“once a year”

for my %22memoires%22 poem

too old for peer pressure

yet still gullible

bursting at the sight of the all-senses-exposure

those persistent aides-mémoire disguised as lovers

heart goes on to beat to yearn and yearn and yearn…

© hülya n. yılmaz, February 20, 2015

This poem was published in the March 2015 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly book series by Inner Child Press, Ltd. as one of my three contributions among the works of poetry by other members of The Poetry Posse; namely, Jamie BondGail Weston ShazorAlbert ‘Infinite’ CarrascoSiddartha Beth PierceJanet P. CaldwellTony HenningerJoe DaVerbal MinddancerNeetu WaliShareef Abdur-RasheedKimberly BurhamAnn WhiteJackie Davis AllenTeresa E. GallionKatherine WyattKeith Alan HamiltonFahredin ShehuWilliam S. Peters, Sr. (the publisher of Inner Child Press, ltd.)

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…a new poem

APTOPIX Armenia Slaughter Centennial

If it seems to you like I have been preoccupied with the concept of death lately, you are not mistaken. Reasons that take you to this thought also find me, is my only defense. When one new sad coincidence hit me hard enough, I ended up in a brief direct speech with life’s notorious opposite. In my miniscule poem below. But first, allow me to share with you what to me came as a tragic irony:

May 7th is the date when my mother died – at the age of 48. May 7th was, however, the birthday of my mother’s beloved older brother. He died recently after achieving 84 years among the living. This past Thursday, May 7th has marked the 40th day after his death – according to some practicing Muslims, a time demanding a memorial event. I thus hope to justify my point of focus…

oh death

show me a way

not to love beyond sanity

teach me how to mourn in dignity

in honor of the nothing’s eternity

with grace

© hülya n. yılmaz, April 4, 2015

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

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“one red mulberry”

Foggy-Window-1

a small sickly tree in the little backyard of my solo house

appears to disappear with the mood of my window’s haze

it sheds its extravagant blooms before the winter’s peak

the cold hasn’t left yet

in fact it’s in high season these days

Winter-ice-5-12_16_2005

i pretend this tiny ailing escort shelters red mulberries

for they promise to re-bleed the ice on our memories

i haven’t been home in too long of a time i want you to know

once you last stepped out life in me bluntly refused to grow

this year my eyes’ ill companion kept one of its fruits

it is lonely and hangs at the end of a half-broken twig

utterly fragile at the mercy of even the gentlest blow

it awaits one more blazed tear drop from me to let go

One Red Mulberry

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

© hülya n. yılmaz, February 20, 2015

A poem contribution to the March 2015 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly book series published by Inner Child Press, Ltd.

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Turks in Europe: A “Marginal” Culture? … poetry is all-inclusive, after all…

migration2_540166b

Source: http://www.pi-news.org/2012/01/theyve-gone-mad-the-germans/

the marginal and the mainstream human

modern history finds them of despicable minor status today:

Turks in Europe

1961 saw them rolling in as blue-collar workers

after their government sold them for that infamous red carpet

its equally manipulative counterpart spread under their feet

they first became street sweepers

attended public toilets and god-forlorn alleys of crime

literary pens among them were brushed aside too long

when out of the scores of oppressed marginal selves

entrepreneurs with the crisp mainstream green came along

oozing ambitions into the parlamentarian powerhouse

although minor in impact yet language and mind intact

those foreign voices then changed into a well-known fact

back at home

for several centuries

their ancestors had under their reign civilizations galore

the great great great great great grandchildren of those rulers

remained oblivious to the ills of their life-seeking own

unaware how they are now trapped in the fangs of marginality

on the capricious pages of a modern-day European tragedy

one that has been writing for decades for the world to see

of their twofold abandonment by the hardcore humanity

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

© hülya n. yılmaz, January 20, 2015

A poem contribution to the February 2015 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly book series published by Inner Child Press, Ltd.

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“the after”

in contagious passion of all our unlived

we kept writing each other again and again

from you i had learned the love for a man

this time anew you tried as hard as back then

but my pain lasted beyond your reach to soothe

i digged out that poem’s title

its remaining verses came along

Can Dündar had lined up your fear for me

i must have worried you beyond my capacity

for musalla taşı* was a most somber thought for my after

© hülya n. yılmaz, February 16, 2015

* A stone platform on which the dead body is placed with its closed coffin to receive a final goodbye along with a specific prayer– a core element for Muslim burial ceremonies. The body is then carried in its coffin to the burial site to be lowered and covered with fresh soil inside a plain white cloth – without the coffin.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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

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Mother’s Day is for some…

A week before at least all developed world countries began to celebrate the day, I was introduced to the concept of death. The finality had passionately been kept away as taboo from any type of discussion in my family. When at the age of 48, my mother died on her older brother’s day of birth, May 7th, I have learned. In a childlike innocence at the age of 25, I concluded her death to mean a life-prolonging gift for my uncle. The same dearest man – closer to me than my father in numerous and incomparable ways, whose dedicated protection and devoted guidance I wrapped around myself like a security blanket to last much longer beyond March 28th of this year, is no longer. And the childlike innocence finds me still at an age a mere few months short of 60. With my plane ticket intact, one I finally managed to get after 7 long years of self-imposed separation, I was to hug and kiss him. The last breath cannot be scheduled, right?

So, I am left with the will to continue to write. As I have done earlier this April for my publisher’s monthly book project. I am especially thankful to him this time, for not having limited us, the contributing authors to circle around the theme of Mother’s Day. For each of my three poem contributions leaves much to think about outside that idea frame. The one I am sharing with you today is no exception. I want to hope that you will grant me your thoughts on it.

lions and ants

we like to hunt

to attain gain obtain remain

in eternal sharp-fanged hunger pain

not at all unlike the hero of Walt Mason

he put himself on a quest for a hungry lion one day

its mauling left him alive yet merely undead

forty-seven gashes wreaked his mutilated head

he wore his scars with beaming pride along with his fame

the lion thus became sacred for his until-then-modest frame

on one new day he rested atop a mound of ants

a million bites all over him that was the claim

he is said to have never since been the same

this tale is not told only once upon a time

it roars in us all at the first sight of worldly ills

while the overpowering ones meet our sword and armor

worn out small agonies slaughter our resilience in thrills

piercing bloodless our spirit and valor at their prime

© hülya n. yılmaz, April 2015

“lions and ants” will appear in the May 2015 issue of The Year of the Poet by Inner Child Press, Ltd.

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…epic poetry…with the intent to reveal…

soiling lies

inside the coat of my mother’s yearning

its snow color fur on my black midi-length

dabbing my face

wet with virgin flakes

an anchor its receded touch

rusted out through and through

in struggle to sew my fabrics together

to repaint each of my two myrrhed walls

cold

the table hasn’t been set for too long

waterless the ewer breadless the hearth

beds unmade in their tucked-in warmth

devoiced the radio ringless the doorbell

interference over and over and over

silenced words silencing the road-weary spirit

icy bare halls resounding unending wishes

dark

slipping through my fingers

while i saw nothing in the oozing mirror

it bled once again from out of each spore

i turned a cliffside into a dam this time

but overlooked the open flood gates

dry

her lap a pillow of tender quills

the worn-out blanket soaked in her scent

“snow falls on top of those who sleep”

awake

sequential persistent nonetheless covert calls

to pay a visit to pay a visit to pay a visit

alive

activate the life support though now in vain

quieted with force yet determined to self-end

ensuing her sevenhundredfortyone and a half-day extent

on the seventh of the fifth with eternal respect

ceding her remaining air to her beloved kin

she spins to a nothing never to be felt again

no womb to take the tears to

late

void

shrill

in pity the homeland enters the main vein

revives herself in memory reappears in flesh and blood

her scent crawls through each of the passing cells

thirst arrives in hunger pangs

eight precious households come into view

singing dancing flowing in sync to an eternal feast

mute

eyes lock on the trail to her breathtaking peak

from where the sea struts its azure wealth many seek

and there a mere step away

dons the house its unending hospitality

bricks worn out shutters in their lately ashen trace

erect in its famed humbleness as yet

vying to amass a few more gasps

the ornate transoms eye the vast sky

their weathered glances collapse as waves

the ground’s dirt is tender as maternal caress

its trees’ depleted roots ready themselves to finally rest

as have those who were there before lying forgotten abreast

decomposed

heart seeks shelter on the faded print undug

wide concrete steps lead to a colossal wooden door

where a stately man holds a briefcase in one hand

a fedora complements his stunning handsome face

a mere toddler my mother’s one intensely beloved brother

his nose glued on the front window in their mother’s arms the other

a gorgeous sight my own sweet darling mother

as one yet with her all-giving esteemed soul

warm

her precious girl all grown up

on her path of rights escorting more than a few wrongs

having pained many a hearts no exception her tortured core

housed beside those by whom she does not belong

in her filthied resting place she laced not only once

heeding love’s enticing whisper in relentless hope and intoxication

inside its stolen womb questing its easing promise to not end

is it courage in her choice if left with the intended self to blame

fake

the bliss of a mask of strength the innocence-alluring pretense

hollow

knitting her fate into her caftan weaving patternless loops

feared

cursed

disapproved

still in refusal to sense the self’s contention

© hülya n. yılmaz (March 20, 2015)

“soiling lies” – together with the works of my seventeen fellow poets appeared in the “Epic Poetry” section of the April 2015 issue of The Year of the Poet, a monthly book series published by Inner Child Press, Ltd.

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