Tag Archives: light

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.

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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.

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Words of Love


I’m on a roll! Check it.

Words of Love

Carve your words into my skin
Let your scent seep into my bones
Your voice sings in my ears
And the light of your spirit sears my eyes.

So everywhere I go, I carry you;
Every time I dream you are there;
And every time I turn around,
It’s your face I hope to see.

Unleash your endless laugh,
I feel its echoes across the miles.
Your eyes shining with happiness
Light my way back to your arms.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

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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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Opportunity


Sunday Scribblings is the inspiration for this one. Keyword is opportunity. So I decided to use that as my title, and go from there.

Opportunity

Pressed against the glass
Pounding my fists in denial
This can’t be this can’t be this can’t
It’s just my luck, to be
Captured by my arch-nemesis
And he has just released the dogs.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

A good opportunity for the villain to maybe win against the hero in this one eh?

I find it so quaint when people think decisions are good or evil, black or white (unless the question is “which chess pieces do you wanna use?”, then it’s legit), light or dark, whatever you want to call it.

I live in the shades of grey. And I don’t want to be bound by other people’s morality.
I’m a staunch left-wing liberal lesbian socialist Canadian… who works for an appallingly bloated American business not known for their tolerance that’s sucking money from my country. Then again, it is just a part-time job, but there are some who have said that I am compromising my personal integrity. To which I say, I know exactly how this company treats the employees, but if  I don’t work, I don’t eat, and there’s a thing called Maslow’s hierarchy of needs that you should look into if you have a problem with that.

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Bare


I had a crazy productive night. I was going to return my (sliiiightly overdue) library books, but then I saw the moon, and my good intentions went down the tubes. Cruised down to the lake to watch the moonlight dance on the water. Then I decided to go find a quiet stretch of ditch to park in far out of the city limits, where the world still smells alive and the crickets sang.

I needed it- needed to get away from people and their noise.

So I had to write a piku-style thingy, among other things that need a bit of spit ‘n’ polish before going up here.

Bare

we are bare,
full
of the moonlight;

we will dance
bare
in the water,

this empty
beach
our sweet escape.

night swimmers
dive,
silent and sure.

full moon night
hides
nothing from us

we swim, bare,
bathed
in healing light,

fearing no
thing
in the darkness

as long as
we
are together.

weightless, we
kiss
never fragile

hesitant?
no.
full moon watches

over us
while
we splash and laugh.

our steady
hands
on warm bodies

floating out
deep
abiding love

we are bare,
brave
women in love.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

You think I’m romantic now, just wait until I find a lady to write for/about. Jeez.

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Three Word Wednesday Two-Fer


I thought I might mess around with that Fibonacci thing I did before. Since I spaced on last week‘s Three Word Wednesday, I figured, why not do both this week? Last week was erratic, luminous, and omen, and this week is alter, fond and tranquil.

Also, these might be a bit weird; I have Baba O’Riley by the Who stuck in my head, and I’m not sure if that’s related to the weird. It’s a good song, don’t get me wrong, but I’m usually more for Led Zeppelin than the Who.

Bottom of the Ocean

watch
out
for the
luminous
bait of the fearsome
anglerfish-  soothing light luring
its erratic  prey closer to the jaws of their doom.
it’s tough living at the bottom
of the ocean; see
omen of
rising
sea
heights.

© Bridget Noonan, 2o11.

Shakespeare Said It Best

Love allows no impediment to it,
Alters not with the changing winds. Instead,
It flows like rain from the heavens, collects
In our hearts, overflows in everything
We do.  Love is the bright sun in the sky,
Warming the seeds of fondness in this earth.
Turbulent seas calm in the face of love,
Stifling afternoons fade to tranquil nights.

© Bridget Noonan, 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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Inside the Mind, Beyond the Stars


Well, this is no stranger than anything else I’ve posted this week. And I rather like it.

Inside the Mind, Beyond the Stars

The other night, I took a canoe trip
Through the Milky Way. My companions were
A Fox made of red flame, and a Spider’s laugh.
A journey with neither beginning nor end,
We paddled over shimmering green fields
Where deer leapt over clear waters, and
Wildflowers waved in our wake.
We travelled over great seas, the waters
Deep blue-black, a mirror of the sky.
A journey apart from time and space as I knew it;
I met an infinite variety of faces, and souls,
None of them strangers to my eye upon first meeting.
They live in me, and I in them, in that stream
Of brilliant stars. I could only stare in wonder
As parts of me danced in starlight, or ran
With the deer as I paddled ever onward.
The fox stood in the bow of my craft,
Eyes reflecting millions of points of light.
I steered past gates of silver and gold,
Entrances to hundreds of new worlds, and
I wondered where my destination could lie.
As soon as I thought it, the spider whispered
That I could go anywhere, be anything,
In this place. So I cast aside my paddle,
Launched out of my canoe, and soared
In the likeness of a bird. The fox smiled,
And with a flick of his tail winked out of my sight.
What rapture, flight! I spiralled up and out,
Earthbound no more, and knew in that moment
That I was in every thing, and in no thing;
In all points of light, and the enveloping darkness.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

I’m working on a bout-rime right now; it’s not going as well as I had hoped. Dammit, what masochist decided that sonnets had to be so structured?

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