Mother

I will never be too grown-up to be kissed and squeezed by my mother

For she will not take “no” for an answer

“You are a grown-up now, but in my eyes you are still my little girl”

She will usher me into her kitchen to taste her homemade

Deliciousness,

Because in food she puts her love.

When I was a teen, while Tracy Chapman was crying out of the loudspeakers,

My mother would listen and say “how is she doing these days?”

And worry about the well-being of my teen-idols.

Her sensitiveness is deceptive, for she is firm as a rock,

Her strength disguised by the soft curtains of her soul.

Once I was in her womb.

Curled up in its pink, soft protectiveness.

Now years and years later,

Looking at her porcelain, antiques and family photos

Her perfume bottles, that should have been used up years ago, but are still half full,

Her patchwork blankets and TV shows,

I feel a fear and sadness.

Knowing that one day she will be gone taking her womb with her.

Terror

The voice of the speaker, as monotonous as ever,
Was the morose opposite of the uncanny screams
And the disowned body parts of the unprepared people.
Unprepared for the blast bursting in the bosom of a 20-year old,
Tearing open the gut of a city, in the tired evening hours.
Hatred has become the weed growing in our backyards
Where lives are cheaper than the explosives putting them out.
The pure face of a youth victim illuminates my screen.
With him hope dies and is forever buried
Under meaningless fatalism.
And religion is once again exploited
While man does evil to other man for the love of God.

A Raft on the River

Unlike someone who works in the efficient world of business, this time, I do not have a plan. I do not have a strategy. I do not have a selling idea. What I have is a bunch of thoughts, ideas, opinions, experiences…..and a gut feeling. Yes, a feeling that I might have something worth writing about, something which might be of interest to some audience out there. I am aware, that this sounds infinitely vague coming from a person, whose job is planning marketing activities a year ahead of time. Planning and prioritizing are so important in my job. Nevertheless, business is different than creative work in many ways. Though, both require great focus.

I have always enjoyed reading. Ever since I learned to read, I read books. In my childhood, my father, who worked for the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism, would bring home copies of the children’s classics published by the Ministry. It would not last very long though, before I exhausted every single novel or short story and asked my parents for money to buy new books. I would read at every opportunity I had. I read all the books my parents had on their bookshelves, many Turkish and international classics. Reading made me happy, expanded my imagination and knowledge. Books were truly my best childhood friends.

In 1985, my father was sent as cultural attaché to work in Copenhagen. At that time, I was a teenager and thrilled with the idea of seeing a new part of the world. I was enrolled at an international school and continued my education in English. During my high school years, my passion for literature continued. My dear teacher Mr. Pierce who taught us English Literature at Copenhagen International School, inspired me immensely. It was during his classes, I started reading and writing poetry.

Now, why am I telling you all this? Because I have a creative urge and I need to start somewhere. Giving some background seems like a good starting point. With all due respect to people, who write for a living: I am doing this because of a personal interest of mine, not because I am thinking of a change of career path or a commercial success.

This blog is my wooden raft and I am setting it in the river and letting it float. We will see where the river will take us. Come and float with me, climb up , have a coffee and discuss.