Tag Archives: The Year of the Poet V

“Pachacuti”

an Inca Emperor takes the throne
Pachacuti is his name
his rule becomes a legacy
and attains a sizeable fame
for its unrivaled magnitude
as South America’s rarity

modern cultural history
traces the Inca back to the 12th century

AD, that is
in the Andes of southeastern Peru
looking from a frozen space in a distance . . .

Manco Capac,
the son of the Inca’s supposed creator,
was journeyed by his father, the Sun God Inti
down to Earth

12 million people of a large diversity,
comprising 100 different sets of ethnicity
made up Tawantinsuyu, the Inca state
thus claim the sources of history . . .

using their intellect effectively

helped them survive

a vast amount of misery

they were helpless however
in the face of the worst kind of agony
people in power had waited long enough
time had already passed by too fast
and had traveled away way too far
for them to establish methodically
an all-inclusive tyranny

there is much more to narrate about the Inca
a huge number of encyclopedias is on e-call
what matters to me though lies beneath the shell
that which i will unearth with vigor oh yes i shall
in fact it is nothing new that i choose to seek
to dare to unbury discoveries is not for the meek
let us go on to play our convenient hide-and-seek

powers-to-be?

today?

no way!

be that as it may
some of us are here to stay
and will turn over the stones for sure
to unravel the treasures of this mystery
then, powers-to-be will be no more
have no dismay!

© hülya n. yılmaz, August 20, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the September issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

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“in search of . . .”

in search of

a few meaningful lines
all along while Clio whines
Calliope is nowhere to be seen
as for Erato Melpomene and Polyhymnia
they are getting dressed right before my eyes
in a frantic vengeance and joy i have not foreseen

all i had requested were a few leads
to embark on my quest to find the Lupita
i suspect i am suffering from severe jitters
as i am capable of only counting my fingers
while each compiles in a pile countless beads
i’m afraid i am going to drown in this Chlorophyta

perhaps just perhaps though
i will find what i think i am looking for
would you please bear with me while i search
until a reasonably coherent finding does emerge?

Eureka!

i did
i did find it!
i indeed found an encyclopedia
ever so proud of their voluminous bit
its makers unanimously call it “Britannica”
i can never keep on a pedestal any colonialist

my jottings clearly announce so don’t you think
as for my effort to rise as a weighty conversationalist
i truly hold not one single hope for your “Hallelujah!”
but please join me at least in my jump to a “Hurrah”
i am after all finishing up the task at hand no easy feat
otherwise i would have to throw a never-before-seen fit

© hülya n. yılmaz, July 20, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the August issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

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on Oceania

entitled, 1

does the name “Cook” James Cook
as in Captain James Cook that is
sound familiar to you?

no, you say?
how can that be!

he has a monument in his name you see
for the monumental service he has done in 1774
he proudly did vandalize torture butcher and colonize
the natives of Vanuatu Islands of 500 BCE
and whitened them ever so graciously with a new name

The New Hebrides . . .

you get it of course

there was nothing “new” about the host-land
up until that year ambushed it mercilessly
then . . . there were no more
the same as they were before

the white legacy . . .

isn’t it just grand?

entitled, 2

Kudos to the British!
they worked also 19th century
to their advantage
they took home the bounty
yet once again

the poor unknowing Spanish!

a rushed glimpse of the islands
did not suffice to make them stay

Alas!

they thus failed to discover
the land’s richness in phosphate
mined by the islanders
profits fed-exed to the Commonwealth

entitled, 3

there once was an island called “Nauru”
1,400 people lived on it in peace
they spoke their native tongue
they had their native culture
phosphate was in abundance . . .

the year was 1843 then
45 years later
only 900 survived
together with their phosphate

their language and culture?

out the window they went . . .

© hülya n. yılmaz, June 14, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the July issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

 

 

 

 

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“a secret life story”

a secret life story

seriously?

it’s impossible for our live-records to stay unknown
even long after our skeletons’ offspring has outgrown
their offspring’s sketches donning the ruins of the land
there will always be a soul to give our grim tale a hand

has it not been so throughout the timeline of humanity
when will we begin to see this nightmare in full clarity
what more does it take to note the accomplished wrongs
why vow to look faraway while they parade in throngs

seriously?

what kind of a delete-button did in your testimonies
you surely had some rational and trustworthy cronies
it cannot be that so little of you has been left behind
or was prenatally the multitude of your bands twined

you were after all the inhabitants of Southwest-U.S.A.
also of Mexico in its North and synchronized i daresay
what you achieved between 10,000 and 40,000 years
some of us would submit to just to forsake our sad tears

© hülya n. yılmaz, May 14, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the June issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

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“nomads”

so, very little is known about your lives
is the professional claim in our times
the so-called “modern-day” jest
won’t be as stingy about us i suspect
we surely must self-glorify in retrospect

i don’t doubt what’s said about you today
when i look at our conditions in dismay
the continent you were “among the first”
to inhabitate is yelped to be the only greatest
just when i darn the nth rave then comes the latest

your surviving ancestors may 9,000 years later
discover or make for this laughing stock a grater
for it direly needs the ultimate fine-tuning of all times
our predicament should after all not stay as a secret
maybe they can distill this pickle oh so terribly acrid

you were a wandering and gathering lot i heard
we on the other hand are an incessantly scattering herd
you clothed yourselves with the skin of your hunt
and eaten plants to stay alive while we go the other way
we are the meals and nature are soon to meet its d-day

© hülya n. yılmaz, May 14, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the June issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

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“inventions, discoveries and donations”

inventions

too many of us are offended
become demoralized and uneasy
when we are reminded of “the other”
of “its” masteries, in particular
while we keep on indulging
in “its” stellar gifts to “the self”

dissatisfaction

impatience
dejection

blame the aware few . . .

why stir up history
as it was written
as it is taught
for “the self”
by “the self”

why pull the brakes ever
of our speeding time-shuttle
to acknowledge “the other” at last
with “its” long-overdue recognition
contemplating thus our own human blood

God forbid!

if we so did . . .

we then might realize
for a passing moment at least
how abundantly the “self” benefited
for centuries not for a mere several years
from “the other” and “its” still-shedding labor-tears . . .

discoveries

our lives would not have been the same
had the “other” not invented or discovered
nor had left intact for the misuse by “the self”
“its” surname bleeding still
taken from “its” sweat and blood
together with all else that to this day does remain

donations

un-written . . .

yes

the subject is Sumerians
of Ancient Mesopotamia
“the cradle of civilization”

how often do we come across
the oft-cited term to belong
to a lobbying cultural entity
as if it were for it to own

no surprises there!

another always seems to bear
the highest octave to raise
so it gets the praise
our history books bear witness

yet those writes
suffer from a mono-lithic lens
thus we reserve the honor
for one or the other
as long as it is not

by no means!

“the other”

furthermore

we cheer from the sidelines
turning into a music buff of some sort

though we know
deep down we know

blame the aware few . . .

why alter a make-belief
a working bed-time story
with all its esteemed fake glory

the invention of
Agriculture
intact with its Plow
and System of Irrigation
the Wheel
the Chariot
the Sailboat
the System of Time
the Concept of Astrology
as well as that of Astronomy
the Map
Mathematics
Urbanization
the Cuneiform
the First Form of Writing

yes

the First Form of Writing

but . . .

our history books
continue to claim
Nay! Oh, nay!
The Sumerians?
Of Ancient Mesopotamia?
The Cradle of Civilization?
Nay!
No way!

. . .

feel free to fill in the blanks
with names that are yet to make the ranks
out of the abyss of intentional omission
for their past and present donation
after all should that not be our mission

unless of course we seek our due commission

blame the aware few . . .

© hülya n. yılmaz, April 18, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the May issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

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“Indian People Are Still Here”

“Indian people are still here,”
Otis Halfmoon of the Nez Percѐ tribe maintains
and adds: “We are not going away. It is time that
The newcomers to this country started paying
Proper respect to the elder status of the first nations.”

Chief Joseph: “Every animal knows more than you do. White men have too many chiefs. Learn how to talk, Then learn how to teach.”

a nation whose population
marked its intent to live in peace
yet was forced to dress in war-wear
for the U.S. government
began to shoo it away
way down below
onto reservations

in the words of the reservation doctor
he died of a broken heart
his countless appeals
to federal authorities
had after all
failed

“I am tired of fighting . . . from where
The sun now stands. I will fight no more”,
uttered by In-mut-too-yah-lat-lat,
“Thunder coming up over the land from the water”,
Or, “Chief Joseph” as he now is known to us,
the still proudly ignorant populace
that erodes more of his land
night by each dark night
day by each darker day

let us recall the times when we have died . . .
a death by a broken heart

© hülya n. yılmaz, March 18, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the April issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

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“Nimi’ipuu”

the French
named them “Pierced Nose”
the ignorant
happened to find it befitting
such a limiting tag
the signaled practice however
is known not to have been wide-spread at all
othering the other “Self”
what’s new?

rivers have understood them
the lower Snake River
the Clearwater
the Salmon
as have streams and high plateaus
but also nature’s other gifts of abundance
berries roots a wide range of game
to which they would ask for forgiveness
for having had to kill for survival
while the French and non-French alike
continued their Nez Percѐ-butchery
among other acts of carnage
to pierce noses . . .
perhaps

horses were discovered in the 18th century
by this warlike-growing North American tribe
to its peoples alone does the gift of breeding belong
of the largest horse herds in the continent that is
including the distinctively colored Appaloosa
a most popular breed in today’s U.S.A.

looking at them with robotic eyes . . .
one should not neglect an add-on to this tale
what was (or may be still) their linguistic grouping?
we had better not forget our manners!
encyclopedias deliver detailed data on “Sahaptin”
even add this tongue is also called
Shahaptin and Sahaptian

imagine

if only we had this insight before
we would have . . .

© hülya n. yılmaz, March 15, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the April issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

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“what else is left to do?”

what else is left to do
but to bow in highest respect
before the pens of a power
that overrules the brutality of the
segregationist
colonialist
chauvinist
ethnicist
sexist
racist
surpassing time and space
as only the unwavering ink can do

now is the only time
and here, the only place
where we must and shall
unconditionally embrace
for one loss from our unity in diversity
is a cause for an irreversible tragedy
that will appoint us with no delay
to the expiry of our humanity

© hülya n. yılmaz, February 18, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the March issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

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“a coincidence”

“Guyana Pastoral” kept calling me
from a place i dare not describe
i had no knowledge of the language
it was dubbed as Guyanese Creole
i still have no knowledge of the language
but assume to understand some words in it
it was the composer i just had to “get” anyway
and i believe i now have
Guyana’s Ambassador-at-Large
David Dabydeen
an explorer of the history of Guyana,
UNESCO’s Executive Board member
presenter of “The Forgotten Colony”

a mere sand particle at the sea colonies . . .

the owner of the incredible response
to J.M.W. Turner’s “Slave Ship”-painting
Turner’s depiction of African slaves in chains
being thrown overboard . . .
Dabydeen’s contemplation
on the ‘submerged body of a drowned slave
in the foreground’ of the piece,
his fantasy- and history-melding
upon the slave’s portrayal
his compelling act of reclaiming
and redeeming of the past
amid the shadows of his insights into
and studies of “the horrors of slavery and
colonization”, under the ever-so-thickening
clouds that carry on the darkest fame of
European barbarians, among which he ‘stages’
the migrant predicament
stating it as it is in an interview:

I’m inclined to think that Britain has
heavily depended on us for its material
and cultural development. The tribe had
an important say and influence in the
[British]development. You can’t be
a Guyanese without being a Brit and
you can’t be a Brit without being a
Guyanese, or a Caribbean.

recognition came along, it indeed came along
for Dabydeen would not leave any of it alone
along his steadfast extraordinary way
he helped the British develop some more
for he wanted the cast over the bloodied pools
under the blood-soaked beds no more
he helped the world develop some more
so, he co-edited a monumental how-to-book
for the walking dead of colonialist barbarisms-at-large
the Oxford Companion to
Black British History
which went down to history
as “a magisterial excavation of Black Britain”

one award after another accompanied Dabydeen
not merely for his editing work but rather as
a poet –the winner of the Commonwealth Poetry Prize
a masterful novelist
a model scholar
a literary-icon-educator
the Director of the Centre for Caribbean Studies
and Professor at the Centre
for British Comparative Cultural Studies
at the University of Warwick
and much more . . .

a coincidence?

I think not!

my discovery
of the Highly Esteemed David Dabydeen
was meant to be

for it has materialized
at a time of an utterly-trying
professional hardship of mine
not to exclude all those contemplations
on the value of poetry to me
a life-ring in a turbulent sea
with a nearby-view of the long-lost years
to no longer be
David rescued me
a professor passionate in teaching
a heavily-faded scholar of some merit
however depressed or self-oppressed
a struggling writer of fiction
a poet starving for self-attention
with much to tell and speak of yet
including the ‘migrant condition’
though not of Black History alone
nor purely of David’s “Slave Song”

besides
i wouldn’t know where to begin
and doing disservice to any gems
is not cannot will not be mine to claim

so,
it is my own path that i will follow
believe me there is significant sorrow
in that which i am able to pierce
through at least one lightless shadow

so,
i shall proceed
whenever wherever the ground is opportune
of course, always all ways
with fiery thanks from the soul
to that magical tongue
called the Guyanese Creole

© hülya n. yılmaz, February 18, 2018

[Published by Inner Child Press International in the March issue of the fifth volume of The Year of the Poet]

 

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