Up the arduous sky
The wind made powder
of tinted clouds
Whose dreams of winter
endure too long
in the realm.
Cold has gone cool
with wings of white doves
beating
the thin brisk air
to keep the snowdust
at bay.
© Iulia Halatz
Art — Phillip Koch. Source — Pinterest
Also featured at Medium.
Love drips
out of my lines.
There is not ink
But sweetness and joy
protruding in small afternoons
befuddled
in glimpses of light
dancing on leaves
and ruby flowers…
When skies glance
at the coolness of moonshine
and butterflies kept in a dream
smile till dawn,
Do not forget…
As long as you feel
the brush of the evening’s wind
coiling like a wild animal
You are as young as
the new roses this year…
Art – Dani Soon – Source – https://dionisopunk.com/
“These verses have become a thing and one can take them off the page and throw them at a window, and the window would break. That’s what words can do!”
― Daniil Kharms, Today I Wrote Nothing: The Selected Writings
And a selection from my writings:
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.
………………………………..
Knifed
I aim at dreams
knife them
as trophies on my wall.
I can always
take one down,
quench the thirst
of a turbulent wound
with
tainted endearment
from the poisoned well
We dug and drained
under the wing of
One night.
I’m in love
with a stabbed dream.
Under my skin
Rumors of thyself
move clouds upon the moon…
© Iulia Halatz
Olga Wisinger-Florian
As always, I am humbled and honored to be a Medium writer.
Every spring
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
I am grateful.
Then, by the end of morning,
he’s gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.”
― Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings
Stanley Spencer
A more poetical “Less is more”. The poetry of music is undermined by its continuity…
The song of the thrush is perfect, mysterious, and atoning for all the sadness and grimness of winter…
In my culture there is an old saying “miracles last for two days”. Banality cuts deep also into the birds’ song not just into a fabrication of people that is classical music.
Spring is the Renaissance age of the entire year when the marvels of the new earth dictates the rhythm of life.
“You’re a fire person. What you’re most like is marsh-fire; (…) you got witch-oil in your soul.”
– Philip Pullman, Northern Lights
Art by Michael Cheval.
Steal the sun
With gilded sincerity.
Place it in your heart
with silvery fingers.
Touch lives with the same warmth.
If you do not have money to decorate your life with precious artifacts, decorate life with precious deeds and meaningful words. Words that speak to hearts and make them see the precious artifacts they are.
©Iulia Halatz
Art – Serena Malyon,The Veil of Night
Also featured at Medium.com.
“To rest was to receive all aspects of the world without judgment.”
– Michael Ondaatje
Art – Marcel Rieder
At a Solemn Musick
by Delmore Schwartz
Let the musicians begin,
Let every instrument awaken and instruct us
In love’s willing river and love’s dear discipline:
We wait, silent, in consent and in the penance
Of patience, awaiting the serene exaltation
Which is the liberation and conclusion of expiation.
Now may the chief musician say:
“Lust and emulation have dwelt amoung us
Like barbarous kings: have conquered us:
Have inhabited our hearts: devoured and ravished
—With the savage greed and avarice of fire—
The substance of pity and compassion.”
Now may all the players play:
“The river of the morning, the morning of the river
Flow out of the splendor of the tenderness of surrender.”
Now may the chief musician say:
“Nothing is more important than summer.”
And now the entire choir shall chant:
“How often the astonished heart,
Beholding the laurel,
Remembers the dead,
And the enchanted absolute,
Snow’s kingdom, sleep’s dominion.”
Then shall the chief musician declare:
“The phoenix is the meaning of the fruit,
Until the dream is knowledge and knowledge is a dream.”
And then, once again, the entire choir shall cry, in passionate unity,
Singing and celebrating love and love’s victory,
Ascending and descending the heights of assent, climbing and chanting triumphantly:
Before the morning was, you were:
Before the snow shone,
And the light sang, and the stone,
Abiding, rode the fullness or endured the emptiness,
You were: you were alone.
Delmore’s words have the clarity of diamonds and their sharpness. They cut deep in hearts.
I remember his words with my heart and not with my mind.
Consequently, the heart becomes the organ of knowledge and truths.
He inspired me to write “All Roads Lead to Rome”
“All words lead to Love
And the poetry in the afterLove
I wish I wrote poems
For the dreamers of barren lands.
They do not go to Rome
They go to places
That cannot be.
………………….
From a Good Place
Where joy is an illumination
To the Place that Cannot Be
They would have worn
The silver claw
of the Moon
above their heads
nightly
daily
musingly
vibrantly…”
Art – John William Waterhouse – Flora and the Zephyrs, 1898
Also featured at Medium.com.
“In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music
Every spring
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
I am grateful.
Then, by the end of morning,
he’s gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.”
Mary Oliver – A Thousand Mornings.
Art – Adele Karmazyn
International Women’s Day (March 8) is a global day celebrating the social, economic, cultural, and political achievements of women.
On this day, I am happy and grateful for the toil and endeavours of the many women along history, without the efforts of whom I could not have been what I have become: a strong woman with choices. I was able to choose to study, to have a career, to write my bold words, to vote and to be voted for.
A merry day for all the women of this world!
I illustrate with a picture of one of my favourite artists: Remedios Varo
