Lettered jailer – Iulia Halatz

You look so sane

potentially careful and serene

Smirk-at-arms

atoning for

the perfumed gaiety

and colorless skies.

The fire in the autumn

dictates the ice in the new moon.

My love,

When are you going to make up your mind?

Set me free

word upon word

I throw in your face

unsubmissive of your bars…

When are you going to break the gloom?

Sorrowless

is your world

You grow your stamina

from my pain…

Minstrels sing of legendary lands

You sing of the legendary cavern

lettered for me.

Some words are

like the spring wind

building with

cherry blossoms

the library

of scent…

Some words

tell

the snows of June

makeshift

a gilded cage

Lit only by a shadow…

Your words are the haze

that glimmer in the distance

Dystopian love

ruling

over eight kingdoms.

One day

I am walking

in a field of poppies

with a sun

that clears

a golden path for me.

The next day

I am bleeding

on thistles and thorns.

You are betrayer

of words

and pilferer of dreams…

Your love expires

every time we drink

the shade of the evening

and the rumours in the stars.

 

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

Writers of the imperfect maps- Iulia Halatz

The naiads have splurged with roses.

Swirls of scented air hover above their clearings.

Without petals and stars they cannot dwell

beneath the glass shine…

Day dreamers see their unfading beauty

in the sands of the fountains.

Their love is

imprecise

built on a foundation

of unicorn-green grass…

Their skeleton

is composed of myrtle and oleander

and moss-covered lungs

heave along with waters driven

by tide…

Their flesh is irrational atoms

that laugh the blood

and rhythm of life

in the veins

that sing the helplessness blues.

White hymnal doors

flung open

on Midsummer’s Eve

at the harvest of ripe and lofty words

and lady’s bedstraw

they found

in the flicker of buried treasures.

Their words shield

the scent of a tuberose

and shelter

the spoils of the evening.

They sing in the wind

“Leave this war with me!”

It is never too late

nor too soon

to wager

on a tear.

These are no Great Songs of indifference

They are the Great Songs of out-of-time

and out-of-life

that light

this new dominion

which is the old…

29 petals of all the flowers

in the world

line up to write a map

draw sounds and borders

in as many secret alphabets

as breathing proof that

Language is not like the sun,

heating and scorching

but like the moon

keeping secrets

and the arcane magic of the night

throwing stars

in the lilacs’ claws

till dawn.

Words are lamps

they shimmer in the vilest of places.

They make dreams

out of particles and matter.

The words in the

29 secret alphabets

burn for all.

 

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

Melt- Iulia Halatz read by Jonathan O’Farrell

I have shared
land and sky
with you.
I have tasted
blood and honey.
My witch-oil turned
to dragon-fire
at your touch…

Soft fingers laid asleep
until your turmoil
woke them
for so long…

It feels like getting drunk
on old reddish wine
long softened
during times of
War
Equanimity
and
Comets.
What shall I pour in your glass?
Molten flowers
Golden ink
Lucid light
Unicorn mirth…

I dig your veins
for gold.
I find pure
bitter-sweet
amber nuggets.

I fear any story
whose ink
my words
can’t drink…
Yet I drip in yours
ever since.

When your arms call
and your lips
read all my feral kisses
How can there be no heaven?


Iulia Halatz: “Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

Jonathan O’Farrell: “I guess you might describe me as a semi-nomad, at the moment . . . and in the moment, I might change. I am transitioning into a creative life, blogging, photography and, significantly, the publication of my first two photographically illustrated poetry anthologies, this year.”

Subscribe to my monthly newsletter, with writing, photography, healing garden project updates and travel journals:
https://misterkaki-writer.substack.com

What can I give you?- Iulia Halatz read by Jonathan O’Farrell


What can I give you? I am the blue
as imagined by a blind
and the roots of knowledge
as watered by a scholar.

I am the yellow
wind and the mauve
respond of light
perched
in the ubiquitous trees
tethered in the clouds
that barely scratch
the sky.

I am the green
storm and colorless waves
that wished upon a mountain
to break water in tryst
with the sun.

Not by blindness
we can reorder colors
but by the painting of a soul
in a moment tender
as the liquid moon
is quivering above the forest.


Iulia Halatz: “Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

Jonathan O’Farrell: “I guess you might describe me as a semi-nomad, at the moment . . . and in the moment, I might change. I am transitioning into a creative life, blogging, photography and, significantly, the publication of my first two photographically illustrated poetry anthologies, this year.”

Meet Sudden Denouement Collective Member Iulia Halatz

39610579_885757411610571_7455323722681942016_n-ConvertImage

The editors of Sudden Denouement Literary Collective know that our strength is our writers. We hope that you enjoy getting to know them through our new Writer Interview Series.

What name do you write under?
Iulia Halatz

In what part of the world do you live? Tell us about it.
I live in Bucharest, Romania, a small beautiful country in South-East Europe, washed by the Black Sea, watered by the Danube, cleansed by the Danube Delta, guarded by the Carpathian Mountains, envisaged in many stories and legends. I have written more about the magic of my country here.

About my Romanian soul I can say only these:
I am Romanian
I tremble with the moon
Building shapes of light
Into rippling pools
After the rain of summer…

Please tell us about yourself.
I am a teacher with 22 years’ experience and I manage my own school of languages.
I am a passionate cyclist. I never say: “I am happy”, but I say: “I am cycley.” (Of course, inspired by J. M. Barrie).
My power sentence (one of them) is: “Stories are our meat and our magic.” Nevertheless, because our culture doesn’t think storytelling is (still) sacred, I have to keep it rolling, keep writing and telling until I’ve got it half licked.
I like to picture myself as a silver-tongued storyteller holding on to Nature and imagination. I inhabit the stories I write…
Whenever people do not “speak” to me, I resort to the powerful communicative skills of the world, I visit a tree and the lake and I start writing a story to have new armour and new citadel…I’ve got it twofold licked.

If you have a blog or website, please provide the name and the link.
https://blogdecompanie.wordpress.com/

When did you begin your blog/website, and what motivated you start it?

Some time ago I was put in a prison. The bars and locks were invisible to the eye, but essential. Then I started forging a way to freedom, a secret underground passage. Paved with words painted in blood. The bars and locks flung open and the dungeon became my imago mundi.

What inspires/motivates you to keep blogging on your site?
For me writing is a form of freedom…
It is like digging for gold. I keep on digging and excavating until the steel of words
transmutes into gold of wonder….
I keep on writing but not publishing on my blog (for a while). I was sort of harassed through my blog so I decided to keep silent for a while. But I write new pieces for SD and new bricks for finishing building my imago mundi.

When did you join the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective?

Towards the end of last year.

Why/how did you join Sudden Denouement?
I am a follower of SD and I got to know that you were looking for collaborators.
So… I put all my joy in a letter and a poem. The rest is history.

What does “Divergent Literature” mean to you?
Divergently FreeWriters
Divergent literature is for me a brush of green-warm air above the sea, aliver than life itself. Is represents a hubristic place of wonder.
I have written more here

SD Founder Jasper Kerkau frequently talks about Sudden Denouement writers using the ‘secret language’. What is it?
It is (for me) speaking and writing in many alphabets, there is an alphabet for Love, an alphabet for Freedom, one for the lust for Life…

What are your literary influences?
My ordinary order in any given pub is: “Coffee and Somerset for me.” Somerset as in Somerset Maugham.
Magnificent and humble storyteller: “Will, love, and imagination are magic powers that everyone possesses; and whoever knows how to develop them to their fullest extent is a magician. Magic has but one dogma, namely, that the seen is the measure of the unseen.”
He could peer in the depth of the human soul. He measures it in tales not fathoms.
Mr. Michael Ondaatje has no longer divided time in Minutes, but in Loves. “The heart is an organ of fire.” Our minds, body, limbs, souls are organs of fire.
Jack London: “Who are you, Martin Eden? He demanded of himself in the looking-glass, that night when he got back to his room. He gazed at himself long and curiously. Who are you? What are you? Where do you belong?”
I would name his “mythology” The Moon and the Sixpence, he trudged for the both.

Has any of your work been published in print? (books, literary magazines, etc.) How did that happen?
No, it hasn’t. But I am working on. I do wish that to happen.

Do you have writing goals? What are they?
To have the clarity of a poem by Michael Ondaatje.
To write the truest sentences/stanzas that I know.
To develop my blue alphabet of the Silent Spring, as “language is luckless and limitless”.
I am of the opinion that the good people have created mythologies. I would like to create one of my own.

Which pieces of your own writing are your favorites? Please share a few links.
Divergent
Happiness
Persephone’s Dusk
The Merman’s Rhyme
Steal The Sun

What else would like to share about your writing, Sudden Denouement, or yourself?
As my word is freedom, for me Sudden Denouement is the purest form of freedom on the rarest of quests. I feel my imagination roaming the fields and painting walls in search of wild horses. The words I have found on SD open for me more and more eyes every day. I am a newborn Argus.

Pilferer of Thorns – Iulia Halatz

 

There comes a day

when gaiety

and ruling stars

are not enough…

Yet I plunge into

the satisfaction of

hologram happiness.

 

I am slave no more

to my self-deprecation

I am slave no more

to the pilgrimage of water

and the tiny gem of a moon

witness to

all my erroneous choices…

 

My skin is scaly

and cold

I do not fit

this shifting sands world

I believe in landslides…

 

A half mermaid

and half tree goddess

can lead

a turbulent sun-ridden dominion

to the end

of want and pain.

 

We are prisoners

to promiscuous light

and innocent dark

enlivened by fair-featured

butterflies caught in

a smock of diffuse glint…

They loved the light

and died.

 

The core of the day

envisions what

lies above

the acme of temerity:

undiscovered

undeciphered

unfathomable

festering

Glee…

I keep it under

layers of boiling

lava

and grope for it

with bare hands.

 

With burned fingers

and asbestos hearts

We receive response

from the insouciant night:

the indigo skies glimmered

with stars

and the trees and grasses

slaving

for the summer wind.

 

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

If I cut a word in two… Iulia Halatz

I wouldn’t have lusted

for your limbs

softened with

iron syllables.

I wouldn’t have lusted

for your shiny dark eyes

like the sea

lit by two moons…

We could wake up

to what we were…

You

breathing the air of

another planet…

basking in an estranged sun…

When winds

herald the evening

the stirs are in the

dunes

and the communal

place of storms.

I

braved a lackless sea

for naught

My kisses tell you

of another small

and drifting planet

where water

falls from the sky

and blows away

the ink of dusky clouds.

The sands tug

at my feet

and quarrel like ghosts

dervishing

blindly in the whirlwinds….

There is a hole

in the world

where you stood

brazenly stealing

the burnishing silver

of two Moons.

Yet you continue

to hurtle constellations at me.

You fumbled for Orion

and you stumbled

as I inhabit

my spell-forged star

to enhance

blandly

the clear lights of greener planets.

Oh, how I miss my autumn roses!

They carry the pungent smell

of sea and decay

to your world of

liquid sands

and honey torpors.

My finitude and fragility

are yours

The heart you melted

drips down with

dews of late

that put the sands

forever in my soul.

I have a sieve

that sifts

grains from dusts.

They heat and burn

my skin

like thousand cerulean touches

that freed me

from the toils

of lingering moons.

I will love you

for a hundred years of Blue

and for the handsomest years

of Grey and sand Yellow

that will follow.

 


“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.