Tag Archives: day

The Mask, or, Eleanor Rigby


This is so unpolished, but I’m posting it anyway. Clearly and obviously inspired by the song by the Beatles.

The Mask, or, Eleanor Rigby

I wear the face I keep
By the door in a jar
For everyone I meet;
The face of happiness,
A lie I must tell to
The faceless crowds of fools.
Eleanor Rigby’s face
That of a woman, false,
Is still my fate to wear
To everyone I see,
Never knowing my truth-
The face behind the face
In a jar by the door
To try on, to hide with,
To lie and lie and lie.
My faults and true feelings
Hidden behind such a mask,
The guise of day to day
Living; such deceit takes
Its toll- my mask has holes,
Pitted with age and war,
Worn far before its time
Wrinkled with the cares of
An older self. I must
Rebuild my public face
To stand the scrutiny
Of everyone I meet.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Important announcement coming in July.

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Echoes of Life


This is an odd little form whose name I do not know: 7-5-7-7-7-5, and all the seven syllable lines rhyme, and both of the five syllable lines rhyme. If you’d like an example, see Sorrow by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Or read the poem I just wrote.

Echoes of Life

Echoes of life linger here;
They won’t wash away.
In this house they catch my ear,
In the hall they draw out fear,
My breath catches with a tear;
I don’t want to stay.

My childhood life lingers here,
Memories of gray.
Traces of my yesteryear,
Ghosts of the past crowd so near,
I can see them all too clear
In the light of day.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

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Monday’s Child


Monday’s Child

The first day of the week was not my cup
Of tea, before. Monday meant school, bullies,
And the end of sleeping in on weekends.
Now I take the day for me, rarely work.

This child of Monday is average of face,
Though quick with a pen, and quick to anger.
Monday’s child isn’t always on the ball:
Forgets the big stuff, and sweats all the small.

Mondays are not the chore they were, before;
A day can be a day without worry.
Perhaps Monday’s child can borrow grace from
Tuesday while she goes through the working week.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

In case you were wondering, the whole Monday’s child thing came from this poem. It’s super old, but it’s interesting that people think that they’ll fit into these quaint little boxes.

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child born on the Sabbath day
Is fair and wise and good in every way.

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Discovery


This is something I worked on a while ago. Just dug it out and dusted ‘er off, added and deleted a couple things. After my last couple depressing posts, I thought something a little more uplifting was in order.

Discovery

In the days before,
I thought as a child
I lived as a child
I burned as a child must do.

In the nights before,
I fought as a child
I wept as a child
I hid as a child must do.

A great mist has settled
A greying cat purring, nestled
Around the dying world of darkness
To shroud any way to wisdom,
Any knowledge through pain, to the true self.

The clouds are parting
A hand beckons, insistent and kind
The fog begins to melt away.
Artists must always know truth
Perhaps the night may end.

© Bridget Noonan, 2009, 2011.

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Wanderlust


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.

Wanderlust

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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