Tag Archives: new poem

“Against the Stream”

Against the Stream

My nap was quite troubled.
A vivid dream sequence haunted me.
Though utterly disturbing,
I will never call it a nightmare.
You were in it. You, in all your beauty.

We didn’t move our lips even once,
but we did talk. Quite extensively.
I was not yet retired; just done with the day.
You appeared to me when I was ready to go home.
I was tired. In fact, exhausted. In dire need for a ride.

You looked about 40.
8 years before your death.
As well-dressed as always,
still donning a set of full hair.
Cancer-free as I have best known you to be.

For barely a minute, I was in my office
to get a few more items and my coat;
you were gone the next moment.
I found myself outside. Feeling lost.
We were to meet by your car. Near the garden.
Both, non-existent in reality.

Crowds began to gather around my suddenly little self.
There was no sight of you anywhere.
Only bodies, countless bodies, walking aimlessly.
A gigantic fish tank then appeared right before my eyes.
The garden behind it seemed so far away. Unreachab-ly far away.

I wish that I could have stayed in the realm of my nap.
If only I had stayed asleep for a few more moments!
I would have found you. I would have hugged and kissed you
one more time. Not for the last time, but one more time.

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, November 21, 2020


Filed under Poetry, Reflections


i am but a tiny ripple
in the water of life, oft moving too fast

“moving too fast”,
as Ryan Montbleau was singing
a few days ago on the road to New Mexico
i had heard that song before,
but its impact this time was profound
as i had been doing some soul-searching
for quite a while amid nature’s gorgeousness
his words reached deep within . . .

moving too fast as a tiny ripple
in the raging waters of life,
facing along the way many a strife
yet also many a sunshiny smile
countless ones given as a gift to me
and those i have been gifted with
to give unto others

still . . .
moving too fast as a tiny ripple
on the raging waters of life,
wishing all along that i had taken
each of my breaths only one sip at a time

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 7.5.2019


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“picnic on a rainbow”

Last week, I had shared with you a poem I was considering to submit as one of my three contributions to The Year of the Poet – a monthly anthology of international sustenance published by Inner Child Press, Ltd. (and thanks to the encouragement I received from you, I have sent my “afloat” to its destination). You are invited to my “picnic on a rainbow” today, the second of the three poems I have submitted this month to address the theme of summer. Imagine what you will get to see next Sunday . . .

the new day is breaking
sleepily it seeps through my bedroom window
then stretches on my bed rests on by my side
i brew tea
dried rosehip
(my no-longer-a secret-addiction)
and inhale both aromas
taking my time
my companion is in no hurry either

then i spot a snowflake
it travels in through the screen
begins to tap dance
on the tip of my nose
its pals end up on the tip of my tongue

they feel the same as before

long before i had orphaned the i in me

how i would insist on keeping them
from melting inside my mouth
so i could taste their delicate crystals

my favorite season was not winter back then
long ago though it has won me over

but summer arrived anew
it always does

the more the merrier
folklore dictates me to say . . .

alright then i reply
after all progressive holiday parties are hip
and under our noses often enough
why not throw one for the seasons and me

bury your hatchets everyone
we’ll all have a picnic on a rainbow
the new day is also coming along

i’ll bring my collection of snowflakes
one of you will gather the autumn leaves
the other one will be responsible to bring in grass
nothing but freshly-cut

what a lovely blanket they would all make

after we eat drink and dance
we’ll tell funny stories of yore
then we’ll ride on a sleigh of beach
and out of fright the tidal waves will screech

© hülya  n. yılmaz, 6.17.2016



Filed under Reflections


atop the gentle ripples
of today’s calm Black Sea
on the edge of that picturesque town
of my insatiable yearning

my face kisses the burnt-orange sun
a push-over wave pats me on my shoulders
(our new neighbor must be on the go
with his sailboat again)

i shoo away my childhood fear of jelly fish
in their territory am i now after all
the largest ones i ever saw
right here i believe
always bloating over
the small skinny hands of the same little boys
(or so i still trick myself to think)
beach-combing free-spirits
tossing those pulsating bells back and forth
their version of
they are overly active now
it looks like the entire medusa population
gathered around the lads
i’m safe i’m safe yes i am . . .

oh no
can’t be . . .

don’t you whirl around my feet

what are you doing under my lilo

double eek
triple eek

. . .



© hülya  n. yılmaz, 6.18.2016

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
While my decision is not yet firm, I may submit this poem as one of my three contributions to  The Year of the Poet, a monthly anthology of international dynamics, published by Inner Child Press, Ltd.   





Filed under Reflections

…warring mentalities…

while dining with its kin and companions

the carcass-serving beast made a fatal mistake

it relied on its incurable lack of brain

hence it belittled you my peaceful child of love

concluding you will always remain infinitesimal

check mate


Photo Credit: Temple Illuminatus]

Together with two other poems, this one was published under the title of “pre-natal visions” in the July 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!

 IMG_2525 (1)

“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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“a woman of Anatolia”

a woman of Anatolia


thousands of years

numbers of civilizations

splendor in built-in riches



social, economic, religious reforms met the onset of 1923

Mustafa Kemal in Turkey – the infant republic’s first president

over night, the gentle father of his country for her people


she led a prosperous life since

enviable by the then world powers

jealous of his immense success

from the ruins of the Ottoman land


women became free

not in public merely

but also in their privacy

in her unrivaled bosom

the honor the pride of countless cultural icons

immersed in precious peace-filled diversity

self-differing faiths settled safely inside her

attained in his honor her long overdue legacy



co-existence ruled


decades later…





religion’s unreligious re-construction

of a merciless tyrant raped and is still raping her

unrelenting in its destruction of her glorious past

harmonious present

having robbed her of her dazzling future


monstrosity rules today

with its brutal violation of Turkish women’s fate

with no drop of hope for any left behind to date


© hülya n. yılmaz, February 16, 2015

This poem is one of my three contributions for the February 2015 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly book series published by Inner Child Press, Ltd.









Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk) Photo Source






Nazım Hikmet Photo and Spoken Poem Source


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when time stood still

For 8.31.2014 Blog Post.1326030


are you chlostrophobic

you did very well the last time


staples nausea feverishness anxious about that intruder

acutely aware now of that overly tight of a loneliest space

breathing hurts regardless


the better choice, mri not doable, too early to discard the stitches

surgical endoscopy under general anesthesia a must


not major, considering

a setback nevertheless



when have i become this fortunate, dear Drs. C, A, D, P, Thu, S, Tho

to have you circle around me

not giving up

though perplexed from the onset


how do you manage

to turn nighttimes

into bearable patches

you beautiful sweet Ma, A, Me, S, T, D, B, L


and Alice, oh sweet Alice

your aged yet capable body catering to the troubled vessel of mine

those clear-sky-blue gorgeous eyes reading my face with caring intent

you are a unique woman – your soothing voice rises high

it’s the least i can be

amid you wonder-generating women of various ages

after all

when time stood still for me

wrapped in the silence of death

a precious offering from you all would not




hülya n yılmaz (August 25, 2014)














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Babamın kucağında.Alişin dudakları bükülü

[Summer 2014, my dad with my grandson in his arms. I must have worn out those arms or hands by insisting for years he’d carry me…Then, when, just once, he gets the chance to hold his great-grandson, the little darling happens to feel not so comfortable as I have for time and time again]

For my 8.3.2014 blog post

[My dad, with a three-year old me in his arms – the date on the photo is original]


She died
at 48
I was 25
at each of our phone calls since
your shaky voice sang to me:
“We are behind you always!”

I am 58 now
even became a grandmother
but you know, dad, what I still do?
I keep looking back to see those loving four hands
not touching me not to risk my freedom
just being there, for anytime I might need their tender safety net
and how many times did I let go those slippery ropes
with you lifting me up from the choppy waters I dove into

I see you more and more in my dreams of the late
the way I used to see mom before her death
as if to sense my growing fear
this Bayram you told me the story of your family-side’s luck
how they “make it” to a rather late age…

One pair of hands have been gone for long
though you kept them close to your side all along
What am I to do, dad,
if the other pair is no longer behind me always?

hülya n yılmaz (© August 1, 2014)


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The pain of others

For the 6.1.2014 post

 Credit to Patricia Polacco via Ken Jackson (facebook)


I had only one pregnancy, with only a slight complication. My daughter had her first child a little more than five months ago, with a complication more unsettling than mine. But in the end, we have been fortunate enough to have healthy babies who joined our lives filling them with precious love. Pregnancies of only internal interferences. Utterly welcomed ensuing births. And we both are a child of a parent or parents, defined by their irreplaceable love for us and for each of our children.

Then there was the very young Farzana Parveen, who was carrying a child as well – out of love by choice, the connector that matters most between human beings and has been time-tested again and again in different forms and extents. She, too, was the child of parents, assuming to have been brought to life also out of love. Yet, not at all as fortunate to be loved by them without condition. For her choice in marriage to and her pregnancy with Mohammad Iqbal, she was murdered by the same hands that must have at least once held her with love. And her senseless, brutal death, was – as claimed in the news – for the sake of the family’s honor.

The world-wide dilemma regarding this distorted sense of honor is not anything I want to dwell on today. I am merely trying to raise one question: What we, as co-humanity-occupants, can do in the face of such tragedies. Blame the involved society? I have. Get angry? I have. Feel sad? I have. Write about it, one pen at a time in order to raise awareness and accordingly, to inspire the will in others to react; spread the word; organize in the model of countless international organizations that exist for this or that cause; lobby to contribute to the formation of a world-wide regulation to hold accountable any society that excuses its barbarisms under the disguise of  “traditions”; …; …?

I know this issue is not solvable as easily as I have just made it sound like. Still, the idealist in me is convinced there is something to be done beyond keeping silence over such gruesome affairs destroying human lives. Even if it means to merely share a post, a link, a commentary, or a poem on electronic platform – our century’s seemingly most effective venue to reach masses across the world, I will continue to do so. I want to hope you will agree with my conviction: each of us possesses the power to mediate anything good that happens around us. To materialize such influence against the anti-thesis of good can be no exception.


honoring a mother-to-be,

another “honor” killings prey


in the hope-filled dreams for our children

we were once one – we had always been

living the privilege of a fertile womb

for eons in its rightful haven

with promise to a love-offspring

you are no longer

i met you again in your tragedy

the butchery of your blossoming life

and the one inside you to care for and adore

the internal pump on my left thus burnt at its core

the same times though in a different place

may have left intact your youthful grace

i mourn your brutally wasted self

for i wish to have been a kin to you

long lost, from afar

one who arrived in time to keep  your final breath ajar

(Draft, 5.31.2014)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As always, I wish you a beautiful Sunday – however you may define beauty for your lives, and look very much forward to your next visit.












Filed under Poetry, Reflections