Tag Archives: painter

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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Thoughts on the Shore of Balsam Lake


I wrote this on vacation last summer. Well, most of it. I mixed it up, and I’m sure a couple things got cobbled together from other bits I wrote that week, and there wasn’t a resolution until just now. I had vague plans of turning it into a multi-page epic, but… that requires serious effort. I deem this good enough!

Thoughts on the Shore of Balsam Lake

The cries of gulls and children
Echo across a sandy beach
I’m building castles in the sand
And castles in the sky–

At once, a man in uniform
And a young woman in white
Pass slowly, hand in hand,
Smiling, in a dream, in love–

The waves, the shining lake,
Seem more real than the sky
With its painted white clouds
And insipid fading blues–

It is late afternoon now:
The gulls return to gather
Food left behind by the children
And still I wait for sunset–

Sunset! when our life-giving star
Flings colours in bands across the sky
Like a frustrated painter with a
Rather curious and smug cat–

A cat digging trenches in canvas,
Sharp claws dunked in shades of
Reds, oranges, purples, and golds, and
Wearing a sphinx’s enigmatic smile–

At last, the grandest light in the sky
Dips low in its dance with the horizon
And, with a flick of her long skirts,
Sinks over the edge of my sight.

© Bridget Noonan, 2010, 2011.

Also, I gotta say, pen and paper are best for first drafts, but for editing, you gotta have a word processor of some kind. At least, I do.

This is also my offering for Friday’s Big Tent Poetry prompt.

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