Füsun A.



Montréal, CANADA
January 12
Freelance Writer - jack of all genres;master of none.
warm and genuine
I divorced my full time career of teaching after 25 years, because meanwhile I fell in love with freelance writing. Ever since, I decided to legitimize my ten-year fling which started in the new millennium. Author of: "WILL OF MY OWN - A Memoir" Available at all major book outlets. For a preview please visit: http://www.dictionmatters.com/


DECEMBER 9, 2010 10:12PM


Rate: 48 Flag

This is the story of a dilapidated large notebook. It has lined pages each of which is numbered on the top outer corner; and it is under a hard cover whose edges are curled in opposite directions – exposing fuzzy pulp pressed into the hard veneer. Facing different directions, courting, parting – like the owners of the book, but not after sharing a twenty year history and leaving nostalgia prints cover to cover – words are as indelible as the ink in which they are scribed.

This is also the story of the dilapidated large notebook that symbolizes the word TELITA, coined by the owners of the book. They met during their sophomore year – she at the heels of the greatest heart break of her life and two just moons away from serious illness – he, as his usual carefree self which armored his inner tormented poet. They recognized a kindred spirit in the other and collected their writing in that odd book, which he had started many years ago. A bookkeeper’s gift to a young boy, who liked to write.

They promised each other : “The Essence of Love Is Truthfulness Always” and that was how they greeted each other - their code for “I love you.” The book became “theirs” so it contains some of his poems transcribed in her handwriting, which, depending on her mood, could be upright or slanted. But it's always neat and delicate – even through her most emotionally up-heaved days.

Then around mid '70s some of her own poems begin creeping in among his. Because she started replying to him in poetry, every  word labored over for the perfect nuance.  That was during the year she convinced her Old English professor to let her print ivy leaves creeping up his office walls – the same delicate ivy leaves that decorate the edges of some pages of the dilapidated large notebook. The notebook was covered in thick, dark purple paper then – probably by her – to protect it. Years faded the purple to a shadow of itself.

As the story continues, two other voices enter and are sheltered and nourished in this dilapidated large papa book. Voices like images – frozen in time on a movie slide. . . The younger voices are those of a male and a female. Progression of pages echo their angst, wonder, sadness, despair, rebellion, defiance or denial. These pages are interspersed with poems from a father as he empathizes with his daughter and his son while he is fighting to keep his promise to let them be. His dedications are not meant to be displayed - they are his intimate, personal, noble feelings. It is impossible not to cry at the poems. The intertwining of the father and the children's voices is very heart wrenching.

-To my Teenaged Son-

To my teenaged son

-To Râna Nuran-

to rana

At one point on its journey, this very dilapidated large book - with the faded purple cover - came within a match's strike to being perished. For ever. Like killing an adulterous husband in a second of insanity. Yet the match stick never struck the side of the box that day – or maybe it was extinguished by her tears before it reached its destination. Perhaps, the poet's heart understood while the mother and wife could not. So the book in question was saved from perishing by a miracle. Instead, two or three pages that drew out the most blood were torn out. Jagged edges of departure still show in the binding. The perpetrator of the crime has long been forgiven.

torn pages 

The most climactic point of this story, is the story of how I hold this very dilapidated large book – no longer with the faded purple cover, of course – in my possession today - almost fifteen years later. It's also what started this story rolling. In its wake I am left with an understanding and appreciation of someone with whom I had shared a unique bond. 

Last month we celebrated our son's birthday as a “family” - just the four of us. We reminisced about our past life. That's when the little dilapidated book was mentioned, and I remembered a few poems I had inscribed back then. They may be of the saved few. I asked if I could borrow “The Book” for a few days and extract – I mean – transcribe mine to a disc. I have recently lost my entire poetry collection.

He didn't even blink before he said “Sure. I'll drop it off on Monday.”

And that's how I have it - since two weeks now. First few days were a flurry of reading through every poem – and there are hundreds – and revisiting each associated occasion in memory. Like a pop-up story book, words popped up to lay out images. I can touch but not feel, as if the past is partitioned off by a glass window, separating it from the now. I hear or see much that I didn't back then. The unconditional love as well as the presence – imperfect as it was – of a father, through sobriety or confusion; through pride or regret; contentment or happiness – is on every page, between each line.


Lost Omnipotence-K 

- Lost Omnipotence -

                                                                        To my children

When you are a teen and the blood runs wild,

through every vein of discontent -

Parental icons once held as a child

are smashed in a fervor, not really meant.

I will stand as one who always is

and you – who is ever not

The twain shall meet and reconcile

for allegiance is earned, not bought.

On the inclined road of fatherhood

I trudge with declining power

while you who has felt but not understood

dismantles the wavering tower.

In this painful polarity of opinion and thought

growth must take its course

but sadly, at the expense of being caught

in the flow away from its source.

                                                                  K. Campbell  -   December 15, 1983

This is the moment I wish to honor and hold to the light, because I see the love and affection in his heart which I thought had died. It was always there for our son and daughter. We just did not share it any longer as parents living apart. I used to feel very sad for making life so incomplete for my children, but I've been understanding lately that they weren't all too badly off. Divorce is never an ideal situation, but it's the life after divorce that makes the big difference. The balance between keeping a clear perspective or going off the deep end is very fine, and sirens for the latter clamor louder.

That brings me back to the story of the dilapidated large notebook that's in my possession now. Temporarily on loan. I've already copied the few poems of my youth and reread my children's many times. I went over the nostalgia of snowy days and forbidden love - love shared and love lost. What I am awed by now is the act of kindness and trust he bestowed upon me, by trusting this dilapidated large notebook into my hands, so that I may be transplanted to a different time and distracted after losing my beloved Selim.  Someone I thought was no stranger to me, from my next door neighbor, stepped out and reminded that I am not all alone in spite of what happened in the past.  We are not together as we were, but we have a family - and we always will.

I have been in a different mind set for a while, and in the process I learned a new kind of caring.  It had always been there - awaiting my recognition.  

"At 35"

At 35-K 

Thank you, Kenan.

IVY 4 Ken 

© 2010 Füsun Atalay ~ DictionMatters ~ All Rights Reserved 

Your tags:


Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Recipient's email address:
Personal message (optional):

Your email address:


Type your comment below:
A small tribute to the father of my children.
I am stealing my way in here and coming back to savor this when my eyes aren't crossing with the end of day's light. I shall return! I LOVE the hand written poems...More soon. Such a generous gift! Love...moi
Fusun, you are a beautiful writer. This tribute speaks volumes about the the rich, caring soul you have shared with all of us. I'm sure your children are extremely grateful that you are their mother. -R-
I celebrate this, for love in all ways, forms and reasons, true; in some ways may never be lost. A simple bit of the past comes forward to wash away different kinds of pain and perhaps bring instead, new understanding and meaning to our lives. Thank you for sharing this important piece of life.
This was wonderful. It is better to be at peace than be at war in the mind. To read these poems and savour them is nothing but enjoying a moment in your time.
Thank for sharing ma belle.
rated with hugs..and more hugs

Fusun, if this isn't an EP I'll eat my hat! Oh, wait .... I don't wear a hat! Well, I'll ... I'll do a silly rain dance ...no wait! We've had too much rain already! Okay, I'll just do something really idiotic!

Fusun, seriously this IS incredible. Your writing, the emotion, the poetry, the sense of family and .... forgiveness. What a beautiful , beautiful gift that you give yourself and your family for Christmas.

I love you, Fusun. You are a remarkable lady and a beautiful person.
What a treasure, your notebook that can bring the past alive!

This is such a lovely tribute to the father of your children, FusunA. It is so good to remember real & true love.

My family is similar to yours, and I feel the same way, we are still related through our shared past & our children.



Rated with enthusiasm!++++
What a gift was shared with you, thank you for sharing the beauty of it and the story. The word TELITA is stunning.
A moving tribute. Beautifully written.
What an incredible heritage of love this old book contains! In suceeding generations, it will be priceless as a family treasure.
The book deserves to be handled like a museum artifact--perhaps a special environment to preserve it.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
gorgeous really very beautiful r.
It's 3:45 a.m. and I can't sleep, and when I came across this I really csouldn't sleep This is so fascinating. Ill read it again tomorow!
Such a beautiful story. Magnificent and moving...and a great idea, a shared notebook of writing, not on the computer...
Lovely and fascinating, both the story you weave of the book's origin and original meaning and its new revelations and resonance for you.

"it's the life after divorce that makes the big difference." Precisely. They had love from both of you. That's what matters.
A treasure, really. Good to see another post from you...:) ~r
Wow. This amazing. I too will return because I"m too groggy right now to fully appreciate the gift of this. So amazing that you have this, what a great look into the past. RRRRR
Allegiance IS earned. This is wondrous. I must admit that bits of what might have been between my daughter's father and myself are scattered to the wind or long since charred.
From start to end...every image, every impression on each page tells a multi faceted jewel of a tale, Fusun! I love not only reading the words but seeing the slant upon the original pages and feeling the release of old things within this post. Wonderful wonderful work, my friend. Will this go into your new book?
My daughter is the best of what her father and I ever did together.
This is an essay that speaks of truth and pain and resurrection. So glad I could take time to delight in it this morning. xo Heavily Rated ;}
What a treasure your book is, and how fortunate you are to have such a wonderful and powerful record of your life and growth as a family--warts and all. I hope it stays in your family forever--what an amazing legacy it will be!
Fusun, when I read that a match almost destroyed this wonderful book I was so happy that it did not end up igniting the book. It would have been such a major loss to have these pages burned! Thanks so much for taking the time to photograph several of the pages and to write this amazing story!
Piercingly beautiful, Fusun. Your post should be required reading for those who deny the use value of poetry, who think it does no work in the world and opens no thoroughfares beyond itself.
I am a firm believer that love doesn't die. It just changes. Sometimes it takes many years for us to recognize the change. Lovely piece, Fusun!

Amazing and wonderful here Fusun.
Will come back to read more when Ihave the time.
Keep this precious book safe.
I'm glad the hand that held the match was stayed. This book will be a family heirloom.
This was SO moving, Fusun. What a special person you are. There is so much wisdom in the realization that you will always "have" a family. Thank you for sharing this so eloquently.
A keepsake if there ever was one. Hold onto this work forever, Fusun.
I think I hear my calling in preserving this anthology electronically. This is the only copy that exists - and it's - flammable. .
Beautiful, beautiful and a treasure. If all that glistens is not gold, all that is gold may not always sparkly shiny to hold a deeper glow. I am glad you can still love the love that was real, and not just see the departure. What a blessing.
This is beautiful! Will have to come back and read this again later when I'm not running from one child's schedule to another. :-)
What a wonderful tribute to a father's love and your own youthful passion. I am so glad you came back with this post. You must scan and preserve the notebook which has a life of it's own for your children, their children and their children's children. A treasure!~R
" Like a pop-up story book, words popped up to lay out images. "
Exquisite, Fusun. You melt my soul.
This was so moving. I love how you and your ex-husband have kept this book in your lives, no matter what. It's so important, as important as photographs. Thanks for your beautiful words from the past and the present.
This is very good of you. Such an unselfish gesture of appreciation of what was and how time heals old wounds. Beautiful.
A unique gift indeed! What an amazing family, life, love, support...it goes on. This should have been an EP... ~R
My goodness Fusi. What a gift.
words are failing me right now. this is a stunning piece of writing and a wonderful tribute to your family.
"Yet the match stick never struck the side of the box that day – or maybe it was extinguished by her tears before it reached its destination."

For me, this is a perfect sentence. R
What! This didn't get an EP!

Okay .... now, as promised, I have to do something idiotic! Hmmmm... let's see .... got it! I'm going shopping shortly so when I'm in the shopping centre I'll do a little jig, jump up and tap my heels together as a gesture of how good I think this post is. How's that?
What a treasure to have!
Thank you for sharing this with us.
Your children must know how much they were loved by you and their father. A family that writes poetry. Imagine that. Beautifully written. I could see you moving around, reading, coming back to it. Now I have a whole picture in my head of your house. Thank you for sharing it with us.
This is one of the most lovely stories I have ever heard, you are the purest kind of love, sharing your book of love.
rated with love, love, love.
I only wish ...
If by any chance ... your intelligence
If by any chance... your education
If by any chance... your love..
your heart... your mind.... I only wish

To you...
with love Fusun.... and much appreciation....
What a profoundly beautiful soul you show to us here, Fusun. Everyone who's had the privilege of sharing life with you must be aware of that beauty--I hope they glory in it as we do here, for they are most fortunate to know you. Thank you for this gorgeous piece. It's absolutely perfect in every way. D
Remarkable. Simply remarkable.:))
What a treasure. Handwriting is like drawing, the mark of the hand across the paper. We are losing this opportunity for beauty.
I have continued to have a positive relationship with my daughter's father even though we have not been together for fifteen years now. And I know the vital ingredient bonding us was the love for our child. As it seems you share here with your ex-husband. I always look at it this way -- we gave each other the ultimate gift. Love to you Fusun.
Love is simple, trust.... now that's complicated. I envy you, being able to see this wonderful book, even with the pain its history caused you. You have a good heart to give this tribute to your ex and your children's father.
I wish I had such a notebook. Priceless.
It is so special that it's poetry. If a letter preserves a feeling in amber, then a poem crystallizes its moment, or perhaps compresses its sentiment into a diamond.

Each poem that I've written, even if I've previously forgotten about the poem, when I reread it I relive the moment that triggered it.

Thank you Fusun. This is a wonderful post, and what a gift to have the notebook in your hands.
This made me want to cry. How beautiful and priceless! R