~Pointvirgule

Maartje

Profile

Gallery

Prints

Faves

Journal

About Me Member Pseudo-Intellectual Pointvirgule18/Female/Belgium

Recent Activity Deviant for 4 Years
Needs Premium Membership

Statistics 11 Deviations
44 Comments
1,090 Pageviews

To H.

I loved a girl whose name was not her own, when I was young and sleepy
Accidentally I found it and she shone
While I blossomed like
white washing, drying all alone

Newest

Sonnet Of Self-LoathingMy poems are too short, my hair is far too long, And I persist in thinking that it's charming The way I like to burst out into song.
My style's all off, both in writing and in dress, Although in reading and in make-up I Know who to imitate, I guess.
Memories of my mother (and I'm including those to come) I don't know how to stifle, and it's terrible I should. But is it my fault that to strangers she's so stupid, just so dumb? Though honestly, I'd wipe a lot more, if I could.

I'd erase some teachers' words and deeds, as well as hers, And - oh, Hitler's, of Sonnet Of Self-Loathing
by ~Pointvirgule

Seventeen Lines On One VermeerTo leave a Vermeer behind is always harder than it seems.
And you have to do it all alone: paintings have no door to lock. Sudden blindness would stop you seeing it but not facilitate your departure. Maybe, perhaps, a one day allergy, like nausea or unmuseumlike sneezing, to the colour blue would help. But then is that fair? To say, I mean, because what is Vermeer without his blue blue blue unlike anything blue (not even the blues) except a want for calm or sighs for wanting. No, it isn't easy, just to walk and not feel the elastic bend and stretch &nbs Seventeen Lines On One Vermeer
by ~Pointvirgule

Ruminative LullabyWhen I'd lain unobtrusively with my head against the garden (like in movies about ants) and watched confused midget mosquitoes in the golden pollen rain raining on my hands, I decided to remember and I think that I was glad that even moments have their mates. See, it was when I'd lain and listened heavily and slept as if my mommy'd kissed my head full of bedbugs on a thread that I remembered just the same and both memories I kept. Ruminative Lullaby
by ~Pointvirgule

On a friendHow his warm hands, his studied touch were too much, were too much -
How being ordered not to care was always more than I could bear -
How his haunting, how his wanting had made conversation daunting -
How all we did was done for fun
but never was - is gone, is gone, changed by his grief.
He won't allow the love I long to offer now. On a friend
by ~Pointvirgule

Browse Gallery

Favourites

Huppert
by ~cut-box

.underwear.
by ~xiezniczka-fanaberia

Child of the Apocalypse
by ~spybg

good morning -
by ~rooo

Browse Favourites

Watchers

~blackstar7	~shecanread
~bribitribbit	~daffodils

Write a song about your dream of horses

Tue May 8, 2007, 7:06 AM

I have been alive! Just not writing. But then, since the last time I posted, stuff has happened. I got into the (the) uni, providing good grades on the upcoming exams. This causes lots of exciting wangst. Also I am nearly a real person in the eyes of the law and feel sort of old.

Okay, so I hope I am alive and writing again. In any case, have a bit of a poem that's not mine. It is by W.H. Auden, who even when alive would never have married me. Oh, my lack of penis, the grief you have already caused me in my young life.

Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

From The Night Mail. Rock on, Wystan.

No Comments | Previous Journal Entries