Tag Archives: Poetry


sitting on the porch
breathing in the soft breeze

a rare occurrence these days

fierce wind storms forced
the age-old trees in the back to bow down
so much so that the property owner
started to cut them off of the ground
that frail human attempt failed miserably
the branches, as thick as a tree stem, stayed strong

for the time being . . .

lately, they are gasping for air, maybe their final ones
another explosive storm
will surely make its way

exhausted, those trees are doomed to cave . . . 

hülya n. yılmaz

This poem is one of my three contributions to the monthly book, The Year of the Poet, published by Inner Child Press International.

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“I Want My Poetry to . . .”

i want my poetry to
be a break from life

i want my poetry to
burn tears in your hearts
then bring them to the surface
before you decide you had better cave in
to the pain and suffering, etched ever so resiliently
in your past, present and future memories,
when it is time to have that wail explode
letting out that desperately patient standby, “enough!”

i want my poetry to

ease you then
into the arms of a selfless child-bearer
whose lullaby will tuck you in safely
under a snuggle-obsessed blanket-sleep,
after having raised you from a darkest deep
together with the gentlest touch of other souls
who learned to utter only the tongue of love . . .
their aura will entice you into a burial ground of ashes
where to lie to rest your ire and your innermost fears,
to shed all your chains to be free of also the grim tears
which have been fiercely carved on Earth
on its every hidden nook and cranny
since the birth of humanity

                                                i want my poetry to
be a break from life

welding with steel
the vital holes on your pails so frail
for you to be on your steadfast way,
to flood in the universe with no delay
its tamest of waters on nature’s path
will gather for you to help you cleanse
your self-unforgiving self-foremost
but will not let you forget all else
which you may have cursed in wrath . . .
they will amass for you serene drops of bliss
to bathe under each the bitter ghosts of your ills
chafing away your immense boulder’s mass
for a modest few little whiles at last

i want my poetry to
be a break from life

holding your hand
every time you must weather a storm
so that you know i too have been marred
the craftiest kind left me barren in all its might,
hail rushed and wedded bloodcurdling thunders . . .
lightening was only watching from afar at first,
but then it exalted their union in a raucous roar
even snow flurries of my most loyal delight
showered the procession in a sliest twist

i want my poetry to
be a break from life

wafting you in the end
inside a cloud that is mate to the mild zephyr
to undiscovered lands as well to the Seven Seas
to the faraway councils of breath-taking skies
to the communes on the many luminous moons
to the comet-ic homes of ancient curiosities
in pursuit of the suns of the Egyptians,
of the Hindu, the Chinese, the Japanese,
of the Greek, the Aztec, the African,
of the Navajo, the Inca, the Inuit,
of the Sumerian, the Roman

even though
i do not
sing of elation alone . . .

~ * ~

“Be a Break from Life” has first appeared in I Want My Poetry To . . . Volume 3, an international anthology published in March 2017 by Inner Child Press, Ltd.


Filed under Poetry, Reflections

Religion, a Personal View as a Poem

religion . . .

a controversial subject
in religious studies,
with scholars failing
to agree on any one definition

the Oxford Dictionary defines it
as “the belief in and worship of
a superhuman that controls power,
especially a personal God or gods.”

cohesiveness . . .
and rationale

‘believing in’ and ‘worshipping’
a controlling “power”,
one that is conceived to be “a superhuman”
“a personal” one, at that . . .

that “belief”,
energy spent on ‘worshipping’,
does, as evidenced time and again,
permit humans to destroy human lives
in unspeakably barbaric ways and means,
while justifying their senseless brutality

not believing in humans,
but rather ‘worshipping’ “a superhuman”,
“a personal” one, at that,
which allows massive mass-murders

the innocent, the bystander,
children not excluded . . .

not believing in humans,
but rather ‘worshipping’ “a superhuman”,
“a personal” one, at that,
which yields to continous fatal attacks
with the intent to eradicate humans
without remorse,

the innocent, the bystander,
children not excluded . . .

where do we, ordinary humans, ‘fail’?
wherein lie our “super” traits?
in killing one another?
in the name of an utterly vague
conceptualization of a “belief”,
of an urge to “worship”?

a phenomenon
we all have been conditioned with;
a phenomenon
for which a single definition
evades us repeatedly,
while it rips us all apart violently,

seeking a ‘personal’ “superhuman”
to “believe in” and to “worship”,
seeking one or more of it to feel entitled
to destroy unconditionally
the very same human on whose shoulders
that ‘personal’ “superhuman”
is bound to stand . . .

cohesiveness . . .
and rationale


(c) hülya n. yılmaz, May 31, 2019

Din hakkındaki bu şiirimi kısa bir süre içerisinde Türkçe’ye çevirmiş olmayı umuyorum.


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these hands . . ., a poem

these hands

held a handset
for many a traumatic call

these hands

pounded the head
in despair plenty of times

these hands

struggled and still struggle
under the relentless ire of RA
inside a fragile frame,
along with their inseparable companions

these hands

penned elegies
when the soul pained beyond faint sounds

these hands

wiped away tears
that streamed down
onto anything on their path

these hands

caressed a dying mother in her last hours
on her only accessible body part,
her forehead


these hands also

touched the rarest of life’s gems
they embraced the magical arrival
of the priceless light of a daughter,
beautiful inside and out,
of her two little precious beauties as well


these hands also

touched those of dearest close friends
through countless splendid memories
but during trying times, in particular,
the falling and fallen self being lifted
to its intact version anew

friends far away did not see these hands,
but their caring spirits
warmed up the soul at the core
whenever it was feeling down and cold

friends, never encountered in person –
‘social media acquaintances’ to some,
also knew to lend an ear to the trials and
tribulations of the vessel of these hands

regardless of their confines,
these worn hands tremble now
with the gratitude of their traveler
on her journey from and to life’s offerings

whatever there is to come,
these hands will greet it,
along with their inseparable companions

hülya n. yılmaz, April 23, 2022

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crafting a necklace,
one bead at a time . . .

happy moments,
braided on a taut string

in a box on the side,
lid closed in a tight knot
an inescapable afterthought,
neither marring the thriving self
nor threatening the inner peace

as time passes,
even the most miniscule beads
take on a life of their own,
contentment weighs heavily
atop the ills and tribulations

crafting a necklace,
one bead at a time . . .

happy moments,
braided on a taut string

hülya n. yılmaz, April 7, 2022

~ ~ ~ ~

bir kolye diziyorum,
bir boncuk, bir boncuk daha . . .

mutlu anlar
sağlam bir ipe örülü

suç hissi
bir kutu içinde, yan tarafta,
kapağı gemici düğümüyle mühürlenmiş
kaçınılmaz düşüncelere gebe
ama ne gelişen ben’i zedeleyebiliyor,
ne de iç huzurunu tehdit edebiliyor

zaman ilerledikçe
en ufak boncuk bile can buluyor,
hoşnutluk bütün sıkıntıların, endişelerin üstüne
tüm ağırlığıyla yerleşiyor

bir kolye diziyorum,
bir boncuk, bir boncuk daha . . .

mutlu anlar
sağlam bir ipe örülü

hülya n.  yılmaz, 7 Nisan, 2022

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“Convincing the Self” ~ A Poem

at a crossroads
of a significant loss
of worldly nature, that is
emotions run high still

sixteen years of memories
embedded in these tired old walls
no amount of fresh paint
can wipe off those delights
each of them will accompany me
wherever i now go, wherever i shall remain
for the rest of my days

i am reminded of a poet’s words
an equally convoluted mind . . .
“With death being a reality,
nothing should be taken seriously.”

i, however, am taking my predicament
with scrutiny, under utmost seriousness
for i have acted impulsively, carelessly
many a year ago

having arrived at a point beyond sadness,
i neared my resolve quite fast though
i, thus, am uttering an eager greeting
to all my erroneous ways toward a peaceful “hello”
for i presently see in myself a grateful soul
with indispensable learning curves

no fault

no guilt

no self-blame

just accepting the self
exactly as it became to be

​hülya n. yılmaz, January 25, 2022


Filed under Poetry, Reflections

“Sliding Doors” ~ A New Poem

sliding doors

almost as often as i breathe in,
i exhale this wishful thinking these days

what if . . .
my impulses were tamed
once and for all

what if . . .
my amygdala had lent an ear to reason
on voluminous occasions

what if . . .
my what ifs would exceed the extent
of a modest-size single-hit volume of my
life-altering decisions and deeds

what if . . .
i had viewed beforehand
with some suspicion at least
each swift initiative i took
ever so flirtatiously

what if . . .

the reality

of my existence

was now

not thus . . .

​hülya n. yılmaz, January 20, 2022


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A Poem in Turkish and Its English Translation

Hani deriz ya, duvarların dili olsa . . .
benimkiler ne derlerdi arkamdan acaba?

Bunca zaman topladığım
hangi anıya verebilirlerdi ki
hak ettikleri gibi özel bir yer?

Hürriyetimin koluna girdiğim
ilk adımımı mı anarlardı
öncelikli bir özenle;
yoksa serbestçe evimin her köşesini
yerleştirmemi mi izlerlerdi yeniden?
Kendi zevkime göre.
Çoktandır unuttuğum bir hevesle.

Ofisimden yorgun argın dönerken yuvama,
kulak mı verirlerdi artık bastırmam gerekmeyen coşkulu şarkılara?
Çocukluğumdan kalma bir serbestiyle
çınlatmaya tedirgin olmadığım.
Genç kızlığımın sınırsız neşesiyle
bangır bangır inlettiğim şu yaşlı bedenimi.
Kendi doğamdan çekinmeden.

İlk torunumun,
Doğum Günü Hediyem’in yani,
can kardeşlerimle belgelediğimiz
birinci yaşını mı kutlarlardı bir kez daha?

İkinci torunumun,
Minyatür Prensesimin yani,
bebek salıncağını mı
sallarlardı o sakince uykusuna dalabilsin diye?

Hangi bir yaşantımı yazsaydım
çıkmaz mürekkep ile yanıbaşıma,
ki fotoğraflarını çekebilseydim
her birinin doyasıya,
iç burukluğuna çare olan bir nektar yerine,
buralardan çekip gitmeden önce?
Onları her özlediğimde,
her hislendiğimde
onların sıcak kucağına dalmak üzere.

Düşünüyorum da,
yerinden yurdundan edilen
sayısız onca insan
nasıl dayanıyor
böylesine bir kalp ağrısına,
ruh burkulmasına . . .

Hiç değilse ben
başka hiç kimse zorlamadan beni
çıkmak üzereyim yeni yoluma.
Çok zor olacak olsa da . . .

hülya n. yılmaz, 12 Ocak, 2022 

You know how we say, if walls could talk . . .
I wonder what mine would say behind my back?

To which of the memories I have gathered throughout these years
could they possibly do any justice, the kind of justice they deserve?

Would they commemorate with special care
the first step I took to hold the arm of my freedom;
or would they observe me in those days anew
when I set up every corner of my home freely?
According to my own taste and desire.
With a sense of enthusiasm, excitement
I had long forgotten about.

Would they lend an ear to the upbeat songs
that I no longer need to suppress, those
which I would chant on my way home
after a long, tiring day in the office?
Chants of the endless joy of my youth,
delivered to this aged body of mine
from the top of my lungs.
With no apologies for my true nature.

Would they celebrate once again the first year
of my grandson – my birthday present,
a landmark can kardeşlerim and I etched into my life together?

Would they sway the baby swing of my granddaughter –
my Miniature Princess,
so that she could ease into her sleep?

Which of my not-merely existed but lived moments
should I have written on my being with permanent ink,
so that I could take pictures of each one of them
to my heart’s content to have them by my side
as the nectar to ease my spirit’s unease
before I leave my home for good?
To delve into their warm embrace
at the first sight of my longing for them,
my paining for them.

Then . . . I think . . .
about the countless people
who have been and are still being uprooted
from their homes, their homelands . . .
how they endure such a heartache,
such a breaking of the soul.

As for me,
I am having to embark on a new journey
under no one’s force at least.
No matter how very difficult
that step is going to be . . .

hülya n. yılmaz, January 12 , 2022 


Filed under Impulses, Poetry, Reflections

After a long hiatus . . .

I Want . . .

Erato and Euterpe to mesmerize me.

I want them to lay me down to a restful sleep
to wake up by their side,
having dreamed of enchanting
poetic lines of my own creation.

I want on every breath of mine
the scent of Calliope,
inhaling and exhaling her Muse.

I want to be fed poetry.

I want my drinking vessels
to absorb poesie
day after day, night after night
never to exit my soul.

Calliope, Erato, Euterpe, come to me
to stay with me to eternity.

Throughout it all,
enthrall me!

“I Want . . .” was one of my poetry contributions for the September 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet IX, published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International. I have made some minor adjustments for this post.

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“Snail Mail”, a Poem

snail mail

tucked in inside various kinds of envelopes,
postcards and personal (or professional) letters
donned their two-option stamp:
domestic or international

they are now on their way
to become a mere memory
of the fast-disappearing past

long before emails won the popularity contest
having gained a steady support
at a record-breaking speed,
snail mail used to be the long-distance venue
with its two-option destination:
domestic or international

if you are my age,
you too have probably seen many a stamp
some, uplifting in their flower prints
or season-specific images;
others, destined to mark awareness
for many a fatal disease

who recalls ever seeing the Duck Stamp
of the U.S. Postal Services in 2020?
i do not, nor did i know about its significance
as far as helping people conserve wildlife
or its contribution to the visibility
of educational programs in the United States,
those that focused solely on largely neglected issues
of environmental and conservation concerns

yet . . . for years – clueless
about the notable mark of the Duck Stamp,
i have been donating to the one leading U.S. organization –
well-known in its efforts in this arena

clueless no more . . .

*”snail mail” is one of the three poems I have contributed for the June 2021 issue of The Year of the Poet published by Inner Child Press, AKA Inner Child Press International.

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