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.
Afternoon in Winter
Winter: the season for hibernation,
Slowing the heartbeat and metabolism;
A time of early darkness and forgetting.
A torpid season for creatures —
Pudgy black squirrel scrabbles leadenly,
So small when projected against the grim sky.
It seems much easier to forget when
Cold death blankets what lived, and
Ice shrouds windows and walkways.
Now is the time to reflect on the weeks
And the seasons which have passed me by,
Most of which I would prefer to
© Bridget Noonan, 2009, 2012.
This was a weird poem that I had intended to be from the point of view of a tree in the winter, but I cut or changed pretty much all the parts that referenced it, so now I sound like I need a hug.
Most of you probably know this, but I am Canadian.
I like being polite to strangers until they piss me off, I like when the Mounties get their man (or woman), I think igloos are awesome and I wish I could build one each winter (but there’s never enough snow or ice where I live!), I like maple syrup a bit more than is strictly healthy, and I think the music that comes from my country is pretty rockin’ (though two notable exceptions spring to mind: J. Beibs, and Nickelback. Nobody’s perfect, not even Canada).
I think what is best known about my country (that’s actually true anyway) is our near-rabid enduring love of ice- and snow-based sports. They’re not for everyone, but I must say if you’ve never played a game of street hockey and had to yell “CAR!” and move the nets/net substitutes out of the way, you haven’t lived.
This poem is about the kids that get out there on the ice and have fun.
The Canadian Pastime
The smell of chlorine permeates
Every room, every corridor,
While the cacophony rises from
The vast sheet of ice.
Children swarming like bumblebees
Slipping, falling, chasing.
At once, a shot! And both teams
End in a heap in one net;
Each player their own goal,
The puck nowhere in sight.
© Bridget Noonan, 2012.
Also, I will try to keep to a schedule of posting Tuesdays and Fridays. Who knows how long that’ll last. 😛