Tag Archives: music

The Canadian Pastime


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.

Snoopy and Woodstock really are driving a Zamboni. That isn't my imagination. YES.

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. 😛

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The Butterfly and Bee


“Maybe I’ve been here before/ I know this room, I’ve walked this floor/ I used to live alone before I knew you.”

🙂 I like Leonard Cohen. Famous Blue Raincoat is probably my favourite, but Hallelujah is rather well-known, at least through the many covers that have been done. Rufus Wainwright’s was excellent, and k.d. lang’s was pretty good too. Can’t forget Jeff Buckley’s either. Dang, there are so many.

In any case. This is about poetry. Poetry that was kind of inspired by Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream, and I believe might have been written with marker on a piece of cardboard that got rescued from the kindling box. This was on that same trip I took up with the fam-damily up to Balsam Lake.

The Butterfly and Bee

I felt the strangest sense of deja-vu
The other night around the fire
I knew I had been there
Before, I knew that smell,
I heard the same conversation
In the same words, tones and voices,
Felt that very same wind.

I took a moment, frozen
In that sameness of space and time
As though this place was the dream
And the place before, a place
Half-remembered, half-dreamt,
Was the reality.

© Bridget Noonan, 2010, 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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Strike Anywhere


Woo! Yesterday I got to a thousand hits on the ol’ blog! Only a month into the thing. Man, that’s cool. Is that good, for a blog? I feel good about it.

And the things I don’t feel good about today? Fuck ’em, who needs that bullshit.
So in the spirit of “fuck ’em, who needs that bullshit”, I present a poem. It’s about the end of the world as we know it, I guess. I actually kind of hope we as humans take ourselves out- it’s kind of our turn, since we’ve toasted so many other species on purpose (and who knows how many by accident). A love song to “mere anarchy” being “loosed upon the world”, I suppose. (Yay, Yeats)

Of Kerosene and Phosphorous,

or,

Strike Anywhere

All it takes is a flick
The mix of certain chemicals
But the result can be so
Destructively beautiful.

Sometimes I wish others were as
Carelessly cautious as I am,
Striking matches on curbs
To light a sly cigarette, and
Firmly stomping stray embers-
Just in case.

What freedom, to let go;
To dance while the world
Burns around us like Nero;
To help it along with a splash
Of gasoline, ethanol or kerosene.

Let us drink to the end of the world!
Let go of inhibitions, and do
Do exactly what we feel is real
Live and love before out of time
Strike Anywhere and everywhere.

Pour a dram out for the dead
Grab your shot-glasses and matchbooks
For yesterday ceased to exist
And tomorrow isn’t coming to save us.

© Bridget Noonan, 2010, 2011.

And to continue this trend of recommending music to people, I suggest giving the album Blood on the Tracks by Bob Dylan a listen. That is, if you haven’t already; I think it’s been out for like thirty-five years, at least.

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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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