur Golden

“The tragedy of life is in what dies inside a man while he lives – the death of genuine feeling, the death of inspired response, the awareness that makes it possible to feel the pain or the glory of other men in yourself.” – Norman Cousins

“What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying.” – Albert Camus

“Many people die at twenty five and aren’t buried until they are seventy five.” – Benjamin Franklin

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NaPoWriMo Challenge: Day 30

 

sense of paralysis

gaps in comprehension

rapid heartbeat

dryness in the throat

the mouth as well

eyes flashing

one memory after another

gasping for air

as if stabs here and there

 

could never say goodbye

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NaPoWriMo Challenge: Day 29

body numb

mind on hold

tremor of the hands and voice

fingers and feet on ice

stomach churning

head spinning

lips dried out

 

when will the ears have to hear,

or, the eyes read

what must have been long in process

 

how hot, the blaze on the corpse?

how deep, the cut in the heart?

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NaPoWriMo Challenge: Day 27 – IN CELEBRATION OF A VERY SPECIAL BIRTHDAY

Für meine liebe Lilia Felice Siede, die ich dank meiner liebsten Yasemin Ergün als Neugeborenes in meinen Armen als die “hülya Teyze” halten durfte: Meine herzlichsten Wünsche zum Geburtstag! For my dear Lilia Felice Siede, whom I was allowed to hold in my arms as a newborn as her “Auntie hülya” thanks to my dearest Yasemin Ergün: My most heartfelt wishes for your birthday!

I have written this poem also to honor the memory of my long-deceased cousin, Yasemin Ergün from her heart who was robbed by a fatal cancer of any opportunity beyond a mere one year to celebrate her daughter’s much sought birth.

To all cancer survivors: May you live long, healthy lives with your loved ones!

 

Lilia, *mein Schatz

you won’t know me

I left too soon

 

you were born of love and longing so strong

made me feel immortal by your side

merely a year, though, is all we had aside

 

you are a young woman now,

beautiful, bright and loved very much

no longer the tiny darling in my arms

precious but ever so fragile,

sending me beams for immense joy

shaming even the cancer of its call

 

it is your birthday today

I am not there for you again

but don’t be sad as you are not on your own

 

also the one with whom you locked eyes long ago

 

in my in-laws’ house, on the ground story

when we were cradling you, a newly born beauty

the one who probably mirrored me to you

for the color of her skin, hair and eye

whose both arms better secured you many a meal

before you glided into a sleep so deep and real

 

embraces you always with my and her love combined

whom I introduced to you in her mother’s tongue

you know, mein Schatz, you have met her online anew

the one who signs her e-mails hülya *Teyze for me and you

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

* (German): my treasure; my darling; my sweetheart

* (Turkish): aunt; auntie (non-biological)

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NaPoWriMo Challenge: Day 18

Once again, I will meet a daily NaPoWriMo challenge, namely Day 18 by Cathy Evans – according to whom one is expected “to write a poem that begins and ends with the same word.”  Before I venture into my poem, though, I want to take us all to Encyclopedia Britannica for a background information on in medias res,the literary technique of mention within the same prompt:

“( Latin: ‘in the midst of things’) in narrative technique, the recommended practice of beginning an epic or other fictional form by plunging into a crucial situation that is part of a related chain of events; the situation is an extension of previous events and will be developed in later action. The narrative then goes directly forward, and exposition of earlier events is supplied by flashbacks. The principle is based on the practice of Homer in the Iliad and the Odyssey. The Iliad, for example, begins dramatically with the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon during the Trojan War. The Latin poet and critic Horace has pointed out the immediate interest created by this opening in contrast to beginning the story ab ovo (‘from the egg)—i.e., from the birth of Achilles.”

 

great despair

professional dead-end

labor-rich occupation

health concerns-laden living

gravely limited means

private life, non-existing

 

The alternative?

His sole question.

You loved not once

but twice

yet both have gone their ways

your stronghold – your mother

no longer

father, remarried

brother, wedded

but you…

I worry.

 

He, on a pedestal

same with my brother

they would know, I resolved

forced the heart’s un-yearning aside

stayed on, and on, and on

 

until it broke

the rope that held me back

 

went where I had left it off

 

inhaled

exhaled

exhaled again

again

and again

 

lived

euphoria

on the path

of the spirit

the authentic one

freed yet once again

from pre-natal melancholy

in a vane attempt

to pre-empt

the persistence of

great despair

 

 

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“How old is s/he?”

His mother died when she was 48.  His brother died, having been able to pass a mere 32 birthdays.  His sister died also at the age of 48.  He had to give his daughter to death when she was only 31.  He had cancer before she was diagnosed with hers.  Soon after she died, his body formed another type.  A third struck him last week.  Not metastasis of his first, or the second.  A new one.

He is 82.

He practiced medicine right after his graduation from the medical university in Istanbul, Turkey.  Having served for decades in Germany as the head physician in the hospital from where he retired years ago.  He knows what must be done when, whenever medical interferences are concerned.  He has led countless surgical procedures during his tenure.  He has tended to post-surgery needs of his numerous patients of all ages and walks of life during his time.

The medical staff of the hospital where he has had two surgeries in short intervals, responded to his two calls for alarm after half an hour had passed.  One was for dangerously low, the other for dangerously high blood pressure – both along with breathing difficulties. Half an hour of a wait!  On the night of his surgery!  Why not take longer to let the patient develop fatal post-surgery complications?  He lived 82 years, after all, isn’t that enough?

Describing the ordeal she and her 55-year-old husband had because of his cancer and ensuing death, Cheryl Eckl makes a remarkable statement in her essay, Elder Grief: The Hidden Burden of Advanced Age. Why growing really old may be worse than dying young (Published on May 24, 2012 by Cheryl Eckl in A Beautiful Grief: “[…] what he was not suffering was the additional burden of advanced age.”  Referring then to her mother’s declining health at a very advanced age, Eckl considers “that perhaps even worse than dying young is living to be very old, with little quality of life due to several serious ailments, but not being sick enough to leave this world.”  Her mother, Eckl writes, knows several people “who would be very happy not to wake up tomorrow.”

On this blood-freezing sentiment, Eckl contemplates as in the following: “That is the cruelty being suffered in obscurity by millions of the elderly who are shut away in nursing homes and senior living centers across the United States. Bored, lonely, in pain, or so demented or sedated that they don’t know who they are, these are the forgotten mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunties, and uncles who deserve better attention than they are receiving.”

For the onset of her cancer and the metastasis of it, my mother was treated through surgical procedures in Turkey and in Germany.   Three decades ago.  My mother didn’t want to be advanced in age to the extent that she would no longer be able to live a life of quality.  She got her wish.

My uncle’s “case” is happening in Germany.  Today.

The United States, in other words, is not the only cultural entity where this “cruelty” goes on.

For people who are among those living beyond their expected age of death – whatever that may be, Eckl invites us to imagine how for them “the borders of daily experience narrow as distress grows and the ability to perform all but the simplest of tasks disappears.”   What does Eckl suggest as a balm for a life having to consist of “a succession of doctor appointments and increasingly invasive and dehumanizing treatments”?  Love and our presence in their lives.

He is 82.  He has always been present in my life.  And still is.  In Eckl’s words, he has never deprived me of his “heartfelt presence” (Eckl) Or, of his love.  Unconditional love.  After my mom’s death, he told me he finds in me his mother – “Anamsın” and his sister (my mom) –“Bacımsın.”  After his daughter’s death, he saw her in me – “Kızımsın.”

In him, I always found a fully involved father.  I still do.  I went through many ordeals.  He was there for me during each one of them.  I love him so.

Where is, though, my heartfelt presence when he needs it the most?

Dayı, beni affet.

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