Acrylic. Canvas panel. 8×10.
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Stretched canvas. 11×14.
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Canvas panel. 12×12.
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Gallery wrapped canvas. 18×24
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Canvas panel. 16×20
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Canvas panel. 16×20
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.
©Elle Wonders 2017
Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.
©Elle Wonders 2017
When I think of little hollows, I think of a hollow in a tree, or in a thicket of brush. I think of the slight concave area just above a hip, or collar bone. The dip at the top of a man’s shoulder, or the soft depression at the top of a woman’s inner thigh. But I also think of the hollow places we all have inside us, that most will never see. Those small voids that become full when we experience extraordinary love, and intense connection. These are the hollows that draw us in, and make us seek ways to fit together.
This stunning photo is by photographer Peter Levers. It is very similar to the image I have in my mind when writing Little Hollows Beckon, and it captures the mood of my story incredibly well.
Swift an’ black, wi’ feaithers sleek
He looms atop th’ branches.
Wi’ time, an’ tide, an’ moors sae bleak
His battered sool, entrances.
Mirk ushers in, oan corbie wings
Deid silence. Ah wait an’ listen.
Fur th’ lest c-r-r-r-ruuuck! tae me, he sings
Passion stirs, an’ mah een, they glisten.
A yearnin’ quaver, rises up frae th’ glens
Roosed by his calls, his tooch, an’ his need.
Frae his swellin’ soonds, a’m oan edge, he kens
Fur his keen, whetted glances, Ah heed.
When love’s een close, nae glancin’ back
Yit charms an’ spells sometimes daur.
With his unearthly grasp, Ah shaa ne’er lack
Each other’s longings an’ vices, we baur.
Th’ sharp, duple pitch, shaa ne’er be far
Fur oor wayward ambition, lies a nether.
Mooths against skin, mak’ e’erlastin’ scars
Stronger than time, is oor tether.
Tho ne’er was he, a raven pure an’ reit,
Forever blows th’ win’ thru mah bones.
A new wicked yearnin’ micht willin’ tak’ flight
Upon th’ day, his black heart, atones.
© Elle Wonders – 2016
Swift and black, with feathers sleek
He looms, atop the branches.
With time, and tide, and moors so bleak
His battered soul, entrances.
The dark ushers in, on corbie wings
Dead silence. I await, and listen.
For the last C-r-r-r-ruuuck! to me, he sings
Passion stirs, and my eyes, they glisten.
A yearning quaver, rises up from the glens
Roused by his calls, his touch, and his need.
From his swelling sounds, I’m on edge, he kens
For his keen, whetted glances, I heed.
When love’s eyes close, no glancing back
Yet charms, and spells, sometimes dare.
With his unearthly grasp, I shall never lack
Each other’s longings, and vices, we bare.
The sharp, duple pitch, shall never be far
For our wayward ambition, lies a nether.
Mouths against skin, make everlasting scars
Stronger than time, is our tether.
Though never was he, a raven pure and right
Forever blows, the wind thru my bones.
A new wicked yearning, might willing take flight
Upon the day, his black heart, atones.
© Elle Wonders – 2016
“He draws a pastèque bath in a large wooden tub, and they sit nestled in bunches of melon, crushed under the weight of want.”
– E. Wonders, The Dirty Little Shrine
It came in rushes, then slowed – that longing for a place that wasn’t enough. Her skin glowed around his shadow, and with her ear to his heart, she let it pulse.
– Elle Wonders, Pour Mon Bzou
