Tag Archives: Poetry

*”instead of . . .”

i surprised him

the second he spotted me behind his mommy
his little darling body became a dance all by itself
his forever-smiling face made room for giggles
many many giggles

then joyous ‘come on, grandma!’s

hand in hand
eyes locked on mine
my little enormous sunshine!

‘you come to anne car’
ending in 1/3 of a question mark
with my yes already housed in his brightly shining heart

leaving his pre-school . . .
amid the two grown women’s chatter
as untainted as any voice can ever be:
“I love you, grandma!”

i love him so
his little sister too
that each of my exchanges with them
takes my breath away

and i think . . .
together we all get to breathe again
laughing
crying
eating
drinking
sleeping
celebrating
loving and being loved again

yet on the many other ends of our world
because of a few power-fed sick minds
and their equally loveless bribe-filled grinds
children die
die die die

and die again

*This poem was posted here once before. When I recently got to see my grandson and my granddaughter after a long period of time had passed, I could not help myself but re-visit that most memorable day.

From my newest book of poetry:
Aflame. Memoirs in Verse. Inner Child Press (August 2, 2017)
Available at inner child press
Also available at inner child press are the following:
Trance (December 12, 2013), my tri-lingual poetry book with my own translations between English, German and Turkish, and
An Aegean Breeze of Peace, a book of poetry that I have co-authored with
Demetrios Trifiatis (October 12, 2015)

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“is what we call ours, ours?”

my life in Turkey was multi-colored
brown and dark brown were the most favorite hues
served inside delicately painted frailly little cups
they were devoured by the dearest indulging
who passed the age-limit
with flying collars

thanks to a multitude of gatherings
i watched joyfully time and time again
many rites of simple pleasure
and observed how my ancestors consumed
the thick strong- and bitter-looking taste
sweetened only by a delicious mix
of laughter-typhoons and mouth-watering
gentlest lullaby-like mesmerizing-ly gorgeous
collective-art of masterful story-telling
often a jamboree of exotically aromatic spices
materialized right before all the senses of the gathered
while they sip by sip went on to starvingly inhale
the short-lived though lastingly multi-layered hot vapor
that oozed through the syrup-attired
ready-to-be-painted-already walls
of our little but heart-heated home
all the way to my behind-the-doors dancing steps
then into my heart’s vast collection of inestimable memories

Turkish coffee
Ah!

soon after i graduated
to my loved ones’ passable grade in age
i accumulated all around me
an army of those intricately hand-made
ceramic art pieces . . . one by one
not even the slightest trace was left behind
of the dark matter that once belonged to their insides

worse!
i started to call them “mine”
resorting however with no waste of a second
to olden plausible lessons in my own defense
i riposted to my inner voice:
Turkish coffee was after all
solely in the custody of the Turks
besides . . .
everyone in my familiar
but also foreign vicinities knew
how it long ago was baptized as “ours”
having held on to the reign
for countless memorable years
so powerfully controlled
that the world still speaks of them today!

then . . .

i became
an older grown-up
and re-conceptualized:
what if that knock-out flavor
which offered itself to us to savor
and those magically aromatic spices in it
were never ours to claim as “ours”
but rather invented and toiled over
by civilizations of the long-forgotten past
not unlike the one of the Sabaeans whose Ma’rib
the hub-city of their regime’s middle epoch
that is largely claimed to have earned its fame
not only for its spectacularly built temples
and other monuments but also maybe more so
for its agricultural prosperity

“Turkish” coffee?
“Turkish” spices
that enhance its perception?

what if its creation
had nothing to do with Turkish-ness

what if its construct
was rooted in the Sabaean ancestry

what if . . .

what if
we stopped to care
about things so mundane
and would re-learn instead
our gifted one-and-only destiny
allowing thus to be immortally re-born
the intended core element of our original self
which many moons ago was the sole stronghold
of that which we, the people
of the so-called “modern” times
ever so dismissively
insensitively
ignorantly
dare to label as “humanity”?

© hülya n. yılmaz, 1.20.2018

[This poem is my third that appeared in the February, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press. The Year of the Poet has its regularly contributing poets from various parts of the world and features between three and four new poetry writers every month. Now in its fifth year, this book showcases -outside its monthly changing featured poets, the poetic works of fourteen “permanent” writers. The book’s 2018 offerings have been conceived to highlight a different civilization each month. Accordingly, it serves also as a collective educational undertaking to offer insight into various aspects of civilizations of the past and present.]

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“the world’s timeline knows . . .”

they had to be noted
while their desert of sand
still chuckled in giggles
with their newborns’ tickles
but also drained out persistent tears
that were soaked by parents’ eternal fears

wars were aplenty back then

are you with me?
do you see what i see?
on second thought . . .
never mind!
forget about me!
just look
please take a good look
with your heart’s eyes however
holding on all along
to the hand of your conscience too
surely you will heed
the desperate call for a minute-long silence
in the face of the so-called
ancient times’ wholehearted embrace
of building legendary and timeless monuments
of constructing age-old destructions

oh, the broken spirits’ tears!
oh, those souls-burning tears!

wars are too plentiful today

© hülya n. yılmaz, 1.20.2018

[This poem appeared in the February, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press. The Year of the Poet has its regularly contributing poets from various parts of the world and features between three and four new poetry writers every month. Now in its fifth year, this book showcases -outside its monthly changing featured poets, the poetic works of fourteen “permanent” writers. The book’s 2018 offerings have been conceived to highlight a different civilization each month. Accordingly, it serves also as a collective educational undertaking to offer insight into various aspects of civilizations of the past and present.]

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“love . . . what else is there?”

oh you dear little one
with gorgeous hope-eyes
which of them was robbed from you

ever so abruptly cruelly
in blood-chilling monstrosities

your mother or your father

maybe both

you are in hunger pains i know and as thirsty
as those war mongers’ obsession to slay
yet so helpless as they never seem to be

my entire being is craving
to cradle you into my body
back to your somewhat safe times
to sing to you inside all my insides
with the hope for a sedating deep sleep
to send you to your innocent dreams
so that they become you
or you them

i have just fetched
my dried-out mother’s milk
it will pour for i have willed it so
nourishing not only your tiny half-cut frame
but also the brutally smashed shards of your heart
an uncut diamond shattered before you were born

your wingless soul introduced itself to me
she too is invited to our feast

as for your angel-spirit
she was meant to fly up on high
so i let her free she now soars
above and beyond the sky
tucked in safely
in her safe haven

please don’t you crawl away in a rush
i do not want you to go there
not yet anyway

i am told
i am good at make-believe . . .

you can tell me how i did
when you and i once again meet

a deserved life of marvels is planted on your path
don’t you ever mind the vulgar stench of the killers

when compared . . .

(if such linking were sane
the scent that our dead and dying ooze
makes envious the newest blooms of the Sweet Pea

sleep my still unnamed little angel
sleep angelically as only you can do

my all-loving heart
and my determined mind
will know how to soothe
my for long unstoppable-y wailing soul
so that my mother-hands can knit
your receiving-blanket into an armor
invisible to the sadistic human beast

i will lay myself down next to you
i promise you i will not leave

until after your last breath . . .

you will at least face death
not in the hands of Man’s vomited filth
but rather in my love-arms

sleep Mother Earth’s untainted scream
and perhaps just perhaps in a dream
try to forgive me if you can
for all the deeds i could have done
but in my passionate paralysis did not do
and for all the miracles you had hoped i would proclaim
but in my emotive weakness have not done so

all that is anon left in me due to you for you
is the mighty strength to sway you in my womb
until forever onto your wasted pathway you must go

© hülya n. yılmaz (Revised from a 2017 poem and submitted to the international World Healing World Peace Poetry anthology to be published by Inner Child Press in April 2018, marking its fourth biennial publication)

As for this “I”, it still is striving to witness one day
that solely love rules in the world.

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Wishing to Time-Travel

Ma’rib

i time-travel frequently
to far-away places and times

do not misunderstand!
it is so not because i cannot cope
with where i am when i am who i am
it is simply so by choice
we all have that button
at our fingertips
do we not?

this time
i left for Ma’rib
to partake of its much-anticipated fall

no!

no!

better yet:
to witness a bit its oft-quoted glory

it was the years between  
. . .
(?)
surely
many a century
let’s estimate them to be
within the 8th century BC
and the 5th of AD
what matters is the fact
that i have indeed come back
to tell you a tiny story
all the way from its era of notable glory

look!
what you see
on the sand of its desert
at the bottom of its incredible Dam
are my footprints
marked forever on each

those fine particles between my toes
made a promise to me:
they will never give my ignorance away
if i were not to cancel my initial plans to stay
to which i replied in my heart’s tongue:
my spirit could not abandon them ever
for i had begun to fiercely shiver
in ecstasy so profound and prolific
that i could not help but compare
the touch of their excitingly hot stare
to my beloved King Solomon’s affair
with Sheba his Queen totally bare soul-wise
legendarily beautiful and well-dressed otherwise
that i had been admiring both
from afar long ago from there
where i am now and have always been

but then resurfaced
flooding along their insatiable hunger
(for the fresh blood of innocence that is)
the cold-blooded powers-to-be. . .

my time capsule rushed to bring me back

what –to my eternally aflame despair–
my ignorant grown-up-eyes did lack
was the growing notorious record
of my own era’s love for affairs of darkness

perhaps just perhaps
you would like to join me

my time capsule has reserved seats for many . . .  

© hülya n. yılmaz, 1.20.2018

[This poem will appear in the February, 2018 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press. The Year of the Poet has its regularly contributing poets from various parts of the world and features between three and four new poetry writers every month. Now in its fifth year, this book showcases -outside its monthly changing featured poets, the poetic works of fourteen “permanent” writers. The book’s 2018 offerings have been conceived to highlight a different civilization each month. Accordingly, it serves also as a collective educational undertaking to offer insight into various aspects of civilizations of the past and present.]

YOTP February 2018 Front.jpg.opt836x1254o0,0s836x1254

[Image enabled with the permission of the publisher, William S. Peters Sr., a prolific poet who by invitation has made personal appearances at numerous poetry festivals in a variety of countries -including Kosovo, Morocco, Tunisia, Macedonia, Jordan, Palestine. Several of his poetry books have been translated into different languages. William S. Peters Sr. is also widely known for his dedication, devotion and passion for humanitarian initiatives, all of which are presently in growing fruition. *Please note: The audio-interview used here is from three years ago and accordingly, the information delivered with it is not up-to-date.]

 

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HAIKU in German

sinnlos die tränen
wenn eiskalt viele seelen
die menschheit schläft tief

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 1.17.2018

Free Translation (self):

senseless the tears
if ice-cold the many souls
humanity is in a deep sleep

 

 

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. . .

no petting zoo

it was a strange encounter

a first-timer in my backyard

(“my” yard?

not in actuality

they were here

long before i settled in

without an ounce of humility)

unprepared this time …

(no fancy camera at hand

nor the skilled clicks of my phone)

thankfully

my eyes were opened wide

and i took the picture of the hawk

in its stately perching-pride

with my enchanted inside

its persistent presence

appeared close to mine

quite close i’d say

but it was intimated

not in the slightest

and I cannot say

that i was in my brightest

utterly sleepy at best …

the few-feet-long divide

was still a major delight

unlike “my” other little animals

that come and leave

as they ever so please

run or fly away at times

at a single wave of my hand

the hawk made a secure seat

out of a branch of a barren tree

right at the border of “my” land

amid many of others

that were dressed in dainty leaves

it then flew off …

close enough to the ground

seemingly showing off to me

what it was (and is) capable of …

i stayed on for a while

too long

for a cold mid-November-day

looking forward to its return

to its to-be-continued servings

of customized discoveries ahead

it did not come back …

it may have been so

for it probably did sense

how much i was taken aback

by its self-introduction of grace

besides

a living being like that

cannot be held in chains

it is after all

(and must thus remain)

as one of the freest avians …

so i turned to my good old

worn-out wind-chime

hanging downward on a hook

i wanted it to create a tune

the wind however

(contently in a deep nap)

simply refused to play along

i looked around

and saw that i had

(right at my fingertips)

a symphony of a collective sound …

“my” other wild birds

“my” leaps-happy squirrels

“my” big and small cotton-tails

“my” time-traveler chipmunks

had all gaily gathered

for an in-rehears-able

tap-dance routine

vying for my attention

about to show off once again

their daily acts of loyal affection

hülya n. yılmaz, 11.14.2017

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