Meet Sudden Denouement Collective Member Iulia Halatz

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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.

Stargiver – Iulia Halatz

The stars that glisten

on October skies

are green

like water lamps.

 

I am plotting

a story for you…

Letters are meant

to be sent swirling

my brokenness cripples

my words.

I am silhouetted

letters can’t mix

I need another alphabet.

My alphabet of you

is made of syllables:

Sky

Why

Lie

Shy…

 

Do not despise

my syllabary

You have a tale

boiling in my chest…..

 

Once there was an olden boy

His heart grew on thistles

and faint grass

He followed the North Star

like moss

in the duplicated garden.

He told of journeys

in the heart of wind

and memorabilia

of small disasters…

 

Sparks of thysen

light my waterways

like glowworms

paths of fairies.

In dreams your glint

is stumped

bedeviled

by pink trees and cardboard flowers.

 

This is not your duplicated garden

it is my cardboard dominion.

There are rooms

For every room there is a wish

to grant.

The stars room gives

a Tomorrow

that you can touch.

The moon room gives

a Yesterday

no longer under

wraps and clothes

of Spring.

 

I am a crumpled picture

in a secret drawer

barred behind the sunset

creasing more

each dawn…

 

My picture captures

the beyond

of blossoms

and shy rains

of dew…

 

I am mine

continuously drawing light

on shady souls

smiling

forlorn

and glorious

In my stargiving…


“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.

Are You Fucking New Here?- A Weyward Sisters Collaboration

You dropped by today

dissected my verse

thoughtfully pointed out

all the ways I could

smooth out my edges

improve flow

to slide more gently past

your discerning eyes

you must be fucking new here

if you think

I was asking for it

not a fan of unsolicited advice

my “friend”

I like my truth

raw

bloody

with a hint of lemon for acidity

that stings going down

(Christine Ray)

Oh, hello,

I didn’t see you there

although I can already tell you like to stare,

as if it is your obligation

to females everywhere.

And everywhere you seem to be.

You’re the type who lingers in keyboards,

assaulting our letters

with ones you would never dare to speak.

You’re the type who visits galleries just to sigh,

point out the vulvas in the petals

and tut at a landscape you’ve never visited.

You’re the type who slumps way down in the theatre,

feigning sleep during her monologue

because it is ‘feminist and shit’, and yet

she’ll be the only one on your mind

when you reach down tonight.

Oh, how do I know this? 

Why, because you always come back for more.

For more of my letters, pretty letters,

your coeliac stomach cannot wait to reject.

(Kristiana Reed)

You stab me with a misplaced comma’s edge,

expect me to bleed ink, but I blossom gold

leaf, like pages of a holy tome, and your

lines of prose crackle in my burning gale.

I am more word than woman, you see

and I am truth, your haunting just ghost

of all those who said no, who pushed me

down stairs of paragraphs, but I got grit,

I grew wings of paper, from you I fly.

(Allie Nelson)

hey you there –

with the pursed lips

and furrowed brow

click-clacking

your studied

critical analysis

of these driblets

of my life’s blood.

you must be fucking new here

if you mistake

the penning

of my soul

upon the page

as a request

for literary critique.

this, here

is the juice of my carotid

scrawled with fingertips

as I apply

tourniquet and poultice.

your worded attempts

to package my agony

into neat and tidy

boxes

are ill-advised salt flakes

poured into my wounds.

(Aurora Phoenix)

Soft upon the scene

He entered

Mushy odorless rambling

Entailed:

“Darling, how are you faring?

Your words are dancing in my soul

Your star shines upon my dreams.”

Going after me

Feeling my every words’ step

With a presumptuous club

White and black penned music

That clawed silence to my ears:

“You are the brightest…

Fade away, you heartless beast!”

(Iulia Halatz)

i picked up my pen and out came all of me.
it poured and poured,
filling space with untrained words and anarchy,
sharpened love, feelings bent,
a keenness breathed without judgement,
ink balled with mercy
into something of me that might speak in truth.
but you sat and held your cup,
and watched it spill.
you put it in your cabinet
with a yellow note: ‘could do better.’
i would those curling lips
might taste the poison in the teacup
between your eyes;
that is where the horror really lies.

(Lois E. Linkens)

You must be new here, because tact and common decency seem lost on you. You see, it is not okay to call a woman by any other name than the one she has given — so don’t call me Baby and I won’t call you Tiny. It is not okay to insert yourself in my life and assume I need your sage advice — if I want to know, I will ask. Do not presume to know what I am thinking, or what my heart is trying to say — because you can be damn sure that if I wrote the words, I meant each and every one of them. I’m not perfect, and I never claimed to be, but I don’t need a lecture on semantics or grammar — I’ve had more than enough schooling and experience to know my own mind. But, if you really are new here, remember this one simple rule: if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.
(Sarah Doughty)

You enter my house and

manhandle my verse. You

wonder why my

heart spurts crimson with

every heavy beat—

pressure me for information.

Why so mocking?

Why so angry?

Why the foul language? Bitch,

you must be fucking new here

if you expect an

explanation.

Cos I don’t answer stupid

questions.

Grow a brain, and

get a clue.

(Kindra M. Austin)