So, it has finally happened! I’m a published author now! ^_^
Or should I say, a published poet, since my first book ever to be published turned out to be a poetry book? Yep. I created this baby. Yes, sir. I started writing poems when I was 9, and 22 years later, bam! Here it is! My debut poetry collection, The Anguish of an Oyster. By Ecem Yucel.
Joke aside, this is something so incredible that I still can’t believe it. I was also terrified to publish it as if the readers were this really good-looking, great guy I’ve fallen…
“Who would’ve thought
wings could be a burden?”
asks my brother when
I tell him about the pigeon
I saw the other day.
“Certainly not us,
the species that call themselves
humans,” I reply.
Then, my mind drags itself back
to the scene I watched for a while:
One talon curled over
the edge of the roof,
the other is a bit behind
supporting the bodyweight
and ready to kick the ground
in any minute,
in case the world is found
and the bird decides to end it all
brewing his resolution,
is on the brink
of a freefall…
My dearest fellow Medium writers and readers,
It’s been some months since I created a newsletter for my website, thinking I may share my updates and ramblings with you in a monthly manner. I only announced it on Medium once and left it at that. Because I suck at announcements and self-promoting. You wouldn’t know it, but there is an old Turkish movie in which the protagonist, who once was a rich landowner, loses his all possessions and is forced to sell tomatoes while driving through the streets, letting the people in those neighborhoods know that he is selling tomatoes…
For many years,
my bus drove past the wall
which had your graffiti on.
a street before,
I’d look at it each time,
even when I’d tell myself
I couldn’t bear to see it anymore.
It gave me this strange sense
of loss, of sadness,
of a constant fight
to go through day and night,
to prolong our existence,
not knowing if life really
had some meaning.
The graffiti you drew
wasn’t a mural of vulgar art
nor something flashy
composed with a bold choice of colors
to catch the eyes of strangers.
No, it was the opposite,
Time flows, scars fade;
we forget the bad things,
even the good ones
are occasionally remembered.
Even if the wound closed up
and the blood ceased to seep
the second the knife was withdrawn
from the flesh,
the sharp, cold steel of the blade
would still bite.
Not the scabs, the marks
nor the blood loss, the bruises
– what really etched in our minds
and torturing, blinding us
like an eternally blazing, searing sun
is the trauma, the memory of pain
we carry underneath our skin,
in our tear glands, through our veins,
one bright suffering that
never goes dim…
When the elevator doors opened on the seventh floor, they saw Daisy, standing right in front of the elevator doors. She knew he was here, thought Amber. She was waiting for us.
Steve seemed a little panicky though, probably because he wasn’t expecting to see Daisy this soon. He tried to smile or say something like I met Amber in front of the building out of defense, but he couldn’t. There was something on Daisy’s expression that fixed them on the spot they were standing in the elevator car. Amber was right, Steve…
In the dark, I lie still.
Dwelling under the cover of the night,
the mystery of your riddle
Each night, the bonfire burning in me
is smothered to a dim, idle candle,
inside me, every nook and cranny
is shadowed, and I tremble.
Then, like a miracle
one never really wishes to witness,
the sun reaches down
to stroke my temple playfully:
for the rest of the day,
the dark spell will be broken,
like a curse you come across
in a Grimm fairy tale.
I force myself out of the bed.
To look out listlessly,
I drag my reluctant…
I don’t understand Ottie, why didn’t you tell me they fucked each other right here, in the elevator? How could you keep this from me? And you call yourself my friend? How could you do this to me Ottie? And don’t come to me with the crap that you didn’t want me to get hurt. I am fucking hurt! They deceived me Ottie, they betrayed me, just like you did.
What do you mean you didn’t betray me? Why the hell you stood and watched them fuck each other then? Why didn’t you do…
Last year on Valentine’s
we went to a Japanese restaurant,
“Cling, cling!” “Santé!”
We sipped cold Asahi,
and got to eat the dragon sushi.
It was the last time I’ve ever been to a restaurant.
Even when not quarantined,
an autoimmune disease
puts me in the high-risk group, you see.
So, this year,
he bought me two small bottles of perfume,
one smells like summer, and the other like a fig tree;
and three boxes of
milk chocolate caramel squares,
guaranteed to give you a cavity.
And when they arrived,
he took out the Clorox,
and wiped them virus-free.
Read Part I here.
Fully clothed and with blow-dried hair, Amber heard someone talking as she headed to the kitchen to steep a cup of herbal tea for herself. The voices were coming right outside of her apartment she shared with Daisy. Listening attentively, she made Daisy’s voice, though she still couldn’t understand the content of what she was saying.
A tiny hope flickered in Amber’s chest. Maybe it was Steve, whom Daisy was talking to. After the mind-blowing, dirty sex (Amber knew that Daisy was vanilla, so she was using every dirty trick she could think of during sex…