Tag Archives: queer

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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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.

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Prologue


So this is entirely raw. I looked at it, and my writing prof read it, but the rest of the story isn’t written so I don’t want to get into rewrites; that way lies madness through perfectionism. What’s the point of a perfect first chapter if there isn’t anything to follow it?

I’m gonna hammer this sucker out, then I’m headed to the grand opening of the second gay bar in my city. Maybe some of the small-town mentality will diminish with a gay hangout that isn’t hidden away in the skeezier side of town.

I’m still not solid on how to format this so it looks like the way I have it in my computer’s file, but whatever. Instead of indents, I’ll mark new paragraphs with an extra space. Here goes!

Chapter Zero
The Prologue, or an Introduction to Our Narrator

The colossal man stumbled along the sidewalk, eliciting strange looks and whispered comments. He resembled a primordial bear lumbering about on its hind legs, with a truly vile odour of rotten meat and sweat to match. His vacant stare, thick neck-beard and the aforementioned smell, combined with the impression he made of a mobile mountain, parted any crowds he happened to wander into.

 This is not the story of that man, thank goodness. I don’t quite know where I might fit in that guy’s story, aside from stuck underneath his foot if he stepped on me. I just saw him shambling past my building earlier while moving the last of my boxes into my dorm room. Definitely made a lasting impression, if you know what I mean. It took me a shot of the brandy Gramps stuck in my suitcase to clear my sinuses of that smell.

 Hi, my name is Emma Sinclair, and I’ll be your narrator for this journey into my first year of university. I’ll try to keep the commentary on things that don’t actually affect me, the people around me, or the story to a minimum, but I’m not noted for staying on track. What idiot said that ‘brevity is the soul of wit’ anyway? Because I’m pretty sure that guy wrote a three part play about some intermittently insane king no one has cared about since the seventeenth century.

 In any case, this is supposed to be my story, but will no doubt be occasionally hijacked by whoever I become friends with over this year. I sincerely hope I can keep out of Ocean’s way. She seems like the sort of queen bee that I detested in high school. Speaking of which, I suppose I ought to fill you in a bit on my life up to this point.

 Er. Basics? My parents are pretty normal people. My dad does something undoubtedly important at his job involving computers and snore-worthy things of that nature. My mom teaches six year-olds, and consequently assumes that her two children – my older brother Brandon and I – are just as incapable of tying our own shoes as the kids she works with day in, day out. This is entirely untrue, as I have been able to tie my own shoes properly since the second grade, I cook food for myself without burning it most of the time, and I haven’t been to the hospital since I finally escaped gym class in high school.

Okay, I should explain that last part more. Whoever thought up the bright idea to arm hormonal teenage girls with big sticks with nets on the ends and assume they’d use them exclusively for their sports-related intended purpose was ignorant to the true nature of teenage girls: they are vicious and competitive. They are also not above faking tears so the teacher looks the other way so that another one can whack a completely innocent person on the forearm ‘by accident trying to get the ball’. The fact that, earlier in the class, I may or may not have expressed doubt about that particular girl’s heritage being entirely human could have had something to do with it. In case you were wondering, calling someone’s mother a goat-banging skank and reminding them to wax their mustache-goatee combo will more than likely get your arm broken in any culture or language.

 In any case, I managed to graduate from high school with good enough grades to get to university. Thankfully, the combination of an actual college fund (bless my father’s frugal heart), a couple of scholarships and my ‘indentured servitude by another name’ part-time job meant that I didn’t have to borrow money from anyone to pay for this year, and potentially next year if I keep my marks up.

 After all, university doesn’t seem that hard so far. How bad can it be?

© Bridget Noonan, 2010, 2011.

Love it, hate it, improve it, destroy it: that’s your call, people of the intertubes.

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In Repair


Okay, so there are like a million different ways that people put their emotional and mental recovery into metaphor. I like this way.
I own this poem; I don’t own the many songs or other creative things also titled “In Repair”. But if you also like Our Lady Peace, we should be friends. The John Mayer song is pretty cool too; not as cool as OLP, but it’s hard to be that cool without being Canadian. 😛 Kidding, I’m not some ultra-nationalist sneering at every other place. I just figure that there’s not enough respect for Canada, so I do what I can to stir some up.

And I’m not saying I’m all the way “recovered” (because who the hell is?), but every day is another step that I take back up the stairs to …happiness, I guess. I don’t know what’s at the top of the stairs. I know what’s at the bottom, and thank insert-your-deity-or-higher-power-of-choice-here that I didn’t get there, because it’s kinda hard to get back from dead.

Annnnd now it’s poetry time.

In Repair

School had me feeling
Like I missed a stair on
The way down- heart in my
Throat, bracing for impact,
But for years.

As I bumped down the steps,
Parts of myself fell off.
After a while, you forget
They are missing at all.
Before this

Realization, my
Self-image was a wreck–
I mentally lopped off
What hadn’t been sliced off
In ribbons.

The clink of screws and bolts
The taste of copper, blood–
How could I miss the stair
And end up thumping down
To ruin?

Loathing, gloating, snorting,
The jeers, the leers, the sneers,
Do not have the power
To take what belongs to
Me alone,

So I must gather up
Dignity, self-respect,
All these tattered things that
Drop to the wayside when
Everything

Is wrong, is pain, is doubt;
When regret seems stronger
Than the steel of my soul
In the shape of a spring,
Burns so bright.

Regret holds less power
Over me now, only
The power I give it.
I can return to the
Times before

Without losing pieces;
Instead, I become a
Magnet for the things I
Left behind on the stairs
I slid down.

Now, I must climb back up,
Gathering odds and ends
To solder and sew on;
Not the same as before,
But better.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

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Silly Poet, Rhyme Ain’t For Kids!


I wrote this little snippet on versebender‘s blog. The actual poem, The Simple Rhymer, is excellent.

Thank you for this poem
I’m sure I don’t know why
Writing in some rhythm
It always makes me cry.

Sure I need to practice
My skills with meter more.
Though for this poetess,
Rhyme’s easy to ignore.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

I tweaked it a bit to make it flow better.

I don’t know if I really have a style, so much. I don’t often use any pattern on purpose, or rhyme things. So what makes a poem? That’s for you to decide. But I’d like it if you thought this was all right.

I Don’t Want You

This experimental phase is
Flattering, really; but you knew
From the start I don’t need you that way.
I don’t want to fall in love with you.

Because when the experiment ends,
You’ll still want to be friends
And I’ll hate every man that you date,
(Or fellate).  You say it’s not a test,
But I know what’s best — for me.

And it’s not that I don’t want you;
Never doubt your wicked charm.
I just can’t allow myself to dream
That your kisses won’t cause me harm.

Stop your lovely words and deeds,
Because I refuse to water the seeds
Of affection for you in my heart.
We both know that this can’t happen,
So stop teasing this poor lesbian.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

I like to pretend that I have women banging on my door begging to sleep with me, or date me. Haha! I had a lot of fun writing this, actually. If you can’t look back on life and laugh at it, what’s the point? When I start dating some lucky gal, this will be even better. If I’d written about the same subject in some formless free-verse thing, it’d probably have turned out all dark and depressing and ‘woe is me, I’m sooo aloooooooooone’, and who needs that? I’ll leave the mooning over unavailable (or fictional) women to Lord Byron.

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dead wrong


dead wrong

call me
a crazy
left-wing
faith-accepting
home-wrecking
open-minded
feminist
lesbian
but if
pat robertson
is right
about any
of the
hate
he preaches,
I would
much
much
much rather
be dead
wrong.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Written in response to a prompt (can’t remember where I found it). The prompt was to describe one thing using five or more different words.
Plus, Pat Robertson is a whack-job. His gang seems to think that, by protecting people with “evil” sexual preferences (like us queers) from hate crimes, that suddenly bestiality, pedophilia and necrophilia will become legal and also protected.
I… have no idea how people can make a jump like that mentally. Then again, to them, it’s all the same thing. Anyone who doesn’t believe exactly what they do will tear down society and there will be homosexual orgies in schoolyards around America. “And another American family is destroyed!” After all, every dyke and fag is a criminal with a hidden agenda, just waiting to rise to power and paint the whole world with rainbows or something. I don’t understand why they have to hate us for who we love.
Garfunkel and Oates did a great song in response to one of his many offensive comments. It is a thing of beauty. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXPcBI4CJc8

Actually, that destroying American family quote is from a really funny clip of Lewis Black’s stand-up routine. Start it at like 3:35, it’s when he does the whole “gay banditos” bit. If you’re offended by swearing or people standing up for human rights, I don’t suggest you watch it. Actually… I still suggest you watch it; it’ll be good for you to expand your mental horizons. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-id4GKsaQk&feature=related

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