Tag Archives: snow

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
ssshhhhhharcklacklshhh…

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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Haiku time!


I wish I knew how
to coax out a good haiku
but they won’t bloom here.

Yes, it’s that time again- time for a series of haiku poems. You know you love it.

seasons

1.
if I could stop now
our summer would never end
but time continues

2.
autumn brings colour
heralds the death of the year
and the end of us

3.
snow falls softly now
returns me to a blank slate
winter at its best

4.
fresh green shoots spring forth
from their mother’s warm embrace
I begin again.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

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Writer’s Block


Writer’s Block

Snowy endless field
Blank of mind
Hunting through forests of
Printed word brings no aid
Web-like map traps instead of frees
Hourglass running out
Clock ticks steadily on to doom.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Man, this weekend was friggin’ nuts. Cambridge with Steve was excellent though. I hadn’t seen him in way too long. And I mean, fireworks adventure last night kicked ass. But work this weekend? The only word I have for that is an inarticulate scream of anguish, which really is less of a word and more of a sound.

But yeah. Due to being quite literally so tired and in pain after work that I become stupid, I haven’t been writing. Not writing makes me feel all twitchy, but forcing it wasn’t happening either. It’s no excuse, but it’s all I have.

Gonna bust my metaphorical balls and maybe get the Three Word Wednesday done before Mike and Randi show up.

I also recommend that, if you are Canadian, or living in a place that celebrates Victoria Day, you listen to some Tragically Hip. It is the Canadian cottage party band of choice, and one of my favourites. Hell, even if you are neither Canadian nor have today off, the Hip are amazing.

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Fibonacci Sequence


I don’t know if all of you know this, but I’m kiiiind of a nerd. That poem I wrote, Subatomic Love, might have clued you in. Or parts of In Daddy’s Genes. I like comic books, video games, Dungeons and Dragons, fantasy and science fiction (it’s SF not sci-fi! haha) in all their various forms like movies novels poetry music art whatever, science of many varieties, and mathematics. This is relevant to poetry, I promise.
In fact, it has been argued that writing itself is a nerdy sort of thing. If that’s true then I never want to be cool. But back to what I was saying.

So, if you know a bit about mathematical concepts, you’re probably familiar with Fibonacci’s sequence. Start with 0 and 1, and you add the second number to the sum of the preceding pair. Like, 0+1 = 1, so the sum of the pair is 1 and the second number is 1. Therefore your next pair is 1 and 1. 1+1=2, then 1+2=3, so 2+3=5, then 3+5=8, then 5+8=13, and on into infinity. 0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55… It’s also a neat way to approximate the golden ratio (works best with the higher numbers, because 8/5=1.60000, but 55/34=1.617647, and then 89/55=1.61818, where the golden ratio is 1.61803, so you can get pretty close if you don’t need a lot of digits), if you’re into irrational numbers. I’m pretty fond of pi. And pie. Mmm, now I want fudge. But ignore that, I’m just hungry :P. Again, this is relevant, aside from the commentary on food.

What it boils down to is that I was bored at work, thinking about numbers and how wonderful they are, when inspiration fell out of the sky like an Acme anvil in a Looney Tunes cartoon.
The Fibonacci sequence is all whole numbers, right? So I can use it for poetry form.

For example, you can use the first bunch of numbers as your limits on words or syllables per line:

(for the purposes of poetry, I feel comfortable omitting the zero in my count)
Fibonacci Poetry #1 

warmth (1)
brings (1)
croci (2)
peeking out (3)
from beneath the snow, (5)
thriving while the world is asleep; (8)
Eliot was so wrong about April’s cruelty. (13)

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Or, you can get a little crazy with it. I was thinking about symmetry and palindromes as well, which is what I worked into this one. I work retail; if I don’t exercise my brain regularly, I’ll become another automaton going through the motions of life, and I’m way too young to give up, to no longer want “to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life”. Fuck that, I’m here, and I live deliberately. Regret is for other people.
So here’s another thing I was doodling between customers. Words this time, rather than syllables. I thought I’d give both a shot.

Fibonacci Poetry #2

help! (1)
your (1)
beauty is (2)
suffocating in its (3)
intensity; I can’t breathe in (5)
or out unless (3)
I close (2)
my (1)
eyes. (1)

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Whaddaya think? It’s probably not a new idea, but I like it. I’m probably going to write some more like this, because math is fun.

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blah day


I’m not quite sure what I call this one.

???

outside my window there is
little more than grey drizzle
on gritty snow; this purgatory,
not quite winter, but not yet spring,
stifles any attempt to live in it.
this brown snow is winter’s spray tan,
a sad attempt to hang onto a passing season;
wrinkled at the eyes, forehead and lips,
caked in foundation and false eyelashes.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Feel like crap today. I dragged myself into work after an attempt to call in sick. Apparently puking off and on all morning is a picnic, and I am an indispensable cog for the machine leading up to zombie Jesus day. Never mind that staying home and resting will ensure that I’ll be 100% for Saturday’s insanity.

Whatever, fuck it. I’m going to sleep.

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Crossroads


Soooooo, I don’t know if you know this, but sometimes Canada has snow. I know it’s been ‘spring’ for like a month, but people here are still surprised that it snowed today.

Hate to break it to ya folks, but… look where we live! Seriously.
I have learned (the hard way) not to trust the nice spring weather until after the May 2-4 weekend.  After that, we’re less likely to freeze our butts off at random. Annnnd once Labour Day hits? Snow can come any day! That is how this country works. It’s sad, but true.

Onto my reason for being: poetry. I found a cool picture, then wrote a poem to go along with it.

Crossroads

Three roads I see before my feet:
The left, the right, and straight ahead.
Which way to go, I do not know;
They fill me with such fear and dread.

The straight leads deeper in the woods,
Though I am now on my way home.
The left goes down toward the lake,
And I do not know how to swim.
The straight winds up beyond my sight;
My bones are weary of the road.

Where I shall go, I do not know.
They fill me with such fear and dread,
The paths I see before my feet:
The left, the right, and straight ahead.

I went the straight road in the past,
Though the steady plod had bored me.
The left path floods with every spring,
And it’s just the start of April.
The right has dangers of its own;
My mind flinches from the perils.

Three paths I see before my feet:
The left, the right and straight ahead.
Which way to go, I do not know;
My heart is full of fear and dread.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

It doesn’t feel quite done. Then again, I’m not sure. Thoughts?

Actually, I kind of like it- except I get the lingering feeling that I’m ripping off Robert Frost in some way. But he had two paths, and both of his looked the same. Fuck that, three is a much better number.
Oh here’s the picture that inspired this whole shebang.

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Go the Distance


My intention was to post on here once a week. Apparently I am addicted to writing / editing? This is one I was working on this winter, and the winter before that… and the winter before that. I’m reasonably satisfied though, so that’s better than usual. After three years of work off and on, you’d think so, eh?

Go the Distance

There is much snow-covered road betwixt us;
Undiscovered paths winding through mountains.
The eyes are black and boundless
Delicate only in seeming, he darts,
A flash of hooves and broad antlers;
The white hart an omen for good or ill-
I balance on the cliff’s edge.

This quest of mine, to meet with fair Dulcinea-
I am undoubtedly the mad knight of old
Who fights the windmills, believing that you
Must be the fairest and purest of maidens-
Such a quest will likely end in my ruin
And yet I cannot choose to stay or leap.

The sea stretches ominously before me
And the way will be long and dark.
Dare I brave Scylla?
Shall I tempt Charybdis?
I will do this, and more,
To see you for but a moment.

A daring leap might carry me far into that sea
Where I might fight the storm-tossed waves,
Reach those forbidden shores, and climb
Such dizzying heights over peaks and into valleys-
But shall I dare to do more than dream?
Can I confront that which holds me fast?

The world changes all around me
And I am static, unmoving-
Firmly rooted in this arid soil,
Old vines twined around my feet.
This is where storms unleash their fury,
Where eagles soar and fires blaze.

But what does it matter to me if you are, in reality,
A swineherd, a harlot, or a scullery maid?
The vines can be cut, the sea can be crossed,
And I, your foolish knight, can become more as well;
I will defeat any monster to prove my worth,
And brave any hazard to find you again.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011

If you saw any of the previous hundred drafts, this will be unrecognizable. In fact, I’m pretty sure over the years I cannibalized at least three other poems I’d half-written: tack a limb on here, nice phrase over there, borrow some liver from that one, ooh that image is nice *yoink!*, etc. Reduce, reuse, recycle was drummed into my brain as a kid in school- I apparently am living it in my poetry.

I’m beginning to hate punctuation though. I obsess about how much or little I should put in, and if it makes sense grammatically, and if I really care if it follows some arbitrary rule someone else says language has to follow, and whether I should use a semicolon, a comma, a period, nothing…

If only I spent less time worrying about that technical crap and more time hammering out more actual verses, or bits of my novel.

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