Vivat Libertas

A very short, random poem I wrote about the effect Pablo Neruda's poetry had on me. It was kind of just a spur-of-the-moment thing and I hadn't posted in ages, so... Neruda With your pen and voice and sheer poetry You touched my heart, softly stroking it - Sounding a string or two, deeper and richer Than I thought I'd know. On a starless English night You swept away the clouds And let me see the bright pinpoints of a lover's dreamworld. My heart and mind were wrenched, I didn't care, I fell to it like some lovesick maniac and let loose the feelings I'd kept hidden for so long. That night, I held the pages, more fragile than a wing, between my fat fingers and came so close to love I felt I could touch its face: To me, nothing mattered More than words.

...You guessed it. Look at me - I'm all that with My self-slashed wrists and slavish copies Of those good people who've gone before me; I don't have to be original When I write about "realism" or "profundity" - they're always classics. I wouldn't know them if they slapped me in the face?! Pah! I've got "depression" too - maybe "dyslexia". That way I cut myself as a cry for help and Not because I want attention, that way When people can't read my chicken filth I'll have an excuse - after all, making fun of people's Worse when they have disabilities, right? Better than learning how to write properly and well - Too much effort. All I need's my whining and my faked angst Because only sadness matters, only sadness Is serious enough for attention. As for happiness? Humour? The things that make life worth living? Oh, those are for losers! READ THIS BEFORE YOU COMMENT. Yeah...dashed off i...

Another poem. I see you lying there against the wall, your skin Pale as pearls or ghostly sand Unknown by earth. Your hair falls In ripples against your face, like Plants of sea or pond stroking you into sleep; your eyes seem Reflected from the bottom of the sea - The eyes of a drowned sailor. In more news, I've had my C2 exam - actually, it went OK. Here's to hoping that I get a good grade and don't have to retake. In other, worse news, I have a P2 exam on Friday...wish me luck, I'll need it!

(You just lost.) In other news, we're all alive and I can't be bothered to look for that interview with Harold Camping anymore. I went to bed at about 1 in the morning, therefore the world couldn't have ended. Anyway... Yet another poem I wrote during English when I should have been paying attention for my torture   coursework   bullshitting aptitude test  Controlled Assessment. For those of you who don't know, a controlled assessment is when you sit in a room for far too long and write an essay. It replaced coursework (where you do in-depth, extended work at home) because of concerns about plagiarism. So now, instead of being able to show off your knowledge and do research at your own pace, you only get access to specific things, you can only use certain kinds of notes (some of the rules are that you can't take in printed notes unless you're a laptop user and that you can't write notes in paragraphs) which, incidentally, are far more limited than notes ...