. . . with my thanks to all who don’t play down the dark side of life

we all have so many scars
that we have grown roots
now rotting fast
in that favorite place of many a gathering
your kitchen my kitchen those dearest friends’ kitchen

grandma’s kitchen mama’s kitchen dad’s i too can cook-kitchen
each cupboard smelling like their pain med
poorly prescribed for their end
witches’ brew in a cauldron before us
even the back burner’s simmer-dial
scorches the ancestral ladle right off of our hand
the same hand we thought could control our fingers
which in turn would glow to show us whether to stir clockwise
or counter-clockwise
with rigor or not
how many times
for how long

our embarrassingly short short-term-memory
convinces us to believe fairy-tales all over again
that maybe just maybe
a tiny batch of soul food
would drizzle out of such gooey gunk
enchanting us in to our prenatal sheath
thus gifting us with a little breather
in order that we can tend our scabs
tend to the gashes in our hearts


the immortal spell-thrower

engulfs us

with a flood of burning ashes
spooned right out of the pot of our own churning

our bruises
while still in their nth round of incrustation
turn blood red once more
because our systemic veins are wide-open yet once more 

© hülya n. yılmaz, 10.0.2016 

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. . .


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October 19, 2016 · 7:00 am

Break over . . . Ara bitti . . . Die Pause ist nicht mehr . . .

. . . I am back although I couldn’t make it on time to my 7:00AM slot . . .


[Recycled image]

. . . have always been intrigued
by the well-known last words
or better yet
for whichever reason
many avoid calling them for what they are

no exceptions
too soon or not
each of us must hand over to death
dear ones who have given us
an all-encompassing love
whom we loved beyond that
which charades as life


have we really?

how many counts
on our attendance record
when ready and willing
we stood by their turns of hardship

i love you because you are you
you are my grandchild
you are my child you are my child
my fragile-psyched in bubbles raised niece
my pearl-hearted sister’s precious heir
my mother’s alike my sister’s alike my daughter’s alike
my older sister though not in blood
my sweet forgiving long-time friend
my gentle-souled beloved short-time friend
my accidental acquaintance-friend
my mother-in-law
my mother my babies’ grandmother
with all your flaws
with all your fears
with all your insecurities
with your self-defined selfish self
come inside my everlasting embrace
it is opened again and again for you
i love you
i just do

and then
they are gone
to eternity
deep into our erroneous past

life of their molding for our sakes
earth we thought entailed a world
the ground shaping our treks
having fooled us before
with its disguise of solidity
is no more

so we get swept away

from what seemed to be an indestructible fort
into the raging squalls of a river
that rushes to join with its sea
with no mercy

and are engulfed by constant undertows

we manage to stay afloat
long enough
to ask for their forgiveness

in the final moment
we remember
time never waits for any of us
to say i’m sorry to each soul we hurt
we remember
that there is no grace period for the span
between our first and last breath

© hülya n. yılmaz, 10.5.2016

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Taking a Break . . . Bir Ara . . . Eine Pause



October 2, 2016 · 7:00 am

. . .


Photo Credit: Gizem Satıcı, my daughter (Sinop, Turkey 2007)


Filed under Eternalist Notions

“Sabır” ~ Patience

Nazıms sufferance

is such a rope
that you would think it will break;
however, it will get stronger and stronger.
You would think it will end;
but it will grow and grow…

Image and Text Source: Nazım Hikmet’ten Yaşama Dair Sözler
Own translation from the original Turkish (September 20, 2015)

This wordpress post was first published on the 25th of November in 20015. The Turkish to English translation underwent some changes.

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. . .


Dalgalar.Yakın Çekim


“Be careful how you interpret the world: It is like that.” ~ Erich Heller (1911-1990), British Essayist


Photo Credit: Gizem Satıcı, my daughter (Sinop, Turkey 2007)

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