Tag Archives: death

Battle-Cry


I love finding these gems hidden in my notebooks. Enjoy!

Battle-Cry

I am no one’s wife
I am no one’s mother
I am a woman
Independent and true.

I am someone’s daughter
I am someone’s sister
I am a goddess
Patient and strong.

I am the leaves and the trees
I am the ocean, the breeze
I am rooted in the earth
Boundless and lush.

I am the bear in the cave
I am the bird in the nest
I am one with all things
Loyal and fierce.

I ebb with the tides
I change with the seasons
I grow, I die, and I am reborn
And I will never be silenced.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

Rather belated edit, upon reflection on the topic:
I’m not exactly a wilting flower when it comes to equitable treatment regardless of race, sex, gender, species (with the possible exception of mosquitoes, because they’re bloodsucking terrors), social class, differences in ability whether mental physical or whatever, religion… Whatever you choose, or chose you, is yours, and I celebrate it -so long as you aren’t denying others their right to express themselves as well, or causing harm.

In the case of this poem, I guess you could say “I celebrate myself, and sing myself”, in the words of Whitman. It’s no secret that I love being a woman, and that I revere nature’s beauty.
I guess this came from a desire for women to speak, to yell, to raise their voices high in celebration of who we are, and what that means to us.
We are more than pretty faces, or shapely bodies, or the babies we bear, or the clothes that we wear.

Never having been a man, or a boy, I don’t know their experience of our culture as it stands now; I can’t comment accurately on the male condition. I know how difficult it is for a woman to get paid the same amount as a man for the exact same work. I know how hard it is to be taken seriously because ‘you don’t understand how the world works’. I also know how few people realize that sexual assault happens to men as well as women. It is a constant battle for us as humans to fly free from the restrictions of what is acceptable and what we have put up with for far too long.

So I guess I’m asking you to make little changes to your day. I’m asking you to remind yourself that you are worthy of love, and that you are valuable as yourself. I’m asking you to think harder, to speak out when you see injustice, and to reach out to others. After all, your thoughts become your words. Your words become your actions. Your actions become your habits. Your habits become your character. I’m not so sure about destiny or fate, but certainly who you are shapes what comes your way.

And fuck ‘the way the world works’. I don’t accept that, so I’m changing myself in order to change this world.

Who’s with me?

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Haiku time!


I wish I knew how
to coax out a good haiku
but they won’t bloom here.

Yes, it’s that time again- time for a series of haiku poems. You know you love it.

seasons

1.
if I could stop now
our summer would never end
but time continues

2.
autumn brings colour
heralds the death of the year
and the end of us

3.
snow falls softly now
returns me to a blank slate
winter at its best

4.
fresh green shoots spring forth
from their mother’s warm embrace
I begin again.

© 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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There is a Ghost


Hey fellas! I’m ba-aack…

Well, this one certainly got dug out of the deepest part of the archives! I wrote this so long ago. I was in such a different place, physically mentally emotionally spiritually grammatically… It was very loosely based on things in my brain. You know how they rattle around in there sometimes. Oh university. How things have changed!

There is a Ghost

There is a ghost who walks the streets
He does not laugh, he does not weep
Nor dance or sing, or anything
But blows across this empty town.

You see him here, you see him there
You see his walk, you see his stare
And not a sound you hear him make
And yet he haunts you just the same.

There is a ghost inside the house
Creeping quietly through the crack
Around the door, across the floor
And windows that are cold and black.

You see he was a quiet boy
Who knew no laughter and no joy
He casts no shadow on the floor
He casts no shadow through the door.

Instead he haunts your tired mind
Flitting image, fleeting horror
Smoky, seated at your bedside
No expression, hands intertwined.

You do not know his sorry tale
His woes, his fears or lively brain
His hair was bright, his eyes were dull
Secrets dogged his waking nightmare.

There is a ghost beside your door
But do not worry anymore
He comes to bring you to your sleep
Go with him now; your time has come.

© Bridget Noonan, 2007, 2011.

Well that was wonderfully weird!

You know, I must be truthful; I took the time off to give my brain a break. Summer is a great time to read a boatload of books.  I didn’t write much, aside from character sheets and things for my novel, which is still untitled. I’m not concerned. It’ll come to me when it comes, and not before.

Excerpt of what may be part of my novel coming up.

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