…feeling honored to reblog a poem by Jean-Jacques Fournier

Poetry on a canapé – A journey through Jean-Jacques Fournier’s poetry

I am the colour

Of human disorder,

That shades the stay

Of man made suffer,

While held at bay

Be caused such pallor,

In ominous way

With spurious cover,

Feigning fair play

Thus to be coloured,

With doubtful recover

For fated mankind,

Bearing colour be mine!

© Jean-Jacques Fournier

via “ I Am The Colour ” ~ of human disorder ~ — Poetry on a canapé

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. . .a mid-week musing. . .

reality checks

Photo Credit: Self

Date: Summer 2005

Location: Ada, Sinop – Turkey

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Escapism

Since 2003, unending chains of political turmoil have been gaining on speed and intensity in Turkey, my country of birth. The voters and non-voters alike have been rather accepting of the gradually growing brutal  violations of their basic human rights. When the head aggressor banned the National Sovereignty and Children’s Day this year, however, reactions from countless people throughout the country rose as a united voice of determined resistance.

Children’s Day is an official holiday that was celebrated yesterday, just like it has been every year since April 23, 1920, “the first gathering of the Grand National Assembly [‘]the Turkish Parliament[‘] (timeanddate.com).” The latest attempt by Turkey’s merciless dictator to erase from history Mustafa Kemal ATATÜRK, a world leader and the founder of the Turkish Republic – alongside the fruition of his reforms, was met with complete disregard of any authority with which the modern-day iron fist had been privileging himself. Celebrations of and by children yesterday have apparently taken on a life of their own, resembling the innocence of Turkey’s much happier past as numerous newspapers and social media reports document amid news on the most recent Erdoğan CorruptionGovernment-linked Foundation Caught Up in Turkish Child Sex Scandal. In starkest contrast, ATATÜRK has always been claimed to have prioritized the well-being of children in Turkey to whom he reportedly dedicated the Turkish Republic.

Escapism is what I seek today, a day after the bombardment of overwhelming occurrences having been made public yet once again but with their most severe impact at this time. I knew I had to avoid thinking about the utterly disturbing crime of organized pedophilia; to concentrate instead on the hope-raising sights of happy and carefree children – everywhere in the world, left in peace by adults to embrace their yesterday, their  today and their tomorrow. A piece of paper I had torn long time ago from a desk calendar then came to my immediate rescue – a quote from Rachel Carson:

A child’s world is fresh and new and beautiful, full of wonder and excitement. It is our misfortune that for most of us that clear-eyed vision, that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring, is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood. If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life.

To the permanence of “that clear-eyed vision” in the hearts of children throughout the world and to the loyalty of their life-long companion: “a sense of wonder”!

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. . .a mid-week musing. . .

regrets

 

Photo Credit: Self

Date: Summer 2005

Location: Ada, Sinop – Turkey

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Ageism

excessive now?

 

did one of them hit you in the heart again

do they already find you unnecessary

your shaky voice won’t let me be

 

with that beloved’s passing

last march had brought me my first regret

 

of having potted my roots here

 

my second followed today

 

when you almost apologized

for having lived this long

honoring your four siblings who died before you

adding how your youngest the only sister

still breathes together with her many grandchildren

whose longevity you then wished upon me

a faint hope for the women in our family

 

in all your ninety years

you grew up very little dad

loving but a self-centered man

high-maintenance

as the modern label goes

why did you have to catch up with it all

in one day

today

on the phone

 

i am not like them at all that you know

is that why you reassured me over and over

how well you are doing on your own all alone . . .

 

thirty years younger but i am unwell too many times

 

i also grew very little dad

loving but a self-centered one

perhaps not as high-maintenance

nonetheless a daughter of your essence

 

since the time our pillar collapsed

then much more recently

when you two fell apart

you have shifted to a deepness

 

he won’t come back he cannot

she however may return soon

it hasn’t been that long yet

 

why though are you in such hurry

with no fair warning in advance

but plenty of subtle goodbyes to me

 

are you telling yourself what i used to hear you say

“aloneness is reserved only for God”

please don’t you also rush while i’m so far away 

 

i agonize over your loneliness

how it befell upon you this late in life

did you really not hear me well when i asked . . .

 

they are merely a few blocks from you

yet choose not to be there

and you already stopped forgiving yourself

while you grant them forgiveness in abundance  

 

i just wish so very desperately

you wouldn’t have to hurt this much

that you could cease to grow up at once

 

and to forgive me for everything i couldn’t be for you

 

would you possibly throw in a sixty-year-long hug or two

© hülya n. yılmaz, 2.12.2016

≈ ≈ ≈

Like last week’s poem, also this one appeared as one of my three poetry contributions for the March 2016 issue of The Year of the Poet III, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press, Ltd. and consists of poems by eighteen writers, with between two and three featured new poets each month.

 

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. . .a mid-week musing. . .

slow learner

Photo Credit: Self

Date: Summer 2005

Location: Ada, Sinop – Turkey

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Before love, even death bows down

do you

fear death

i still do

that of my loved ones that is

 

when the heartbreak is too much to surpass

my memory box takes me by surprise

 

and i realize . . .

how even death bows down before love

 

© hülya n. yılmaz, 2.12.2016

≈ ≈ ≈

This poem appeared as one of my three poetry contributions for the March 2016 issue of The Year of the Poet III, a monthly international anthology published by Inner Child Press, Ltd. and consists of poems by eighteen writers, with between two and three featured new poets each month.

 

2 Comments

Filed under Sunday Reflections