labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (let me define seven wishes)
1. I've just hit 51 new books read this year (re-reads were not counted, but included a re-read of the Tiggie Tompson series, several of the YW books, and Monstrous Regiment, by Terry PRatchett.) I'd like to thank Octavia Butler (three books), the Mitford sisters (four books between them, and another one in progress), and particularly Lois McMaster Bujold with a strong ten-book showing. These are fine writers that I would not hesitate to recommend to anyone (although I would tailor them. Perhaps I should say that, from these three authors, I could find a book to recommend to anyone.)

2. I went to see Regina Spektor last night SO GOOD SO GOOD SO GOOD. *bounces around thrilledly* Oh, she was just FANTASTIC. And she played "Folding Chair" and "That Time". asdfghj yes.

3. Tuesday is poem day!

unpoetical bathroom material

they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket after a winter storm
Oh it is, is it, alright then, you sleep under a six-inch blanket of snow and I’ll sleep under a half-inch blanket of unpoetical blanket material and we’ll see which one keeps warm

-- Ogden Nash, “Almost Like a Whale”

Friends ask
what I’m reading.
By the bed is Go, dog. Go.

-- Jenny Bornholdt, “Being a Poet”



At 9pm on a Monday night
I am thinking about the poem I want to write tomorrow
And cleaning the bathroom. Which, after all,
has to be done. Had to be done
two weeks ago, in fact, and now absolutely MUST be done
RIGHT
NOW,
while my flatmates watch housewives, or footballers’ wives, or surgeons, or whoever, behaving desperately downstairs,
and hopefully don’t notice
soapscum sediment
sludging down the drain.


Alright, very silly! Have something rather good instead.

Being a Poet

Yesterday I bought
a blender — blue — from
Briscoes, just like
Marion’s. Today
we’re dealing with the big
issues, like: How the World
Began
and
Can We Have Fruit Loops
For Breakfast?

Friends ask
what I’m reading.
By the bed is Go, dog. Go.
We looked at it this morning
just before our fight
over the nature of
Weetbix. But it’s soggy
every morning,
I hear myself say
that’s just what Weetbix does
that’s just its way.


- Jenny Bornholdt

Jenny Bornholdt is a New Zealand poet who, by the way, I cannot recommend often enough. Do give her a shot.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (all in capital letters)
Tuesday Poem now has its very own weblog, which I am really looking forward to following, and recommend to all of you out there who are into poetry (especially if you don't know New Zealand poetry very well, or conversely if you *do* know New Zealand poetry well, or contrariwise if you sort of know it but would like to know more.)

I managed to get one of my own out this week. Here it is.

Self-Portrait

It is 7:10.
I wake up.
I go, oh no.

My alarm is going to go. My alarm
is going to go. My alarm goes.
It is 7:13.

I turn over. At 8:01 am
I get up.
I go, oh no.

I go and have a shower. I turn the heat
right up.
It is 8:10.

I put cream on my face. Everything is fuzzy.
I pick my glasses up.
I go, oh no.

Nothing is fuzzy.
My time is up.
It is 8:30.
I go, oh no.


Right, so, this is sort of a villanelle. The villanelle is above and beyond my favourite form of poetry. The clever, sutble artistry of a successful villanelle delights me. You probably know Dylan Thomas' incredibly famous Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, which I like mostly for its relationship with a much less well-known villanelle, Villanelle, by Jenny Bornholdt, whose minor rhyme is the same as Thomas' major rhyme, and whose subject is similar (although I p3rsonally find Bornholdt's work a good deal more moving). The villanelle is an incredible format for writing about loss; in a villanelle, the subject matter that the writer and reader struggle to forget returns again and again against their will. Alternatively, the writer returns again and again to something they wish to preserve which nevertheless slips away. One Art, by Elizabeth Bishop, is another favourite; so is Sylvia Plath's Mad Girl's Love Song.

My one, I don't like it so much, but it's a big improvement on my previous attempts at the form! However, the poem didn't start out as a villanelle. In most respects I think this is a big improvement except one: I really liked a stanza in the earlier version that I failed to recreate. It went like this:

I go to my room and put cream on my face. Everything
is fuzzy. I put my glasses
on my face.

Nothing is fuzzy. I go, oh no.


I still really like those lines and wish I could have gotten them into this version. Oh well, keep going, I guess! Happy Tuesday.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
So New Zealand author and blogger Mary McCallum has been posting a poem every Tuesday. She calls it Tuesday Poems (um, duh) and other New Zealand bloggers have been joining her. I haven't really been writing much poetry since I did a course on it in my second year (who knows why, since I loved the course and it was amazing.) Anyway, I've been missing it lately so, though I have no pretensions to be A Poet, I will be posting a poem every Tuesday, and I'll be trying to post a poem of my own. I won't guarantee brilliance and occasionally I might end up posting someone else's.

This is all in the nature of a warning: unpublished poetry ahead! Danger, Will Robinson, there are Vogons on the left-hand bow.

Tuesday Poem: 30 March

At the concert I see the woman dancing alone.
Her body explains what it means to say
      my heart goes out to her.

It doesn’t mean
      I feel sorry for her.

It doesn’t mean
      I think of her difficult time and am selfishly relieved.

It means
      I look at her and my chest cracks open
      And my heart leaps out.


It means
      I want her.

It means
      God, let me just stand up and join her.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
The Hill

above the house where I grew up,
a scratched forest of norfolk pines grew too.
giant unplanted things
apartment blocks for birds.
magpies quardle-doodled with their neighbours and
build nests on every level. every
storey. they followed each other from branch to branch.
at the right time of the year we ran
screaming across the wide hill, covering
our heads with neon sunhats, terrified
of cowboys from above, black beaks
and bandits. the dead silence of the sun,
broken with feathers.

lions prowled below, we knew and in the morning
we woke and heard strange cries, birds
from many faraway places, distant gongs.
when we fed black Jack in the evening, we heard
the big cats feeding and their sunset roars.

we had black tarry footprints in the summer,
our soles were tough and hardened with every step.
when it rained we picked our way across the street
shoulders hunched like vultures, we dammed the gutters
with cigarette packs and dead leaves and damned the sun.
mud waterfalled down flecked with cigarette butts and
tin rings from coke cans.

away from the magpie commune, up the hill in
the other direction, we went around and around
and around and around til we reached the highest point of the city.
fireworks burst in front of us and we could touch them, we heard
them with our bodies. we could see picton, we could see australia, we could see -- everything -
it was spread out beneath us. one step away.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (girl reading)
for posterity, comments, crit etc:

[some placeholder title]

I saw a tree with five birdsnests.
from the bus I reached out my giant hand
and inspected their insides for you.

dolly parton was good music for our weather,
so I sang along to two doors down while
burning the midnight oil. you were jolene,
my happiness depended on you. so what did you
decide to do?

while I walked home one evening the frost arrived.
it slicked wetly down the bricks as I opened your door,
pretending it had just rained. then
glitter spread across each street and brick.
when I saw the light at my windows the tips of the grass
had aged and grown beards.

(I don't really know what to do with this one. I like each bit of it but I don't know if they're the same poem, or different poems, or what.)

love poem

I am enamoured of your geometry. each
plane and polyhedron has meaning to me.
in my more frivolous moments, I plot
the curves along your breasts, your hips.
you add up for me.
I have read and calculated every line
in your skin, every fold and dip and angle, where
your bones are visible through the skin
and where I feel your blood with the
tip of my tongue. I join the dots of your freckles
and blemishes and each scar, find familiar
constellations and name them. the palm
of your right hand, which you use to open doors
and windows, cook and write, tells me
your past. your left hand is your soon-to-be.
and here you are, my now.

(this one's a complete first draft and I quite like a lot of it. what say you all? radical comments accepted happily enough.)

cut for a very very dramatic rewrite of something I wrote here earlier )
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
collecting smiles

Sunday morning. working in the dark, while the cars pass brilliantly, like rapid angels flourescing down the road. I clean the toilets, wiping the mirror and looking at my own eyes, my tired mouth. the milkybar girls stumble in with pallid hair and burnt eyes. big men in dirty caps and greased-up hands smile back at me and lean on the counter too closely. later, on the way to church, a tongan man in a shouting purple suit grins at me while sun breaks over the coffee machine, pouring into the store with startling ridiculous light. I pump petrol for a samoan family, men in sober black wraparounds, women in dresses that cling to warm wide hips. two little boys run into me with $10. a little asian man ducks and bows to me as he passes over money. when he looks up he surprises me with the curve of his lips. the woman who I know is a prostitute asks me how my week has been. in the afternoon I fill a gas bottle for a man who tells me he was born in palestine and grew up in jordan. it is not like christchurch there, he says. there are more hills.



I'm in the market for a new title for this.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (bestfriends4evah!1!!)
variation on a theme by lucid 3

hips and hibiscus,
lips dip in ship-kisses, in
denim jeans the girl,
the queen of the green screen scene
steps out in shit-kickers,
steals music and melody, sings. sits. sings.

drinks, thinks, winks, slinks down the
piano keys, silently,
ascending the beat,
the street, the sheet
music, sweet.

frequencies, she sees,
sleeps sweeps keeps returning,
ascending, descending,
leaving, suspending,
returning tension suspension

major and minority.
hot and cold running melody, ivory
fingering, lingering
. the girl and the morning.


I have never written anything like this! It was really fun, but I only love the first stanza (which does kick butt IMO. :P)

And here, have a totally awesome song for New Zealand Music Month: Lucid 3 - Rock'n'Roll Thieves>
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
dear boy-creature,
this is the poem I am writing to put firmly the distance between us.
I know! you're wondering:
             what do you mean,


             between          us?

that, my good acquaintance, is precisely the problem.

you're probably aware I have been watching you. mostly
when drunk, made indiscreet and slutty, cuddling a little
closer than is strictly decent. well, we have a history, you and me,
                                             it matters to me.

I know; it doesn't matter to you. I'm writing to absolve you.

            my broken heart
            is not your problem. never mind it!

all I
need is

a little
more time.

of course, let us not forget
you
        taking
                my
                                hand
that night, me giddy, you checking me out. oh yeah,
don't deny! you were so obvious we had a conversation on the bus
about the size of my tits, and my dedication to plunging necklines.


and the whole way home I was thinking, damn. he thinks I'm hot.


but that was a long time ago.
            (I know you remember that; you brought it up last friday,
            completely wasted, looking at me in my red boots fishnets another low-cut top.
            you do like to pass comment.

            well dear boy-friend, it was then I knew
            I had to write this poem.)
it would probably help
if you didn't mean well, in your uncaring sort of way. you never wanted
the responsibility of my heart.

and why should you have to take it.

so I'm writing you this poem, and wishing you cared enough to read it, but the whole point
is to be forgiving that you don't. I want to be flippant about it, I'm not
crying into my keyboard. So don't you worry, it's time for me to go.

all my love for the very last time,
not (quite) your ex girlfriend.



*siiigh* very unfinished but I'm thinking of submitting it tomorrow anyway - this one or the storm one from last week, rejuggled and retitled. thoughts??? also, anyone know the keyboard code for the upside-down question mark?
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
kind of like a civil war

this is a takeover,
the troops are stomping across the hills,
firing at random down from the sky,
boom boom boom, like feeling before it's like hearing.

someone is taking a photo of the entire city.
react with shock and awe.

now they're beating a tattoo on the roof,
inescapable, they're coming to find you,
hundreds and thousands of soldiers bang bang banging.

marshal your resistance! heating is martial.
mortal things need it.

we're sending defiance everywhere, hissing through the windows,
shrieking down the streets, whoosh, slap.

they are launching their reserves,
there are great conflicts, waves form and fall in gutters and guttering.

our cutting rebellion
is chasing them away, no more photos,
no more publicity, boom. but they
occupy our city, it's too late,
they have a grip on our land.




the Lloyd Harwood painting "Dream of Young Icarus" hangs in my lounge and catches the eye of my guests.

what dreams he must be having, that boy!
endlessly framed in four dark walls
with his father, who must have been quite mad,
and the birds, and the feathers, and the wax, and the feathers,
and always the wings, obsessively.

no wonder, then, when he sleeps it is blue
all around him, the sky is edged with sea
and the sun is hanging from a string
scarce visible, but he knew it was there,
threaded through the corona.

and there is he - or is that him?
the weird ungainly thing in the centre,
most like a bird that's long ago dead,
head much bigger than the body,
like even the bird has dreams.

its wings are so small they can barely be seen,
and the lips are a woman's lips, a son's lips,
the sun slips behind the bird,
everything is limned in black and blue,
Icarus dreams.

visual aid:  )

which one of these should I submit tomorrow???? Make me decisions for me!

Yeesh

Feb. 27th, 2007 02:19 pm
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
So we have workshop in poetry class every week, and additionally we have to submit a poem every week to the lecturer, and the poems up for workshop this week were just sent around and a couple of them are so freaking good I'm terrified. One guy wrote a sonnet in what I'm pretty sure is perfect iambic pentameter - it's pretty fucking amazing, actually, and it's not a bad piece of poetry at all. And one woman wrote this thing in a very formal kind of free verse which is pretty impressive - it has a *lot* of Maori in it, all glossed of course. I'm hesitating between saying that I think it's seriously cool - which I do - and saying that it really detracts from the poem - which I also think is true, because the vast majority of people reading the poem are going to need the gloss desperately, and it's not just five words, it's a word or two in nearly every line (and the lines are short, too, three or four words), so about a fifth of the poem is being glossed and it's just. Hm.

Anyway, I'm totally panicking and writing a lot so you guys get it archived here, you lucky things, you. ;)

you're completely cracked

your memory is weird patterns of light
from an old, cracked mirror.
not seven years, but endless time
of fractal recollection is all that's left to you.
I know you're looking for me,
but every where I am light is spidering away.

they say, you've got a memory like a sieve,
things just keep running out of it.
I think, only if the sieve is shaped like your hands,
clutching yesterday in your fists,
it keeps running over your fingers.

tomorrow you will look in the mirror
and cracks will spindle out again a little,
like you don't recognise yourself in shop windows
and you can't remember your daughter's name,
she's overshadowed,
out of focus.

the thing about spectacles is,

when you take them off,
it's impossible to see where you put them.
it's this whole big irony thing.

the thing about you is,
it's like I'm not sure where to look for you
I don't remember putting you down.

that's not quite so ironic,
I think it's deliberate.
you cultivate it, hiding behind my back,
peering out when I look the other way,
standing in front of me in the dark.

I should be able to see you,
if I could magnify you, direct
your light and your reflection
in my rear-view mirrors.
this must be on purpose.
I just had a check up,
I'm looking out for you
with my corrective lenses.



Also, [livejournal.com profile] sixth_light, I have Heroes.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] kphoebe is playing the formal poetry challenge, and well, it looked like fun. A very hasty Rondelet for you all!


he walks her home in the evening.

Love, walk with me
a little further. Do not leave,
love; walk with me
past pale light, down the darking street.
Nor yet abandon me, bereaved,
missing your cold hand on my sleeve,
love. Walk with me.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
big weather city

sometimes my big weather city
likes to express her disapproval
at teenagers kissing on the streets,
goths smoking by the traffic lights,
girls wearing very few clothes
by opening her skies and chasing them away.

only on her less tolerant days;
when she's feeling kindly she encourages them
with hot skies and a breeze,
like a hand stroking your hair.

this big weather city likes her people tough;
she makes businessmen wrestle with umbrellas
and students sprint for the old trolley buses
that run clinkety clankety, clinging precariously
to the wires that run overhead.

you could get a lot of exercise in the big weather city;
some days, if the wind is blowing in the right direction
each step is an aerobics class.

our big weather city's favourite people
have hairstyles they like to let blow in the wind,
skirts designed to stream and not billow;

when she opens her skies to chase us away,
we want to run out to the curbs and laugh at her.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
Still avoiding packing! [Okay, I've gone through and sorted my clothes into "take away to Wellington" and "leave behind", and folded most of the leave behinds into bags and put them away; and I've gotten rid of about four plastic bags of rubbish, old notes, wastes of paper, etc; and I'm sorting my filing system (otherwise known as "four banana boxes sitting in the corner") into vital (birth certificate and transcripts), personal (letters and stuff from my old schools and old notebooks), things I need in Wellington (addresses and sheet music), books, DVDs, CDS and magazines (my Listener collection), and "file directly in the rubbish bin." I've picked up almost all the books and dragged them into my bookshelf, which is in the laundry, which by the way is a HUGE drag and next year I want to get bookshelves for the hallways, which are easily wide enough. HOLY SHIT SO MUCH CRAP, Y'ALL.]

Anyway, I'm doing that thing where you stumble across crazy poetry that you wrote when you were young and angsty, and this one kind of horrifies me. I don't even know what I was thinking. )

*sigh* Well, that was a diversion. Back to the grindstone.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
ITP

I think it is a declaration of war:
the body sending red letters under my skin.

they are not easy to decipher,
ephemeral constellations of tiny bruises,
so I join the dots in blue biro.

I find the message still a little confusing,
like maybe it's written back to front,
on the underside of my capillaries.

because it is too difficult to make a settlement,
I send in pale troops every morning;
battlefields flare and fade on my arms, my legs, my chest.

every change becomes a sign;
my nerves fray rapidly.
the body fights back, purple tides rising under my skin.

it is too much for me; please,
I am ready to broker peace.




I am applying for a creative writing poetry course for the first semester next year. It's fairly restricted entry and I am, pretty much, entirely terrified that I'll submit a portfolio and won't be accepted. This probably ties in with an opinion of my poetry that... well, okay. "people who post original poetry on their Livejournals" are pretty much in the same category as "people who blog about their cats" and they're definitely in the same category as "people who talk about cutting themselves a lot" and "people who dye their hair black and wear a lot of eyeliner." (Um, there are people on my flist who do all of these things, and I love them all very much, but you know what I mean.) So I usually strive to make my poetry as non-emo as possible, because god, no-one wants to read amateur Evanescence lyrics, am I right? But there are things that I find intensely difficult to write about without being emo. Illness is one of these, mine and those around me - I've made several starts at writing about my grandfather, who's pretty much off his rocker, and I don't feel like any of them have really transcended my personal experience into being something that might actually speak to others as well - which is what good poetry is about, IMO. Someone said that "poetry should not mean, but be"; I absolutely believe this, but also that poetry that is intensely personal is almost always bad poetry because it might mean a lot to the author, but when it comes to the audience, they may have nothing in common with you.

Which is a roundabout way of saying, I am trying to write a bit about some things that matter to me right now, and I'm not sure I'm succeeding, but I think I have to get rid of them anyway. And if you think this is way too subjective, you should read some of the other stuff I have on my hd. ;)
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
catalogue of the universe
with apologies to Margaret Mahy

start on the ground floor
and work your way up
        (ground floor ought to be
        appropriately named; look here for
        geology and the taste of dirt,
        perhaps also geography and
        something about
        earthquakes.)

by the time you reach the top floor
you will have passed through all the universe.

you may be climbing a long time.
        (fortunately there are stairs,
        lifts, and sometimes
        catalogues who can direct you where to go;
        should you desire direction.)

the first floor might be all about humanity,
the things we know first and foremost,
like how to hurt your brother,
how to kiss your mother,
the shape and fine patterning of the bones
in your youngest sister's hands.

second floor: dinosaurs!
- and other sorts of bones inhuman,
old. this is where imagination
takes hold
and colours in the spaces.

somewhere in the middle are treetops,
leafy green and birdsnests,
instructions for how to make a treehouse,
the geometry of ladders
and the formation of swings and seesaws.

followed directly by the sea,
the cries of seagulls,
salt and sweat and tears,
sand in the sandwiches
and how to grind seashells into dust
in order that they may be washed away.

the second to last floor
is the things we are all trying to forget
look here for russian novels, grief
and political commentary,
including systems of government
and the wages of war.

and on the top floor find the sky,
the whys of winds and weather,
the shapes and naming of the stars,
drawings of the wings of birds
and explanations of their hollow bones,
the wild heights of feeling
& of flight.

to take it all out
up the last staircase
and onto the roof.
oxygen molecules and the spaces between them.
        (at last you have it,
        air and the secrets of breathing.)
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
The other thing I've been doing is working on two poetry collections for a writing competition. I know I won't win, because a) they never give prizes to poetry (it's open format, but the winner will be a short story or essay or script, not poetry. Poetry is too subjective) and b)I haven't got a quantity of stuff I think is really good that also fits together, so I've jammed some good stuff with some less good stuff (I'll admit it: I really like, and am proud of, some of the poems here. Some of them I hate.) Anyway, these are the two collections as I'm probably going to submit them; I'd really appreciate any criticism, including placement of poems and collection titles. Some of this is older material; some of it's new.

brief lives )



mabel forgets how to sing )
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
landing

get this,
I was born on the edge of the world.

We're tougher out here, don't you get it?
in old maps new zealand
barely makes it on there, the tip of the North

growing up,
falling off the edge of the world,
It puts the sky in us, the space
and the stretching, open spaces;

white clouds for miles, aotearoa
is balancing on the rim
of the biggest dinner plate in history.

new zealanders, we know what we're about
we do a good balancing act;
afraid that someday we'll fall off the edge of the world,

we're busy learning how to fly.

This is actually a recap of an earlier poem which I didn't tag or memory at the time and now of course have lost. *facepalm* I think I like it better than the original, but not actually having the original I'm not sure. :P
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
what it's like

I thought the other day I'd call you.
and then of course I didn't,

I don't know why my subconscious mind
doesn't know what's good for me,

like hearing your voice on the other end
of the line, after months

and time away. Well I guess it's
not all wrong, I'm not sure

if I'd have anything to say; we might
stay on the line and listen to each other

breathe. I can't help thinking that
silence maybe just what I need,

strained through filaments like
I think we are sometimes, when

we sleep at the same time but never
realise it, except if I might see you in my dream--

I thought this morning that I'd call you tonight
hope you'll still be awake when the phone rings.


In other news, more icons, only 7 this time, these ones made specially for [livejournal.com profile] megaffe, sweetie I hope you like them, text by James K Baxter, bases again from the superlative [livejournal.com profile] posticonic. Please credit [livejournal.com profile] posticonic! Other credit is nice but not necessary. (Also, Meggie, if you have alternate ideas welcome to request something of COURSE).

Teaser: 1.Image hosted by Photobucket.com
ride easy, stranger )
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
On speaking with [livejournal.com profile] thinkaholic earlier, I was reminded I haven't updated my poetry on here for yonks... since I treat my LJ as something of a non-corporeal filing box, you therefore are the lucky recipients of a poetry dump. *eyeroll*

the words and letters triptych )

ever, never, forever )

ode to a poetry book )

I really advise you not to click this cut. oh god, I tried to rhyme. )

untitled for Josephine )

Anyway, that's all. But, you know the drill- I really really really worship and adore feedback, so if you're of that inclination, I'm not ashamed to beg. And by fb I do mean anything; if you hated everything here PLEASE, please tell me so, as creatively as you like. of course, it's even better if you tell me what you hated and why. Positive feedback is great (and if you like them, PLEASE tell me so, too. ;) ) but negative or concrit is probably more valuable to me in the long run- even if it's just "I think that word here is a bit clumsy." Anything.

Look at me begging. You know you want to!

Hmmm....

Jun. 27th, 2005 04:10 pm
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (Default)
Shortest exam I ever sat, right there. Three hours in theory, finished in 50 minutes. So, in the fine traditions of Me Doing Exams, I'm home early and on teh internets instead of studying for phil tomorrow.

Also in my fine traditions, I spent the spare ten minutes- we couldn't leave for an hour- that I had writing poetry. If I had all the poetry I've written in exams over the years, I'd have a lot of really peculiar poetry.

I only had ten minutes, so these are quite short. )

*wry* maybe my first poetry book will be called Songs from the Examination Hall, and other bits and bats. As I said: I've written a lot of poetry in exam rooms, although a lot of it I've also never had back; it's rotting in some English teacher's basket somewhere, or on spare bits of paper left elsewhere. Which is kind of funny- actually I do like writing poetry on my papers, even though it's probably not sensible: the idea that someone's going to read it, maybe, but I won't know, it'll be untraceable. Mm.

Also, from [livejournal.com profile] gabbysun: If, as you live your life, you find yourself mentally composing LJ entries about it, post this exact same sentence in your Livejournal. *snort*

And finally: I am blessed with a f-list that clearly knows when I have an extra hour to read it. Because it looks interesting today. :)

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