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
A ladybird lands
In Constantinople
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 connection. These are the hollows that draw us in and make us seek ways to fit together.
This stunning photo by photographer Peter Levers captures the mood of my novel incredibly well.
Ode to a Corbie
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
Ode to a Corbie (English Translation)
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
“Because she was the trigger, the bullet and the gun.”
-E. Wonders, Dirty Little Shrine
“The sound of it opened a new world inside her heart, and it swallowed her whole, from the inside out.”
-E. Wonders
He wanders down the path for the not undeserving, to a place where sometimes is enough. A place where electricity surges and hums through his chest, as the yellow light filters down through the canopy, glimmering like a bright spirit who understands – one of the happy few.
-E. Wonders, The Dirty Little Shrine
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
– Edgar Allan Poe
“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
Et que ce n’est pas chose étrange
S’il en est tant que le loup mange.
Je dis le loup, car tous les loups
Ne sont pas de la mesme sorte :
Il en est d’une humeur accorte,
Sans bruit, sans fiel et sans couroux,
Qui, privez, complaisans et doux,
Suivent les jeunes demoiselles
Jusque dans les maisons, jusque dans les ruelles.
Mais, hélas. Qui ne sçait que ces loups doucereux
De tous les loups sont les plus dangereux.-Charles Perrault
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
A new bud darkens.
Engulfing heartache blossoms,
Altering a mind.-E. Wonders
“It’s evening in the morning when he finds his dirty little shrine. She is surrounded by torches that coax the truth like he coaxes the sound that her tongue cannot make.”
– E. Wonders, The Dirty Little Shrine
“The forest is dark and damp, and she feels the soft, loamy earth underneath her. The night brings them fear, and awakening, and a language that has no home.”
-Elle Wonders, The Dirty Little Shrine
“It was a trap, but not a trap. It was an epoch of abundance. An embarrassment of words…”
-Elle Wonders, Pour Mon Bzou.
“When he awakens her, they begin to build a confessional from all that they have. A sacred place, where words can be stripped bare. A sanctuary for thirst and ambition.”
– Elle Wonders, Mapa da Boa.
Excerpt from Pour Mon Bzou:
“A blaze of epiphany. Like baneberries in dim light, he could not have imagined the whites of her eyes. Her stare caught his flaws, like fireflies in a bell jar, and his good fortune wandered off like a gypsy.”
Excerpt from The Dirty Little Shrine:
“She sees the hunger in his face, but not in his heart, because like the sound on her tongue, it has been hidden. “If my heart was pulled out of my chest and put, beating, in front of you, would you know what it wants?” he asks. Look how easily he betrays his heart for her, ripping it out of his chest like an Aztec god. She just nods as they sit in their dinner bath, and play like warriors, and he sees how her fire begins in her mouth. Like a dragon.
And there was feeling back in his chest.”
C’est Lou qu’on la nommait
Il est des loups de toute sorte
Je connais le plus inhumain
Mon cœur que le diable l’emporte
Et qu’il le dépose à sa porte
N’est plus qu’un jouet dans sa mainGuillaume Apollinaire (1880 – 1918)
There are wolves of all kind.
I know the most inhuman.
My heart, the devil takes,
and deposits at his door,
is no more than a toy in his hand.
