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About Literature / Hobbyist Meg D.Female/Australia Recent Activity
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Unseasonal :iconmeggie272:Meggie272 36 24
Literature
Encounter
I came home after a long long time and in the hallway
I bumped into a seventeen year old girl.
I said ‘it’s me’ but she shook her head like
there was water in her ears and salt in her eyes.
I said ‘it’s okay’ but she looked at me blankly.
I said ‘it won’t kill you’ but she hurried past
and turned that dark corner.
In the room I grew up in
I opened a wardrobe and an old friend fell out,
the yearbook photos where we sat side by side
staring the camera down. Arrogant and eagle-eyed.
That year it rained and I wore his jacket
until it smelt like him and me and his hair
and my smile and the wet grey roads
I walked every afternoon with it
heavy on  my shoulders –
and only then did I give it back.
I do not know where he is now. It’s
not important.
* * *
It took me a while to figure out
what had been different about waking up
in the city. Not the cars. Not the new walls
I lived within. Nothing like that.
Eventually, I knew i
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 7 0
Literature
Alchemy
I often think I left half of me
in my mother’s cupboard;
as a child I would inch open the ill-fitting
white-peeling wood and look at small dusty
bottles of coriander, vanilla extract,
cardamom,
bi-carb,
rosewater,
dye. I believe I thought of it as
all the potential of life itself
trapped within sticky-
lidded glass. An apothecary,
profound and intricate and strange.
I was so excited
by the one that seemed to be a vial of blood,
at the thought of dropping it
and staining the floorboards red.
I wanted to put all of it
in one of our heavy saucepans
with the handle Dad made of old piping
and boil it till it stung my eyes,
till some grown up said to me:
‘what’s in that brew? I think you know things
that you shouldn’t,
child.’
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 12 7
Literature
Palmleaf
There have always been hard, bright prophets
their words filling our mouths like
the tipping of sunlight
and wine.
There have always been Christs
placing two fingers under our chins and smiling,
blinking dust from kind and distant eyes.
We have always asked questions of the sky.
Someone has always tipped our faces up, and said: ‘Look –
look. There it is.’
This is what we find.
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 6 5
Literature
Little
His parents were shouting,
and hated each other,
flush-jawed and aching across
the cheap table, the cheap hot rash
of kitchen air all filled with meat and
3 veg and everything else,
so the boy went outside,
where it was a desolate and bitter July,
with the paddock grasses of frost-slick knives;
went outside,
sat down,
drew his knees up to his chest
like a foetus
held loose
in the black coiling
womb of sky.
A mad neighbour shouted – a cow
lowed, a soft sad call.
He stayed sitting
for a while
kept small
kept his blood cool
until he'd lined his lungs
with winter, bright.
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 4 4
Literature
Knitted
The men, they come into my home
loudly strung with all night’s stars,
all beer-glint, all roughly-bright;
they bring their heavy boots,
their boots and their heavy mud.
Their brassy, mirthful talk;
harvests and ale and golden things.
I have been in here alone,
excepting the dogs in their slumber,
husband,
husband’s brother,
and I have been spinning. And spinning,
and spinning;
spinning mice, and men,
and fates, and coarse
grey wool.
You clap each other’s backs,
the centre of your beings in the
largeness of your hands.
You bring the cold night’s mud
on to my floor.
I am the centre of your beings,
men,
I link you. Like a spinning wheel
I pull all threads together.
Cat’s cradle. Cradling you
in my fingers and my hips.
My tongue is sharp
this coldly wintered night,
this mudded night. You are abashed
like little boys, unlooking
you mutter your apologies
to the hounds.
All talking's done.
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 14 9
Mature content
Reel :iconmeggie272:Meggie272 7 4
Literature
Perth
In Western Australia, it’s likely
that we have no prophets,
we have no damned,
there’s probably no heaven to be found –
only this dry and aching span,
roads laid down on burnt red dirt like tar-crossed,
humming brands. Only construction sites
laid open.
You know, this city, it doesn’t grow, it doesn’t burn,
it only stands.
It is all, and endlessly, and only,
the slam of car doors being shut, the tradie’s
first cigarette, the mother’s
harassed reply, the toddler’s sticky
grasping hand, the tight and cerulean sky.
The freeway, the peeling tunnel,
the sloping oases of white sand.
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 7 7
Literature
Fleeting
To be content
with one night
is the hardest thing to swallow;
but I believe it may be possible
to look back on smeared stars
and softly smoke-spiced mouths
and accept all
for what
all was,
like the passing of a cloud
seen only once
by only one
young child.
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 8 1
Literature
Tunnel
In several tiny ways
I put my head on the block:
his head is heavy,
thin limbs drooped with sleep, and I don’t move
away like I should – there is a bright, beating second of contact,
then the train jolts him awake
newly born and blinking.
This is one.
Tired, heart-dazed, amongst all the stars of the city
spinning in all their roaring dark, I readjust
so that our shoulders
do not touch.
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 4 2
Literature
Relocate
After eight, the city is made
of some dark and arid crystal,
an amethyst drought to
dry your lips and tongue
and make a moonscape
of your eyes.
The sky’s too polluted for the stars –
we put them into the neon
and the broken glass.
I am not used to the heavens being
so close to hand or so cutting to my
soft bare skin.
I am used to skies like oceans,
and oceans as black and vast as night.
Sometimes, but not always,
fingers twitch
for the sweet wet cold
of a harbour town,
where the silos range white and
ugly like whalebone against the
slap and sigh of sea,
where my father goes walking
by the train tracks, by the wild and
bleeding berries,
an old black dog for the shadow
at his feet.
The rain so soft and damp in the
rough curve of his collar,
the mud so thick on his heavy boots.
His eyes so clouded and so bright.
I would like to be recreated,
and made anew
by the tar black novae
and the Midas gold
of this urban night,
except that there is a little girl
who does not understand
w
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 12 21
Literature
I worked hard for this body
I worked hard for this body
by which I mean I was carefully
threaded together into a slick and
joyous mesh,
the oldest Mother’s weave,
a frantic chemical web,
her fingers smelling of silt and the sea
spinning a body stretching up from
the heels of these clay feet.
The catastrophic split
and the terrible tear of cells,
the bursting and divine
divide.
I endured it all, before I knew
what it was to endure
or to have hands
lungs
and eyes.
I worked hard for this body
in the rich blood sea of my mother’s belly,
I grew my legs as the ancient seadwellers
grew theirs, and took my first
breath of air as they took
theirs.
One day, my hands and eyes
were thrust into the light,
as were theirs.
On to the beach we crawl.
And now look what we bear.
I worked hard for this body,
by which I mean I am here now
breathing in the breath of the dune which
is made of light and of dinosaur’s bones
of white and of whiter stones
which is made of Hatshepsut’s tears
my mother’s hair my
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 12 9
Literature
Arena
Any fright you may feel now
in the carbon drought, the sickly-winking
grid of city nights
is chemically aligned
with the gladiators in their ring
and the trembles of their muscled hearts;
sweating and naked in Rome’s filthy stinking bright,
bare-footed amongst the slaves, the honey
and the flies,
yawning and roaring in the light –
blooded tongues in ancient mouths,
bloody roses on ancient ground,
the blood cries from ancient crowds –
it's your blood,
in your little veins,
so scarlet
and so loud.
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 7 3
Literature
Yardarm
I'm sitting in an alpha male's
piece of shit old car. Lunch break,
30 degrees in the shade,
the sun's burning down our arms;
and he's right pleased with himself,
you can tell by the way his hands
are touching the wheel
and the way his mouth is touching
his hand-rolled cigarette.
Impassive jaw, he looks away.
Hand to mouth,
mouth to hand,
my fleeting gaze.
Bright, smoked and ugly
the bush is flashing by -
I'm all those things and more,
there's a wolf's curve to my spine.
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 28 23
Literature
Pleiades
Pushed into shape,
this little girl
that washed in
on the tide;
the mildly pallid clay of me,
formed and flowered in the
combined haloes of your minds
and your unforgiving noise,
my sisters –
how quickly I must have learnt
the trip of your names across my tongue,
seven stars spilling through my teeth,
the first song I ever sung.
You rainbows, you nimble-fingered
nimbuses of women,
you who saw me new and screaming,
you who saw me with my hair cut straight
across my forehead, six and lisping,
sixteen and listing,
sick,
alive,
listening.
Listening to you.  
I was frightened by the art on your walls,
I loved the snarls in your hair.
Your sons and I, we pushed our hands
into the blackest dirt we could find.
Our nails became dark moons
ten small copies of the ink on Jo’s forearm.
We raked our fingers through the mud.
You put seeds beneath my skin,
and I did not know they were there,
until I grew,
and smelt the wild sage
amidst the copper of my blood.
I heard everything you s
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 8 10
Mature content
The Southern Land Not Yet Known :iconmeggie272:Meggie272 8 8

Favourites

Journal
Good Hooks seen on DevArt
I'm sitting in an alpha male's piece of shit old car.
by Meggie272
~~~~~~~~~~
Hugh Everett's ashes are in the dumpster behind the restaurant I work at.
by muscularteeth
~~~~~~~~~~
There are three kinds of people in the world. Flesh eating minions of hell, humankind, and those caught between both ends of the spectrum. They call them carriers.
by laurotica
~~~~~~~~~~
winter was/wolves with glass teeth/and frozen words/so frail they shattered before/I heard them
by WizardHowl10001
~~~~~~~~~~
"Sir, sir, please do not touch that!" The panicked man jumped between the hand and the button.
by SolidMars
~~~~~~~~~~
Her real name was Jade, but her name tag said Snow White.
by SenoritaBlack
~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to all watchers and visitors. You mean a lot to me. :heart:
:iconxlntwtch:xlntwtch
:iconxlntwtch:xlntwtch 4 10
-1 by hoooook -1 :iconhoooook:hoooook 445 13
Literature
Lacrimosa
She breaks harp strings
She tells me, in a hour
Or less
She has a backbone
Stronger than anything
I've ever seen
She breaks harp strings
She tells me, with delicate fingers
And violent heart
Loved by a ribcage
More fragile than
Her fluttering start
She is orchideliruim
She is lemon vodka, peppermint tea
Cold champagne spiked with
Paradise,
Like the things she used to make for me
She writes nocturnes in her sleep
And she cuts
But she can't let them see
She's a butterfly
Breaking at the wings
She is gilt and guilt and
Gold-tone trills, brilliant
She tells me she breaks harp strings
And we'll play the piano one day
I talk to her late at night
And miss her my whole life long
She shines like the delicate moon
Over spider-silk rewoven
:iconlive-haunted:live-haunted
:iconlive-haunted:live-haunted 10 6
Journal
November 2015
Out by the community college down old 82
with the railroad to the south and the guard
shack to the west, welding classes across
the parking lot, there's a chain link fence,
the north side twisting up out of the earth
because of the oak roots spreading.
It is winter, and the sun casts thin branch
shadows across the grave markers, the wind
throws the silk flowers against the south side
fence, they get caught in the links, splashes of color,
glowing in the sun like old VGA graphics
sitting in the silence, watching the petals ripple in the wind
I can smell the cigarette burning, and I'm watching my father
ash into a coke can and move legions on a twelve inch computer
monitor and I'm eating cereal, listening to the wind outside the house.
the branches creak and I wonder if this visit is very different from the others
father, sitting in the cool grass next to your ashes.
:iconBraxton-T-Rutledge:Braxton-T-Rutledge
:iconbraxton-t-rutledge:Braxton-T-Rutledge 2 1
Literature
on mo(u)rnings
some days the church bells are like trumpets,
and then again, never the happy kind.
it’s only monday morning and already someone
is in need of flowers. or, miracles.
say god took the week off yet the prayers
keep pouring in like open wounds. what a cruel joke,
that this ground refuses to grow no matter how many
bodies we give to hold between its teeth;
say we are all killing ourselves, some of us are just much better at it
be baton or bullet or building but nothing after.
maybe this was the miracle all along, this disappearing act.
then again, maybe just the brass afterwards.
and then again, never the happy kind.
some days i hear the ghosts filling the streets like children do
every one of their faces smiling, and alive.
:iconsuccesswithhonor:successwithhonor
:iconsuccesswithhonor:successwithhonor 68 10
Marsh Camps by Lady-Valiant Marsh Camps :iconlady-valiant:Lady-Valiant 17 1
Journal
Paris, you almost had me
From the window of the Subway restaurant on the Quai de Montebello
the gargoyles quiver. The rain, funneled, erupts out of Notre Dame's
stone mouths. The water falls, almost blessed, slides into the Seine,
mundane again, like this six inch tuna melt.
:iconBraxton-T-Rutledge:Braxton-T-Rutledge
:iconbraxton-t-rutledge:Braxton-T-Rutledge 4 0
brush test by hoooook brush test :iconhoooook:hoooook 416 11 .. by hoooook .. :iconhoooook:hoooook 331 3 Archangel Gabriel, The Golden Herald by PeteMohrbacher Archangel Gabriel, The Golden Herald :iconpetemohrbacher:PeteMohrbacher 4,024 99
Mature content
MAF 19 :iconlintu47:Lintu47 30 93
Ludique by IrinaJoanne
Mature content
Ludique :iconirinajoanne:IrinaJoanne 55 0
Close the Curtains,Hide the Sun by IrinaJoanne Close the Curtains,Hide the Sun :iconirinajoanne:IrinaJoanne 87 3 .. by hoooook .. :iconhoooook:hoooook 479 13
stuff
so my angsty farm poem (god how many of those have I written) Unseasonal got a Daily Deviation! Thank you so much for the honour, and a lot of love to TheMaidenInBlack for featuring it. 

I know I haven't been here much and tbh I don't know if that is going to change in the near future? I still come on here to check my inbox so if you're writing new stuff I'm probably reading it but I don't have a heap of time on my hands to do the group thing or the writing thing or the leaving comments thing.

My life is full full full bursting at the seams. Which is not to say that I am 100% happy, because I'm not. Mental illness will never go away, and physical illness will never go away, and bad memories will never go away. But I'm throwing myself into study and friends and...I don't want to say self improvement because that brings up images of yoga and exercise and critical self reflection, none of which I'm really doing. But I am trying very hard every day and there are multitudes of beautiful moments constantly to reassure me that I'm doing it for a purpose. Even if there weren't beautiful moments I'd keep trying, though, because I'm so stubborn. 

Here I feel new. I think about the town I grew up in and the people I knew in high school and it's this sudden sad jolt to remember I used to be that person amongst those people. Some I miss, some I don't, but all of them I feel like I knew them a million years ago and we wouldn't recognise one another now. Last semester I was trapped in nostalgia a lot and it was horrible. I am not making that mistake ever again. I live here now by the river and the university and I am such a different person. When I'm old I'll think about 2013. 

I love what I'm studying. I'm going to be brave this year and try and network and get in touch with some important folks and get some volunteering work happening. I want to get some field work, go on some digs up north and find old stuff buried in the earth or drawn on the rocks. (I want to grab my Archaeology lecturer by the tie in some kind of way but that's so irrelevant.) It kind of took me a while to realise that you have to actually put effort into having a career. I spend so much time absorbing. Reading and listening and studying and learning. And I'm not putting much back out. I haven't written properly in ages, haven't attempted new things in a while. 

Long story short: life keeps testing me but I'm doing okay, consistently; I'm probably not going to be uploading on the regular but if you're really keen then you should check sovteck.wordpress.com because I put a lot more stuff there than I do here; thanks for the DD; you're all beautiful; bye; 
  • Listening to: Sufjan Stevens
  • Reading: Folktales of the World
  • Watching: Crazy Ex Girlfriend
  • Playing: Lara Croft
  • Eating: apples
  • Drinking: lemonade

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Meggie272
Meg D.
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Australia
angst 5eva
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:iconoleg-bardenkov:
Oleg-Bardenkov Featured By Owner Mar 3, 2016  Professional Traditional Artist
Happy Birthday!!!!!!!!!!:) (Smile) 
Reply
:iconmeggie272:
Meggie272 Featured By Owner Mar 3, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
thank you very much! :D 
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:iconlintu47:
Lintu47 Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2016  Hobbyist Photographer
Thank You (16) by daniya-ART
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:iconmeggie272:
Meggie272 Featured By Owner Feb 3, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
you're welcome :)
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:iconblackbowfin:
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Hey there, Meg... and thanks. :) 
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:iconmeggie272:
Meggie272 Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
hello yourself, and you're very welcome :) 
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:iconbraxton-t-rutledge:
Braxton-T-Rutledge Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2016
hi
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:iconmeggie272:
Meggie272 Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
hello 
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:icondangomango:
DangoMango Featured By Owner Jan 6, 2016  Professional General Artist
Cheers for the fave! Much appreciated :3
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:iconmeggie272:
Meggie272 Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
no worries! 
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