Tag Archives: bar

Found Poetry: I Drew a Map of Love


Hello readers, this is your poet speaking. I’m sure you remember my poem Is it Beginning? from earlier this month. I did another one- I really like this found poetry business.

This time, the song chose me weeks ago. Well, more like, the song leapt up from the depths of my memory, grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. I know I’m not your typical 20-something product of my generation when I say that I totally dig Joni Mitchell. I mean, come on, she’s Canadian! Her song A Case of You is one of those songs that struck me like a Zeus-style lightning bolt. Kind of like Going to California by Led Zeppelin, come to think of it. Maybe I’ll try something with that next time.

I have digressed enough! Read on for poetry.

disclaimer: I don’t own the rights to any Joni Mitchell songs. This is a creative exercise, and I make no money from it.

I Drew a Map of Love

I could be your painter, darling;
I sketched the still darkness of you,
I drink the bitter and sweet deeds.

Cartoon lines drawn in blue light
Before my drink poured, she said
I would part with you, and bleed.

I’m a lonely woman; you drew me in,
But had me stay in a box apart
From your life: oh, where’s our time?

I knew your mouth twice:
You taste like blood and wine.
I remember in that bar

You said, “I ain’t afraid of the devil,”
With your face so bitter, and lost–
I’m frightened of that time.

If you want me, I’ll be
As constant as the northern star–
I’ll drink you, bitter and sweet.

You had just met me, you said,
“Love is touching souls.”
Surely in my case, in my blood,

I’d be prepared if I touched yours,
So holy, so bitter, and so sweet.
I’d like it if you knew mine.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

Also, I feel I must add another disclaimer: I have been in lust a couple times, had some crushes, and I read a lot, but I have never been in love. I remain hopeful that it’ll happen some time. That passionate, delightful, being-with-you-feels-like-home, you-make-me-want-to-be-a-better-person, I-hope-we-get-old-and-grey-together-so-we-can-mock-each-other-at-the-retirement-home, snuggles-and-sex-are-only-awesome-with-you, blissful, if-you’re-not-beside-me-I-don’t-sleep-well, all-consuming deal. Or something like that.

Though I maintain that there’s a different kind of love for every person that we love. We can call it platonic, romantic, familial, or whatever, but it is subtly different every time. Like fingerprints, or lip prints, or the flecks of colour in a person’s eyes. Or maybe it’s just me.

…I am a soppy ridiculous romantic. I don’t know how or when that happened. Must have been right around the time I started writing poetry.

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Prologue


So this is entirely raw. I looked at it, and my writing prof read it, but the rest of the story isn’t written so I don’t want to get into rewrites; that way lies madness through perfectionism. What’s the point of a perfect first chapter if there isn’t anything to follow it?

I’m gonna hammer this sucker out, then I’m headed to the grand opening of the second gay bar in my city. Maybe some of the small-town mentality will diminish with a gay hangout that isn’t hidden away in the skeezier side of town.

I’m still not solid on how to format this so it looks like the way I have it in my computer’s file, but whatever. Instead of indents, I’ll mark new paragraphs with an extra space. Here goes!

Chapter Zero
The Prologue, or an Introduction to Our Narrator

The colossal man stumbled along the sidewalk, eliciting strange looks and whispered comments. He resembled a primordial bear lumbering about on its hind legs, with a truly vile odour of rotten meat and sweat to match. His vacant stare, thick neck-beard and the aforementioned smell, combined with the impression he made of a mobile mountain, parted any crowds he happened to wander into.

 This is not the story of that man, thank goodness. I don’t quite know where I might fit in that guy’s story, aside from stuck underneath his foot if he stepped on me. I just saw him shambling past my building earlier while moving the last of my boxes into my dorm room. Definitely made a lasting impression, if you know what I mean. It took me a shot of the brandy Gramps stuck in my suitcase to clear my sinuses of that smell.

 Hi, my name is Emma Sinclair, and I’ll be your narrator for this journey into my first year of university. I’ll try to keep the commentary on things that don’t actually affect me, the people around me, or the story to a minimum, but I’m not noted for staying on track. What idiot said that ‘brevity is the soul of wit’ anyway? Because I’m pretty sure that guy wrote a three part play about some intermittently insane king no one has cared about since the seventeenth century.

 In any case, this is supposed to be my story, but will no doubt be occasionally hijacked by whoever I become friends with over this year. I sincerely hope I can keep out of Ocean’s way. She seems like the sort of queen bee that I detested in high school. Speaking of which, I suppose I ought to fill you in a bit on my life up to this point.

 Er. Basics? My parents are pretty normal people. My dad does something undoubtedly important at his job involving computers and snore-worthy things of that nature. My mom teaches six year-olds, and consequently assumes that her two children – my older brother Brandon and I – are just as incapable of tying our own shoes as the kids she works with day in, day out. This is entirely untrue, as I have been able to tie my own shoes properly since the second grade, I cook food for myself without burning it most of the time, and I haven’t been to the hospital since I finally escaped gym class in high school.

Okay, I should explain that last part more. Whoever thought up the bright idea to arm hormonal teenage girls with big sticks with nets on the ends and assume they’d use them exclusively for their sports-related intended purpose was ignorant to the true nature of teenage girls: they are vicious and competitive. They are also not above faking tears so the teacher looks the other way so that another one can whack a completely innocent person on the forearm ‘by accident trying to get the ball’. The fact that, earlier in the class, I may or may not have expressed doubt about that particular girl’s heritage being entirely human could have had something to do with it. In case you were wondering, calling someone’s mother a goat-banging skank and reminding them to wax their mustache-goatee combo will more than likely get your arm broken in any culture or language.

 In any case, I managed to graduate from high school with good enough grades to get to university. Thankfully, the combination of an actual college fund (bless my father’s frugal heart), a couple of scholarships and my ‘indentured servitude by another name’ part-time job meant that I didn’t have to borrow money from anyone to pay for this year, and potentially next year if I keep my marks up.

 After all, university doesn’t seem that hard so far. How bad can it be?

© Bridget Noonan, 2010, 2011.

Love it, hate it, improve it, destroy it: that’s your call, people of the intertubes.

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