Tag Archives: time

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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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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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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I want to see how it ends


??? (title? what title?)

do you ever
wonder if there
is anyone
just like us, in
an alternate
universe, where
we made diff’rent
choices? he asked.
yes, she replied,
but I want to
see how this one
ends.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Holy productive Sunday, Batman!
Or, if you prefer Sesame Street, one, two, three posts, ha-ha-hah! That’s one from the vault, the Count. I don’t think kids today know who he is, which is a shame.

I probably could have mashed all three into one post. But that would have made sense, and I’m dead set against that.

This poem was just me thinking about Doctor Who and how awesome time travel is, and by extension how awesome time in general is. Awesome in the classical sense, not in the modern sense: perhaps awe-inspiring would be better? Whatever, not the point. Boom-de-yada, boom-de-yada, the world is just awesome. If you learn nothing else from my blog, do remember that- this world we live in is an amazing place, and you just gotta get out there and explore it. (She says, from her computer inside her house…) 😛

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Storm


Not much to say on this one.

Storm

The wind is fierce tonight, she says.
Yes, the wind howls like a banshee
Tears dying leaves from the trees
Bends their branches like fingers
Grasping the edge of a cliff before slipping
Down into a vortex of river rapids-

Do you think we should close the curtains?
No, it makes no difference open or closed
The wind will prowl outside the house
Closing our eyes to it won’t make it disappear
It will just catch us off-guard when it strikes
Bites hard at the throat like a hungry wolf-

I’m going to bed dear it’s late, she says.
Fine, I’ll get little sleep tonight either way
The tick-tock of a sleepy clock marks time
While a fire crackles blithely on the hearth
I’ll find a mark on the wall to occupy my mind
So I won’t dwell on the storm that rages outside.

© Bridget Noonan, 2009, 2011.

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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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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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Friends are Awesome


I’m in such a wonderful mood today! Buzzing with the energy of spring, I think. That, and sitting the patio of my favourite pub with a great friend, nachos and a pint of beer is the best way to dine- we don’t have to do the dishes! 😛

Onto the reason you came here: poetry! This is just something I scribbled down.

untitled or happiness or to be decided when it’s finished

Time is a fickle beast,
Making fools of us all.
At one instant, time leaps forward
And others, it slows to a dreary crawl.
But always the company of friends
Brings wonder and joy to the time we have.
An hour of laughter can mean more
Than a week alone. Home may be where
The heart lives, but love is best found
With a good book, or great companions.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

I’m still fixing some other Fibonacci poems, but they’ll be up here before too long. And that bout-rime is still giving me headaches. Plus my novel, but I made a breakthrough with that earlier today, so it will hopefully be much easier from now on.

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