Tag Archives: life

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.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

A herd of poems!


Look at them all gallivanting about this page. It’s enough to make you want to sing! Or dance! But mostly read!

I wrote a few of these in the college library. Can you tell?

But first, Sensational Haiku Wednesday‘s prompt: love.

toothpaste for dinner

Love Haiku

love is knowing the
words to say, right or wrong, and
when to be silent.

Cinquain #1

noisy
neighbours annoy
while security guards
watch over everywhere but
basement

Cinquain #2 – RSVP

they say
salvation through
christ only, heaven is
the goal. I feel I must reply:
decline.

Piku

the loathsome
din
muffles my thoughts

is that a
good
or a bad thing?

shut up please–
it’s
a library.

Haiku #1

heavy breather next
table over distracts me
can’t write a poem.

Haiku #2

murder is never
the answer, unless you’re the
villain in movies

Haiku #3 – Intolerance

Why do you hurt me,
dairy? Have I offended
you in some way? Why!

Shadorma #1

roses are
red, yes, but can be
white, pink, black,
yellow; since
my favourites are daisies
it doesn’t matter

Shadorma #2

just because
I hear voices, you
say I’m nuts.
the joke’s on
you; if I wasn’t crazy
you’d cease to exist.

Shadorma #3

handling
raw chicken scares me.
not because
of disease,
but the inescapable:
it, too, was alive.

all of these poems are of course © Bridget Noonan, 2012.

Wanna know what I don’t own? The song She’s a Rainbow by the Rolling Stones which has been stuck in my head all week. I think it’s the piano part. And the rainbows. I did buy that technicolour backpack-purse.
But if I get famous, and there’s a movie made of my life, I want this song to be playing over the falling in love at first sight with my future lady. Definitely have to make that shit happen.

…What? Like you don’t have a playlist of songs for the soundtrack to your life story.
If you say no, make one! It’s fun. That’s your homework for this weekend, ladies and gentlemen. Post it in the comments! I’d love to see it 😀

4 Comments

Filed under Poetry

Patience


Patience

My wonderful woman, or women–
I know not who you are,
The ones who will fill my life
With love’s truest light for a time.
But I can wait for our time.

I may meet you in the street,
A dark club, through my career,
Or some unforeseen event–
You will see my soul, and I yours.
We will touch, we will laugh,
And dance under moonless skies.
But I can wait for our time.

I am ready for your light in my life–
For your bright smile to turn my head.
I am patient.
I can wait for our time.

I am complete as I am now–
Your addition will make me more than
Myself, a better woman in all I do.
The thought of you makes my heart sing.
But I can wait for our time.

And when the hard times come,
Those trials and tests of our life,
We may pull together, or fall apart–
Devotion only takes us so far.
Still, I can wait for our time.

Whether our love comes slow,
Or burns as hot and fast as a match,
I will wait for our time to come.
But please don’t keep me waiting too long.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

Yep, I think that says it all.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

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?

3 Comments

Filed under Poetry

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.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

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.

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

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.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

June 22


This poem came out of a great night. From about one to two in the morning, there was a huge thunderstorm over my place. It was amazing. Haven’t done it justice, but this is as close as I could get. Nobody on the road, nobody out walking, just me communing with nature even in the city. Awesome.

June 22

Tonight,
The leaves are talking in their sleep
While raindrops soothe their slumber
And lightning promises vengeance
On the wind that disturbed them.

Now,
The storm begins in earnest
Thunder speaks in tongues over rooftops
Torrents of water drench the cracking pavement.

And I,
The weary traveller, crouch
In narrow doorways to watch
The many-textured sky split
By light, by sound, in solitude.

Life-
This is feeling alive!
In the midst of summer’s first downpour
I breathe raindrops, wet earth and thunder
My heartbeat the only reminder
That I am not cloud, or water, or earth
Or the tumultuous sky above.

Once more,
My page is lit by blue flashes
As I shield my notebook from the rain
And wonder at the fierce beauty around me.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Sorry I haven’t been around much. Stuff going on. Life happens.

4 Comments

Filed under Poetry

The Ghosts of You and I


I liked the idea of the piku form when I saw it on Amy‘s blog, so that is today’s experiment. Let me know how I did.

The Ghosts of You and I

the ghost of
me
asked your ghost which

body to
choose
upon return

to this earth.
it
smiled and said not

to worry;
we
will find ourselves.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

8 Comments

Filed under Poetry

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.

7 Comments

Filed under Poetry