Hmm [25 Mar 2007|09:58pm] I'm going to Law Camp. I don't really want to watch a bunch of virgins get smashed and have awkward sex, but I figured that I should network  seeing that we are doing the same course. I think the moment I annouced in class that "most people are shits" made me pretty unapproachable.  I have a weekend to prove that I can be nice by holding the hair out of their face as they vomit.  On the bright side, this year's first years arn't as bad as I thought initially. Some happen to be really nice. A few more have a brilliant sense of humour. The rest arn't too bad to look at.  Maybe Law Camp won't be so bad.  6 comments|post comment

something mountfordian [21 Dec 2006|01:47am] Mother hid me in the bathroom and fingered knots into my hair. “Daddy’s had a bad day,” she said. A few strands got caught on her wedding ring. “He’ll feel better in a few minutes.” She tried tugging, I winced. “Sometimes he goes a little crazy.” The ring came off, my hair was free. Through the sound of splintering wood and skidding furniture, I hear my mother say: “we’ll be safe here”, “don’t be scared”, “it’s not your fault.” “It’s not your fault,” she repeated. Mother knelt down to make eye contact, knelt so low that I could see over her to the milk ruined manuscripts drying beside the bathroom heater. She nestled my head in that pillowy space between her neck and shoulder, but all I wanted was to rip out the floorboards with you. 2 comments|post comment

not quite there [28 Nov 2006|01:33am] [ mood | not the best ] I've been writing this poem for two and a half years and tonight, I let it go for the third time. Those of you who have followed me from my old journal will be farmiliar with "Dear Moon." I've had mixed reviews on this one. "Wanky", "Spectacular", "Disjointed", "Sensual".  I'm not exaggerating when I say that I've cried over this poem. It's a ridiculous thing to cry over but I can't seem to beat the feeling that it's "good" and "good" is where I'll be capped off. I can leave most poems alone after their second draft, a little editing here and there maybe but this one is determined to be better than "above average" and as a poet, I don't think I'm any more than "above average". Are these periods of self doubt annoying? I'm 18 and I'm impatient for a masterpiece I don't have the skills to create.   I look forward to growing old.  I want my images to melt into each other like chocolate on a summer's day in some confused chocolate box. They're not doing that. They're ideas that struggle to converse with each other. This is how you tell the difference between a mature and immature writer. This poem is a reminder that I'm the latter.  Once again, "Dear Moon", I present you to a small audience.  You were meant to be performed and maybe, one day, you'll deserve it. This has been a long affair. Goodnight, again. Dear Moon Good evening lady. All the world's aglow under your cashmere complexion and Cheshire cat grin. Do not be so smug, you are not that beautiful. Far off muse, for you gentle poets shed drafts until their bodies shoot daisies to the stars - but when diamonds litter the sky, mortal sighs cannot buy your love. Yet despite your radiance, your elegance, your eminence, You do not know the creeks and quivers of floorboards, the fever of an unseasonable cold, the tap-dance of  a nervous cockroach, difference between cricket wings and a croak. On such nights insomnia grows between novels and arranges books upon the shelf. Between sheets I turn like pages, yawn a little, leave the light on. When you are full, I massage moans into his open throat and snap the string of pearls in his spine, suck on fingertips, bite on collar bones, eat the apple to his core. Dear moon, you mean nothing to me. 17 comments|post comment

plans, poetry and plosive sounding words [21 Nov 2006|11:47pm] [ mood | satisfied ] Uni's over for a year. Now I'm filling in time by working with a legal aid firm that can't punctuate and slowly going back to writing. I'm considering trying some confessional poetry. I do it occasionally but it's usually directed outwards, such as a poem meant to be read by a particular friend. However, I've always had something against confessional poetry because it draws attention to the poet rather than the poetry, but I suppose that depends on the reader. I believe in art for art's sake, not exclusively, but beauty should be a virtue. When most people think of poetry, they think of confessional poetry: something deep and reflective coming from the soul of an insightful human being. Many English students are too happy to subject Pound to their rabid literary violence because he offends their belief that poetry should be absolute free expression. Letting go of all that meaningful feeling. Smearing the soul onto the page. Emptying the emotional spit bucket. Bullshit. Freedom of expression? Isn't that what protests, pillow punching and pashing strangers is for? *sigh* Was Tolstoy right to say that sincerity of emotion makes for good art? The thinking me says no, but all poets go to confession sometime before they die. 4 comments|post comment

Monday is a good day for listing. [25 Sep 2006|02:37pm] In no particular order: - I saw Haydn's "Il Mondo della Luna" on Friday, truely hillarious production by the Conservatorium staff and students. My night was made when one of the surtitles read "Take her to her room and show her our customs." - In a week, I have three major essays due on three consecutive days. - An hour ofThursday was spent in the office of my philosophy tutor discussing social contract theory. Simon's very encouraging but sometimes I just want to say, "Really, it's okay. I totally misread Hobbes, I don't mind if you say it." I'd like to take a philosophy major next year so it would help if I had a tutor who was willing to say, "You're not meant for philosophy. Don't do it Libby, you're making a mistake" if he thought so. The poor fellow probably values being professional. 18 comments|post comment

I don't know what I'm doing, but this needs an update. [01 Sep 2006|11:24pm] i. With some smart metal he invented halves and grew into the countenance of a seagull, bitterly delighted to discover a missing gem. ii. He shall learn to warble like a nightingale for the shrunken tenderness of an open oyster. iii. My face is a spherical scribble that has spent too long inside the body of a crustacean soon to give up its ghost. 5 comments|post comment

[13 Jul 2006|04:44pm] Nothing is more elegant than a receding fever. It quietly dislodges its tongue from my mouth, unwrap its legs from my around waist and untangle its fingers from my hair. I'm left to sweat as it tightens its belt and slip into sneakers but won't do up the laces. It knows! it schemes! yet it feigns a Prufrockian pose besides the vanity. As it waits, I measure the hours till my complete recovery with cold and flu tablets. The fever is subdued, for now, but the flu insists on having me in bed. 16 comments|post comment

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