Helena G.

Etudiante en Lettres

J’ai 26 ans, je suis née à Genève mais mes parents sont brésiliens et j’ai grandi à Mexico. J’ai toujours aimé lire et écrire. J’ai un master en psychologie et depuis deux ans j’ai commencé un master en littérature anglaise. J’essaie de me lancer de plus en plus dans l’écriture et de trouver des plateformes a Genève où je puisse partager tout ça et rencontrer des autres artistes.

Je parle 4 langues mais j’écris en anglais. J’écris des poèmes et de la fiction. Mes inspirations commencent avec les Beatniks des Etats-Unis: Ginsberg, Kerouac, Boroughs et puis ce qui m’influence le plus dans mes écrits c’est la période romantique avec John Clare, Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth. J’aime aussi toujours relire T.S Eliott, Ezra Pound, Virginia Woolf, Emily Dickinson ou Sylvia Plath.
Découvrez son site : www.kidonfuzz.com

Pour la contacter: goncalves.r.helena@gmail.com

 

Voici quelques-uns de ses textes: 

Miss Chance

Helena G.

Eyes are twitching

Lips are pulsing

Hands are still

And eyes are looking

My fingertips touch the bleached white page

And feel the smooth surface ready to be laced

A pen dipped in ink makes its way between my hand

It tries not to forget how we once could throw a hex

It wiggles between my thumb and my index

It begins with a line

No straighter than a vine

It begins with a curve

No rounder than Arthur’s table

It begins with a dance

In a country close to France

Where miss chance sings her ritual trance

And begins to notice the hidden glances

A fair lady steps in

From a land far or near

She’s mysterious you’ll hear

That’s the first thing that’s clear

A dark knight gallops in

From a journey with a violin

He makes music you see

But there’s more in the case

Miss chance makes them dance

Oh, what a night of romance

The day breaks and he’s gone

She mounts her own horse and knowns nothings wrong

They catch up to each other

Chasing light and fair weather

They decide not to part

Not this time, nor ever.

“I love you a lot

My Sir Lancelot.”

 ******

Breakfast

HELENA G.

I was an ear stuck on a wall

A fly inside an eye

My lips were stitched to my head

And my tongue was tied around my neck

We sat across the table

Throwing darts at one another

The fire burning in the furnace

Heating our glances of unawareness

You had a thought that stuck like glue

A cryonic chrysalis never to bloom

You never said a word or two

My heart was in flames, it burst out of the room

You went outside to fetch some coal

opening the door to a celestial pole

Your hand was blue and mine was too

I was in parts, from toe to head

And spread like jam on toast or bread

I found little corners to hide my secret

They were so dark I hardly went to visit

This made you imagine I hardly existed.

And every morning I would wake up

Make breakfast

And spread some jam on toast or bread.

 

 ******

Grandfather

HELENA G.

 

The passing smell of ash or sulfur

Buries me as Mount Vesuvius buried Pompeii

Under twenty feet of lava like this cookout  it will preserve

Whatever whispers grilled along the way

 

The burning hot coals turn to red fume

I keep my eyes on it, they do not sparkle

Unlike the black, then red, then yellow rocks do

Forming clouds they disappear , it is a miracle.

 

I had a dream it showed me this

A horse’s shadow, I think summons my death

But through the vision of this cloudy mist

I think I see a figure from the cold of my breath

 

My eyes adjust to the night light

I’m sure it’s him, that’s my grandfather

My friends I know they’ve gone inside

Oh how he was a wonderful cavalry rider

 

How pleasing simplest recollections seem

And tap tap tap just to wake a dormant thought

Like my enchanting one eyed summer dream

I watch the man whom I almost forgot

 

While these fairy visions intervene

I’m happy for this unplanned visit

All my friends are there waiting on me

Now I must part and find out who did it

 

But come back next summer

I’ll be in a deeper slumber.