We have made it to a new year. Perhaps, you, too, have listened, read, heard or overheard how some of us having promised ourselves to do things differently or for the first time; while others among us, having decided not to return to habits of the past. Regardless of how each of us feels about that supposedly clean-cut moment – a.k.a. the annually repeated time of making a “New Year’s resolution”, we get to listen, read, hear or overhear that phrase. My first ever encounter of it occurred immediately after my life in Turkey. I had developed genuine interest to blend in with the back then “in-crowd” of “this year, I will…” with my own resolutions. Soon enough, though, this new attraction became rather cumbersome to me because of one realization: life, for me, had to be happening all year long with its in-between transformations. As you may be guessing right now (and correctly at that), I haven’t lived up to such ambition. But I have at least managed to narrow down my aspiration about living true to myself to manageable steps of change – on physical, mental, emotional, psychological and spiritual levels. 2015’s first opportunity to articulate the peaceful healing at the essence of my being came in the form of three poems I was expected to write for The Year of the Poet – the year-round poetry project I have announced to you last Sunday. Today, I am sharing them with you in the hope that you will like them for one reason or another. Of larger significance to me, however, is their potential of connecting with you in respect to your own “resolutions” – to merely resonate the popular term – on the deeper aspects of your beings. Perhaps, they will trigger in you a memory (or more) that – as in my case – held you hostage for a prolonged period of time, preventing you from life itself. And then, maybe, just maybe, you may achieve your own peaceful healing. One outlived experience at a time.
return to sender
it could have taken longer
it?
realizing what mattered
since there exists no spare…
had read heard and overheard it
signaled by others’ times gone by:
‘get your matters in order’
dismissed all advice with a flair
as were there only one affair!
when illness becomes your teacher,
do you learn to heal with intent?
are you then tempted to be content?
does a resolve enter your thick head
as a liveable opportunity of a stead?
several decades – a luxury for the countless
you’ve lived some with multitudes of dreads
others delivered an array of sheer happiness
like a bean counter however, one ever so eager
you filled your over-zealous Comptometer
only with the ills while shrieking woeful thrills
remember the summer of 2014
for each millisecond of your remaining time
how those many a love-filled rhyme
bouqueted in festive wreaths
traveled from compassionate hearts
elated to know you collected their care
with no “return to sender” note to bear
© hülya n. yılmaz, December 16, 2014
“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
1980s
1990s
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!”
Liked.
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
Nanki-poo
a traveling musician was he,
entering the stage in a cheer: “A wand’ring minstrel I!”
this character stunned many a prop of the two-act comic opera,
“The Mikado” or “The Town of Titipu”
each, a tongue twister of some sort
but a brain-teaser, too, for us – the non-Japanese
mikado stands, after all, for the Emperor of Japan
while it represents – online references claim the same:
“the great gate at the Imperial Palace in Kyoto”
no mind-boggling intent is actually there to spend
an age-old tradition of respect is merely in to maintain
when addressing nobility, that is…
where, then, do i come in?
let me make the attempt to explain:
Nanki-poo speaks of his father as the “Brutus of his race”
the world-renowned assassin of Caesar
for the Mikado “condemned his own sons to death”
charging them with “treasonous conspiracy”
one act’s revelation of this son’s escape from execution
is, please beware, of no notable importance here
the Mikado’s rise to the throne however, is
along with his lifelong pretense as a “fool”…
why, you ask?
allow me now to get to my final task:
we each seek a safe space in our memories, as i believe
an alternative reality to help us avoid self-destruction
for me to pretend i am a fool is a long-lost obstruction
besides…
no seat of any significance ever meant anything to me
so…
it’s not the opera’s mikado i can relate to
or ever do
the daughter, i have in mind instead
one he had only from afar
she betrayed her own paternal kin
no conspiracy was there to wrongfully pin
she thought him the fool her entire life through
though to him she was the brightest shining star
one who refused his admiration, for she was dead set
but…
now that he reached a most fragile age
would declare herself a saboteur of notorious fame
having always received either love or more of the same
without ever having given in return anything without rage
who today remains in hopeful despair and desperation as well
for her homecoming not to be too late to cast anew its desired spell
© hülya n. yılmaz, December 16, 2014
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