Estelle's Writing

In the dried-up dirt of the garden corner       There's a flower waiting to be watered       Its petals stretch towards the sky      Pink and white and hope      And fall down towards the earth      Pink and black and hope     

English version to be found underneath! Je me souviens à peine de ma naissance. Ma première, en tous cas. Ma pierre angulaire. Elle est enveloppée de brume, boueuse comme les marais de ma ville-berceau. Quelqu’un m’a sûrement engendrée ; les tours et les flèches apparaissent rarement sans annonce, il me semble. Dans les échos de ma nef, j’entends toujours le grattement de la plume sur le parchemin, les lourds battements du marteau, les respirations laborieuses de mes créateurs.

Cymbales du soir Citadelle abîmée érodée de tes yeux Couleurs chatoyantes Caressant mes cheveux

It was fitting, she supposed. A lighthouse. A beacon of hope. A guide to lost travellers. A link between known land and unknown waters. The final rampart between the darkness of the earth and of the sea. How poetic. Of course, as heroic as lighthouses were, they were also importantly, incredibly, tragically lonely. It must get tiring, she thought, the burden of carrying all these lost souls back to the shore. Staring at the ocean, on top of the lighthouse amid the receding tide, she wondered how many steps it would take to reach it. (To reach You.) How the horizon beckoned You, then playfully resisted until You sank into the waves. How You sang over the wind, calling her like a seagull to Your nest. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it back around her ear. Where it belonged. She imagined it was You, playfully batting at her locks like a kitten. She cried, and the tears lost themselves in the ocean. They will be carried through the waves, and maybe, they...

There's a cockroach living in the kitchen Glistening back, chocolate black Scuttling prying legs Stretching out some corner Its eyes dart around the tiles Deep and disturbing Tick, tock, they say Tick, tock.

The sea below glimmers like thousands of glowing embers. Robert trains his eyes towards the tiny waves, fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on his bouncing knee. The door makes a slight hissing sound as it slides shut. Robert twists his head around and grins at the newcomer.  "How's it going back there, Dutch?" The man shrugs, lips thinning. "They're all a bit restless. I think it's high time we got out of here." He glances towards Paul, whose tense shoulders have been squared towards the screens ever since they took off. He won't move from his seat, knuckles almost white from gripping the controls, despite the auto-pilot. Chestnut hair impeccably combed over his forehead. Bushy eyebrows frowned in a curve above his nose. Professional, as always. But then again, why wouldn't he be? If there's one moment in his life where he ought to be serious... "It won't be long, now," Robert says in a warm voice. A hum of acknowled...

Nebulae swirls in coffee Languid dirt under nails Funny wonders of a mind left In late life commute Fishing for stars Out of gutter puddles Why the murky venom When crimson lakes smirk sour? Out there the baskets swoon Arms pumped and glitter powers Through divine sneers Stupid hallowed barks There silverfish scramble for coins Surfaces stir with unshed dew But the depths only engulf The reflection of newly-thawed ice Out there whales weave Over under the clouds Their navy backs glisten With moonlight that hasn't died Grass ripples mesmerise Hills and lake undulate under The north-western wind But you know the source It's not in the mountain No traveller hikes up the same Stumbling rock and greets The same sinking panorama Not then the river Tricking you into moving When roots grab ankles At a loss you start over If you must breathe Find a source I mean Look for the forest The best fish crawl between the trunks What must light feel ...

The rumbling lulls you to sleep, but your obstinate gaze swerves down. Up, you don't see much. But down - down mountains cower under your stare. Stale plastic whiffs climb up your nose, but in your mind you soar and breathe wet clouds. Your life sits and waits - you're too high up to reach. It will catch up soon enough, with the screech of rubber and the frenzied queuing.

Rick rick rickety      We sing as wheels squeak on The dry dry track Three mouths open in delight      We laugh Rocks thrown off cliff    -    forgotten? Never the same peak      Never the same mount Snake-like track up, up    up Cicadas scream in Corsica      Bet you never Went on on on in Corsica Swelter and burn      Leather and sand Guide through LOUDSPEAKERS A bat once crash-landed      On my brother's shelf Pupils dilated scared scared scared Poor bat      We sang Poor tiny frail     bat Across Désert des Adriates      Up up   up you go Sing until your breath comes up in reckless immersion with invisible droplets high high high Beautiful the parents purr      Look sea trees bees breeze Children behave how beautiful Busy holding breath      Whe...

STEP ONE Curl your index: The trembling interface Reaching for the bulky lips The first and the mast Extending your acrylic to the vast god stars Drawing pictures in the ink that swirl into the mist Picking at the sugar jar And tracing a line Down To the setting hell of dawn

a camel under the desert scorch moves as a camel would lugging all that fat laboriously fumbling his direction never fails no one is sure how he came here why he decided living in a waterless burning hell would be the ideal achievement of blissful nirvana but hey who are we to judge a camel he's here living and walking walking walking -©Estelle Wallis, May 2019

At first, I strove to forget. I called it “that place”. The swaying pine trees on the sandy, dry land seemed too distant to be called home. The smiles on the tanned faces now presented themselves as injurious. How could they? How could they have smiled when ho… that place would be shaken by its roots, when the pine trees would burn and fall from the sky like boulders rolling off a cliff? When the frozen faces stared at the sky with eyes that would never see, and the whizzing bombs filled the air like a twisted symphony of destruction?

Open your eyes at night Hear the distant sound of crying angels Weeping for those who won't be saved Listen, when the night owl shrieks The upbeat song of a weary world Catch the deathly silence of unspoken truths Howling to the moon of guilty sins Listen to what the blind reveals Minutes after minutes Lies after lies In the dark Damp Night. -Estelle Wallis, April 2019

A myriad of absolucy stares and blinks. The precise calculation of controlled vastness Yet an imperious freedom, unconstrained links, A braided untamed horse for Man to harness.

Skin against skin Sweat against sweat. Eyes after eyes Blue, green, white Colours in a pale, dark face.

Rosaces de flammes, Tourailles de braise, et les âmes- Entends-tu les âmes chanter?

The woods reflect the world In their untimely melody In their ethereal dwelling In the stray rays of light Which bounce softly down the leaves Like dust through an everlasting hourglass.

Welcome to my blog! Bienvenue! This will be a little hit-and-miss, since I'm discovering the joys of blogging as I go along. Some poetry should be out soon though! -Estelle Wallis