Tag Archives: blood

Sonnet of Pain

Confession time? When I wrote this, I kind of forgot how the structure of a Shakespearean sonnet was supposed to go. It’s ababcdcdefefgg, rather than abbacddceffegg- oops? I think I got it confused with the Petrarchan kind too, abbaabbacdecde. Messy, messy brain. Don’t even get me started on Spenserian sonnets. Jeez. 14 lines, 140 syllables, way too many ways to organize that nonsense.

Sonnet of Pain

Pain in my joints comes and goes like the tide
It swells and jabs at me, icy and burning
There is no relief with seasons changing
No calm sanctuary where I can hide.
A symphony of suffering for me
The rising and falling of storm-tossed waves
No blissful unconsciousness for me saves
From thundering blistering agony.
The crescendo builds, the water rises
Kettledrums in my bones and in my blood
I cannot keep my head above the flood
When all my joints are trapped in vises.
The symphony ends, the waters recede,
But pain never stops as soon as I need.

(C) Bridget Noonan, 2011, 2012.

The transition from autumn to winter was hard here. It went from mild to omg-wtf-it’sfreezing. This came out of that.



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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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Again, I wrote this for the writing contest, so here goes.


For my devoted, demented, friendly and ferocious feline.

Grey fur dots your tuxedo black,
And in your jaw some teeth you lack;
Clear evidence of the years we lived.

The blood I bled, the hairs you shed;
Hours spent in contemplative silence,
Or racing haphazardly upstairs and down
Chasing a dream of personal fitness–
Both grown slightly rounder about the middle.

Those glares you shoot my way to say
How utterly foolish I have been,
Or when you head-butt my hand to demand
That I resume scratching your chin.

Your green eyes, the curve of your tail–
You are the reason I come home each night;
Our greetings at the door are ecstatic
And other times so restrained, polite.

You are my constant companion,
Unconditionally and unreservedly loving.
You are playful, solemn, irritable, comforting,
And above all else, feline.

There is never enough time in the day
For lazy hours spent in sunshine
Me with my book, you in my lap,
And the habitual cup of tea–
Must you always steal a taste?–

This is the peace I sought so long,
This is finding a home at last;
This is all the company we ever need.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011, 2012.

I don’t like to admit it, but I am occasionally sloppily sentimental. I would prefer to be pragmatic, rational, and unfettered by extreme emotional responses, but that is simply not in the cards.

That said, I am unashamed of my love for my dearest pet Lacey. She is still one of my best friends, and certainly one of my oldest, considering she was born in 1999 and that’s when we met. Smug mad bastard cat is sitting on my lap purring her face off right now, actually. And I love it. I love that she’s conniving, and that she’s rather misanthropic (well, she doesn’t just dislike humans, more like all creatures that walk this earth), and I love that, like most cats, she’s kind of a dick to everyone even if she happens to like you (so rare for Lacey, see above comment on misanthropy). I love that I’m the only one who gets to pet her belly, and I’m pretty sure it’s because she’s self-conscious about getting a bit fat. I love that she just doesn’t give a shit about sleeping all day- so long as she gets her breakfast at 5:30am and her 9pm snack, she’s cool with whatever.
Above all, I love that she chose me to be her person.

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The Surgeon

So sorry! I’m a bit late to the party again  as far as Three Word Wednesday goes this week. Grip, prefer and thread are my words.

Now for a cinquain!

The Surgeon

I grip
needle and thread
while the nurse I prefer
with a steady hand takes care of
the blood

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.


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Perhaps I ought to start with a definition, just to make things perfectly clear.

wanderlust n.
a strong, innate desire to rove or travel about.

And now, the poem itself. It is posted to One Single Impression, for this week’s prompt rambling.


the wail of harmonica and voice
reminds my ear of a lonesome train
limping along barren rails to nowhere
and so wanderlust grips at me,
drags me by my feet into the world.
I ride the kilometres from
Waterloo to Peterborough,
Lake Ontario to Lake Simcoe
and before me I see blurred lights
the tail lights that stretch from here
to infinity; each one of them chasing
the next hour, next kilometre, next pit stop.
will this longing ever end?
can I be satisfied not knowing
what town or vista lies over these hills,
where the end of this road lies?
I am limited only by the gas in my tank,
and the money in my pocket.

the dust of a thousand days
clings to my worn shoes, while
I trudge on top of this busy road.
the rhythm of life: wheels spinning,
children playing, and dogs barking.
and I, weary traveller, pass through-
a shadow on the stone, nothing more.
my broken-down car lies behind me as
I gaze at the stars in the sky,
the burnt out pixels on a dark screen.
the only peaceful thing is to look up to
tiny points of light while the frantic pace
of night whizzes all around me.

this is my blood spilled across these pages,
my mind blown like a tumbleweed
along the empty miles between
myself and this empty chased feeling.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

I cannot tell you how much Elliott Smith has influenced my life. And by extension my poetry. If you have struggled, he has a song that feels like he ripped it out of your mind and put beautiful and heartbreaking music to it.

If you want to feel this poem fully, listen to the Decemberists do his song Clementine. It’s from an album of songs, made as a tribute to E. S.’s music. And if you put it first on a mix CD of driving music for roving far from home, think of me when you listen to it. I’m probably on the road with you.

I was going to post a silly freestyle rap thing I wrote at work today with/for a girl I work with, but I was feeling melancholy, and definitely had itchy feet. Maybe tomorrow.

do you miss me, Miss Misery, like you say you do?

EDIT: This has also been posted to Poets United.


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The Taste of Blood

First of all, I’d like to say that watching Mumford and Sons on the live YouTube feed was… indescribable. Lost for words, I am. (also I am apparently Yoda today?) I am in love with this interconnected network of awesome that allowed me to be here in the comfort of my own home and yet be watching one of my favourite bands perform live thousands of kilometres away. ❤

Secondly, I have another poem for you, dearest internet. It has to do with love, but not the same boundless stirring love that I feel for music.
“Always this ridiculous obsession with love!”
Yeah, here goes.

The Taste of Blood

I remember
The taste of blood on my tongue as you told me you were leaving. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, to halt the flood of accusations that threatened to burst forth.

I warned
That I would fall hard for you; this was not some foolish infatuation. I asked for one last kiss before you left me with the door half-open. You shook your head.

I begged
With my eyes as you stepped backward, bag on your shoulder and sleep folded on your face. Your resigned sigh cut through me, and I pressed you into the wall with my body.

You whispered
That this was never meant to go so far. The corners of your eyes were red. We turned to look as your friend honked her horn, and I saw the indecision in your face. I reached up on tiptoes.

I remember
The taste of blood salt coffee gum nicotine whiskey, and you. Your bag hit the floor when you cradled my head. My hand on your cheek, the other on your heart, both pleading for mercy.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Well, that was fun. Time to go do… something else. I don’t know. Maybe sleep. Maybe not. Definitely something mindless for a bit though. Because I still don’t really know what that just was, or where it came from, and I’ve been working on it for a couple weeks.

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