Tag Archives: god

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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A Good Man


This is my offering for Three Word Wednesday. The words are skid, damp and incensed.

A Good Man

The altar was lit and incensed
As the believers trudged
Through double doors,
Damp footsteps on the floors.

Though the leader was nowhere
To be found! Normally there
To greet the flock coming in,
He’s never late to begin.

While the mass of people wonder,
They hear the clatter like thunder
As their priest comes skidding
Into the church, robes dripping.

And so, despite his late start,
The people hold him in their heart
As he speaks the word of their god
They try to follow, not to nod

Off to sleep this early morning
And disappoint him, yawning.
In his homily he wants to relate
Exactly why he was a little late

But he knows his congregation
Isn’t much for congratulation
Even though he rescued three ducklings
Lost and alone from making crossings

From one side of the street to
The next again, looking for who
Could be their mother or father; and now
He takes care of three wee ducks, how?

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Well, that was very silly, but kind of nice. Needs work, as usual, but I’m okay with that. I’ll let it stew for a couple months, then bust it out again.

EDIT: I have also posted it on Sunday Scribblings.

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Leaving Eden


I was at the library earlier -you know, my natural habitat- and I brought along a bit of work to do as well. Because let’s face it, if I get too far from a pen and paper, I get hives :).

I wrote this originally for a poetry contest for The New Quarterly in January-ish. It didn’t make the cut of the poems that I sent in, though. I won’t hear back until August about the contest, but I remain hopeful that I’ll get in. Winning the first contest I enter would be insane. It’d be the squeal of joy heard around the world, I think. At least, the small part of the world that reads my blog, hee hee.

In any case, poem!

leaving eden

snakes and burning were all
all i could remember as we left-
at least that’s what i told him-
sweet juice flowed down our chins
but the look in the One’s eyes oh it froze me
such betrayal such pain and the anger
some resentment will never end
a permanent exile away from the One
ceremoniously evicted from my own home
never to hear the voice to see the eyes
punished evermore for one mistake!
were we not created to be curious
to explore and to learn and to live
he hates me though he says no
“no it’s not your fault” convincing
neither of us that he believes it
grief in the face of this loss is understandable
but to lash out at me! who else
who else has stayed always by his side
loyal to the end putting herself second
the afterthought a bit of rib bone
never complains about her lot in life
i almost believe him when he says
the One is a man except i know
much much better than he does
that a woman’s anger burns long
and she may rage silently for ages
until the right moment appears
then she will devastate her opponent
while so disappointed in them
for letting her down this way.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

I don’t like the word opponent in the third-to-last line, but I can’t think of a better one. My vocabulary and my thesaurus have failed me once again.

So, how did I do, aside from that instance of poor word choice? Hit me with your best shot, people. I crave constructive criticism. And alliteration, apparently.

Um, so this song –White Blank Page by Mumford and Sons– is my addiction of the day. You, the people of the internets, seriously need to own this CD. I don’t often truly love every song on an album, but this is one of the few that doesn’t stop the glorious sounds.
Also Adele’s song Rolling in the Deep kicks major butt, while I’m recommending music.

I’m normally one who likes “music for old people”, as a friend put it. Hey, just because the Beatles broke up before I was born doesn’t mean it’s music for dead people- they are still relevant, and awesome. And like, Lead Belly et al are the precursor of modern rock and roll. If there were no jazz, no big band, no blues, there would be no rock or metal or punk or electronica or whatever the kids are listening to today :P. The face of modern music as we know it would be totally different.

And what is music? Just poetry in another form.

Art is beautiful.

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fake it ’til you make it


I just realized that I hadn’t posted anything in days. Thought I’d fix that. Kinda sorta fucked-up tired right now, but the poem is supposed to look like that, with the lack of caps and such. I think I was going for some post-modern lack-of-form. I remain unsatisfied, but I’ll do… something to it, later. Whatever. Tired. Poem.

fake it ’til you make it

i’ll fake it and fake
until i make it all make
some sort of sense

maybe there’s a god and
maybe the end of the road is
just as unattainable

the booze and the drugs
the lies and the stiff hugs
are no way to fix it

so i’ll fake it and fake
a smile a laugh a tear
just don’t touch me

you’ll shatter me i’ll break
into a dozen half-told truths or
a green glass bottle

the best way to confidence
is to fake it and fake it until
there is no doubt

i’m faking it until
i make it

© Bridget Noonan, 2009, 2011.

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