Tag Archives: beauty

Grace


I like dictionaries. Confession time: I used to read our home dictionary for fun as a kid. Just picked a random spot and pored over it for hours at a time. I’m sure you’re surprised by my love of words. ūüėõ

I have been thinking a lot about a particular word this week, thanks to Mumford and Sons’ song Roll Away Your Stone. So many meanings attached to it. Many emotions as well. I chose a couple to put here; the complete definition I found is quite long, and can be found here. Words are fascinating!

grace –n.

1. elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion or action;
3. favour or goodwill;
5. mercy; clemency; pardon;
9. moral strength;
12. The Graces, from Classical Mythology: known as the Charites to the Greeks, and as the Gratiae to the Romans.

Now, a poem for my lovely readers.

Grace

Floating elegance on tender wings
Takes my breath away, and yet
Bestows upon my sails a mighty wind,
Sends me reeling into open water.

I beg forgiveness for my scrutiny-
My eyes are unwilling to depart
From you: your easy manner, your
Favourable countenance, and long-limbed

Grace. You are Terpsichore,
Euterpe, and Erato
 combined;
What a muse I find in you!
Such delight in all I see.

You inspire the best in me, help me
To melt my thoughts and pour them
Into molds of honour, loyalty, truth:
With you, I am more than I thought I could be.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

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In the Violet Hour


Another from the bunch of ones I sent out for the contest. The last one of the four, actually.

In the Violet Hour

In the violet hour of evening,
When clouds twist their last
Reaching upward and outward
To grasp a waiting eye,
I watch for your face in the dimness,
Back-lit with an orange glow;
Come find me but don’t
Touch my skin with your fire
Your heat and your tenderness
Will be my undoing.

Our lonely quiet demands
To be filled with talk or song,
But we sit here side by side
In the emptiness of the world
Separated by a mere two feet–
A veritable ocean of space
Where sharks glide slowly,
Whipping their angular fins
Agitated by the scent of our fear,
Intent on their prey.

A terrible beauty, to be sure,
Intimidation wars with open awe
But it is not the vessel that captures
My eye across a crowded room,
Or gives solace on long evenings
After long days such as these;
It is that which is within the vessel,
The substance of things hoped for
And the evidence of the unseen:
You wear it well.

Or rather you bear it well,
The weight of the unanswered
And things left unburied in heaps;
Kindly brushing dirt out of my hair
As I rise from damp ground again,
Another corpse from the undertaker.
Unearthing my body takes time,
And you know well my patience
Resembles that of a famished animal
Confronted by a meal.

In spite of my varied defects
Of personality and emotion,
You stand by my side always
Leaping over my distances like puddles,
Rooting through my corpses–
Bloated, pockmarked, and filthy–
To find live creatures among them
Those that thrive on my necrotic tissues.
How can I cherish myself like you do;
Why do you linger?

When, like the animal that dwells within,
I bite at fingers outstretched to me,
Foaming with anger at the presumption
Of offered assistance or perceived pity.
So keep our weary silence sprawled
Between us on this wooden park bench;
Our communications are best held
Without words and without touch.
Our shared glances and the bond we share
Must be enough to sustain us.

Yet how do we feed the hunger inside?
It seems only the dead have voices,
Their songs are dirges, and doleful laments
Dedicated to past struggles ring out.
This cannot be our destiny to sit and wait
For the heat death of the universe,
In mourning for all that we have done,
And all that we have failed to do,
While time ticks slowly onward
Grinding us down to our bones.

This bench is my purgatory since
We are not sinners but I have sinned–
Joyfully, delightedly, merrily transgressed–
Against some idea of a higher power
That belonged to someone else
In another time and a far-off place
And its echoes fall on our deaf ears;
I renounce it and its hold on my life
While we deal out silent phrases
On our faces in the dim.

It will not be borne! I cannot bear
To repeat, to run along the same ground,
To die every night and bury myself
In the comforting earth and forget
Lessons learned each afternoon,
Or happiness I have rejoiced in
With you, dearest muse, and the others
My chosen home and family.
I must cross the ocean, sharks be damned,
To reach back to you at last.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011, 2012.

All four of these poems are ones that I left parts of myself inside. I hope you have enjoyed them.

Sometimes, this sort of thing just happens. A thing which is too real has to be wrapped up in more words than I thought I had. To post it is to display a bit of my deeper feelings, which is …difficult. I have worked very hard to be able to be halfway comfortable feeling vulnerable in any way.

And it is more than a bit silly to be concerned about that now, because I was prepared to have a magazine -which is internationally sold- publish these four works. Then again, most of the people who would read that don’t know me personally.¬†

“What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see 

Them unwrap me hand and foot–
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.”
Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath.

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June 22


This poem came out of a great night. From about one to two in the morning, there was a huge thunderstorm over my place. It was amazing. Haven’t done it justice, but this is as close as I could get. Nobody on the road, nobody out walking, just me communing with nature even in the city. Awesome.

June 22

Tonight,
The leaves are talking in their sleep
While raindrops soothe their slumber
And lightning promises vengeance
On the wind that disturbed them.

Now,
The storm begins in earnest
Thunder speaks in tongues over rooftops
Torrents of water drench the cracking pavement.

And I,
The weary traveller, crouch
In narrow doorways to watch
The many-textured sky split
By light, by sound, in solitude.

Life-
This is feeling alive!
In the midst of summer’s first downpour
I breathe raindrops, wet earth and thunder
My heartbeat the only reminder
That I am not cloud, or water, or earth
Or the tumultuous sky above.

Once more,
My page is lit by blue flashes
As I shield my notebook from the rain
And wonder at the fierce beauty around me.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Sorry I haven’t been around much. Stuff going on. Life happens.

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Bare


I had a crazy productive night. I was going to return my (sliiiightly overdue) library books, but then I saw the moon, and my good intentions went down the tubes. Cruised down to the lake to watch the moonlight dance on the water. Then I decided to go find a quiet stretch of ditch to park in far out of the city limits, where the world still smells alive and the crickets sang.

I needed it- needed to get away from people and their noise.

So I had to write a piku-style thingy, among other things that need a bit of spit ‘n’ polish before going up here.

Bare

we are bare,
full
of the moonlight;

we will dance
bare
in the water,

this empty
beach
our sweet escape.

night swimmers
dive,
silent and sure.

full moon night
hides
nothing from us

we swim, bare,
bathed
in healing light,

fearing no
thing
in the darkness

as long as
we
are together.

weightless, we
kiss
never fragile

hesitant?
no.
full moon watches

over us
while
we splash and laugh.

our steady
hands
on warm bodies

floating out
deep
abiding love

we are bare,
brave
women in love.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

You think I’m romantic now, just wait until I find a lady to write for/about. Jeez.

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Fibonacci Sequence


I don’t know if all of you know this, but I’m kiiiind of a nerd. That poem I wrote, Subatomic Love, might have clued you in. Or parts of In Daddy’s Genes.¬†I like comic books, video games, Dungeons and Dragons, fantasy and science fiction (it’s SF not sci-fi! haha) in all their various forms like movies novels poetry music art whatever, science of many varieties, and mathematics.¬†This is relevant to poetry, I promise.
In fact, it has been argued that writing itself is a nerdy sort of thing. If that’s true then I never want to be cool. But back to what I was saying.

So, if you know a bit about mathematical concepts, you’re probably familiar with Fibonacci’s sequence. Start with 0 and 1, and you add the second number to the sum of the preceding pair. Like, 0+1 = 1, so the sum of the pair is 1 and the second number is 1. Therefore your next pair is 1 and 1. 1+1=2, then 1+2=3, so 2+3=5, then 3+5=8, then 5+8=13, and on into infinity. 0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55… It’s also a neat way to approximate the golden ratio (works best with the higher numbers, because 8/5=1.60000, but 55/34=1.617647, and then 89/55=1.61818, where the golden ratio is 1.61803, so you can get pretty close if you don’t need a lot of digits), if you’re into irrational¬†numbers. I’m pretty fond of pi. And pie. Mmm, now I want fudge. But ignore that, I’m just hungry :P. Again, this is relevant, aside from the commentary on food.

What it boils down to is that I was bored at work, thinking about numbers and how wonderful they are, when inspiration fell out of the sky like an Acme anvil in a Looney Tunes cartoon.
The Fibonacci sequence is all whole numbers, right? So I can use it for poetry form.

For example, you can use the first bunch of numbers as your limits on words or syllables per line:

(for the purposes of poetry, I feel comfortable omitting the zero in my count)
Fibonacci Poetry #1 

warmth (1)
brings (1)
croci (2)
peeking out (3)
from beneath the snow, (5)
thriving while the world is asleep; (8)
Eliot was so wrong about April’s cruelty. (13)

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Or, you can get a little crazy with it. I was thinking about symmetry and palindromes as well, which is what I worked into this one. I work retail; if I don’t exercise my brain regularly, I’ll become another automaton going through the motions of life, and I’m way too young to give up, to no longer want “to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life”. Fuck that, I’m here, and I live deliberately. Regret is for other people.
So here’s another thing I was doodling between customers. Words this time, rather than syllables. I thought I’d give both a shot.

Fibonacci Poetry #2

help! (1)
your (1)
beauty is (2)
suffocating in its (3)
intensity; I can’t breathe in (5)
or out unless (3)
I close (2)
my (1)
eyes. (1)

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Whaddaya think? It’s probably not a new idea, but I like it. I’m probably going to write some more like this, because math is fun.

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Ink


It’s poem time again, ladies and gents.
Because it’s waaaaay past the witching hour, and coincidentally way past what a reasonable person would assume to be bedtime. But I don’t work tomorrow, so fuckit. Poem!

Ink

I will write my spirit on my skin
In black or colourful ink,
Anticipating the needle’s buzz,
Not dreading the stinging bite-
Waiting is the hardest part.

I have planned my tattoos
More meticulously than any poem.
Felines, bumblebee, birds and fantasy,
This ink will tell my tale far better
Than I can with pen and paper.

I will paint my skin from neck to ankle,
A mobile canvas to wear proudly
No matter what the weather in my mind.
The phrase may be trite, but true:
Such beauty is worth the pain.

©¬†Bridget Noonan, 2009, 2011.

I think it needs more. There’s at least one stanza that’s hiding on me, and I want it to come out and play. Alas, it’s shy. Plus, the last two lines feel a bit rushed. Thoughts, anyone? I’m wide open for constructive criticism.

Also I need to take some photos of my ink. Unless no one’s interested in seeing my tattoos? ūüėõ
(Heck even if you’re not, when I get around to it, I’ll probably add a couple tattoo photos to my “about me” little blurb. So there!)

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