Tag Archives: mind

White Noise

This was an experiment with onomatopoeia.

White Noise

crackle crackle hisss
rustle buzzzz whirr
grind hiss pop! whistle
crinkle crackle whine
whoooshh fizzle hummmm

hear the setting sun
the scorched forgotten dinner cooking
and the colour of the undisturbed snow–
what do you hear when you close your eyes?

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

Have you ever just sat and listened to nothing? In a house, there’s all these little noises you don’t notice until no one is moving, or talking, or anything. It helps to have no one home, and turn off all the radios and televisions and all that other crap. Try it. It’s kind of neat. Even better to try it if you don’t live on a main road- then the car and city sounds won’t intrude. It’s hard for me to get peace here between the bus stop behind my house; living in a decent sized city; living with my mom, step-father, brother, uncle, his dog, and my cat; cell phones always going off… No wonder I meditate daily- I’d go batty without a calm half hour or so a day to centre myself.


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Found Poetry: Is it Beginning?

Okay, so found poetry is cool.

I thought I’d give it a go, using the lyrics of the Beatles song Tomorrow Never Knows. Because I am a huge Beatles nerd, and it was playing while I pondered scouring my bookshelves for something to cobble together. Maybe it is more coincidence than design.

Also, this is harder to do than it looks.

Is it Beginning?

It is all play:
Existence is the game;
Hate and love and ignorance;
Beginning, end; Living, dead.

May you see meaning within
The shining thought,
The knowing void.

Float downstream,
Not dying, not being,
Knowing everyone.

Relax. It is not surrender.
Turn down your mind,
Mourn the dying, and
Love the living.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

I don’t know how anyone else does it, but a pencil and a pad of paper seem to work wonders with this sort of thing- one page with the original work, one with your derivative work. Though I don’t recommend crossing things out on your original work, because if you change things, eraser tends to muck it all up. The trials and tribulations of artistry! 😛

Edit: I feel a little bit bad for those words I didn’t end up using. They look so forlorn on that abandoned yellow page.


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It Must Be Thursday

I can’t believe that I didn’t bring a towel with me yesterday! It was the most glorious of holidays: Towel Day. 😦
If you can hitchhike across the galaxy and still know where your towel is, you are a force to be reckoned with.

Now for a poem.

It Must Be Thursday

I could never get
the hang of Thursdays;
there is just something
disorganized in
my mind, or perhaps
the day after mid-
week but before week-
end is by nature
messy on purpose.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Well, at least it’s not quite Vogon poetry.


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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.


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.

©Â 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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It’s poem time again, ladies and gents.
Because it’s waaaaay past the witching hour, and coincidentally way past what a reasonable person would assume to be bedtime. But I don’t work tomorrow, so fuckit. Poem!


I will write my spirit on my skin
In black or colourful ink,
Anticipating the needle’s buzz,
Not dreading the stinging bite-
Waiting is the hardest part.

I have planned my tattoos
More meticulously than any poem.
Felines, bumblebee, birds and fantasy,
This ink will tell my tale far better
Than I can with pen and paper.

I will paint my skin from neck to ankle,
A mobile canvas to wear proudly
No matter what the weather in my mind.
The phrase may be trite, but true:
Such beauty is worth the pain.

©Â Bridget Noonan, 2009, 2011.

I think it needs more. There’s at least one stanza that’s hiding on me, and I want it to come out and play. Alas, it’s shy. Plus, the last two lines feel a bit rushed. Thoughts, anyone? I’m wide open for constructive criticism.

Also I need to take some photos of my ink. Unless no one’s interested in seeing my tattoos? 😛
(Heck even if you’re not, when I get around to it, I’ll probably add a couple tattoo photos to my “about me” little blurb. So there!)


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