Tag Archives: work in progress

Two-fer today!

Sometimes I write things down in my little fat notebook and promptly forget them, because gawd-damn they are depressing. I thought I’d share two of them today!

Untitled #1
Or, whoa did I watch Metropolis (1927 film) that day?

The grime smothers the city
From thousands of pounding feet
And spinning wheels daily
The lives of the workers are bleak
Forever in motion, without rest
No hope of something greater.
The cold bites their fingers
Numb to everything but the
Endless expanse of grey sky, black dirt.
Is there anything more than this,
The vast suffering of faceless drones?

© Bridget Noonan, 2010, 2012.

Untitled #2
Or, apparently I was not happy with humanity

just another pointless lament
listless animalistic stereotype
bored with endless ennui
cloudy of mind, purposeless
a wandering soul searching for
the next thing to live for
and the next and the next
a quest for the newest stimulation
ultimately in vain, because
it too shall becomes tiresome
and the cycle shall repeat and repeat
the quest the resolution and again
why the unsatisfactory quest
just to be doomed to seek, find and lose?

© Bridget Noonan, 2010, 2012.


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A Good Man

This is my offering for Three Word Wednesday. The words are skid, damp and incensed.

A Good Man

The altar was lit and incensed
As the believers trudged
Through double doors,
Damp footsteps on the floors.

Though the leader was nowhere
To be found! Normally there
To greet the flock coming in,
He’s never late to begin.

While the mass of people wonder,
They hear the clatter like thunder
As their priest comes skidding
Into the church, robes dripping.

And so, despite his late start,
The people hold him in their heart
As he speaks the word of their god
They try to follow, not to nod

Off to sleep this early morning
And disappoint him, yawning.
In his homily he wants to relate
Exactly why he was a little late

But he knows his congregation
Isn’t much for congratulation
Even though he rescued three ducklings
Lost and alone from making crossings

From one side of the street to
The next again, looking for who
Could be their mother or father; and now
He takes care of three wee ducks, how?

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Well, that was very silly, but kind of nice. Needs work, as usual, but I’m okay with that. I’ll let it stew for a couple months, then bust it out again.

EDIT: I have also posted it on Sunday Scribblings.


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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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This wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it down last night. It needs some more love, but I think this one needs some more time on the back burner.


The sting of a honey bee is
Like eating your first truly spicy dish
After a lifetime of bland meat and potatoes:
One can’t comprehend the complexity of flavour.
Instead, it is a sharp burning sensation,
With awful tingles radiating out, and
Then Mount Vesuvius erupts in the throat,
Obliterating one’s ability to breathe–

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Which reminds me, gotta call the doc and set up an appointment to get my allergy tests done. I would like to know for sure if I need an epi pen or not for summer. Might be kinda helpful. Especially since last time I got stung by a bee on the hand, my arm swelled up almost all the way to my elbow.


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fake it ’til you make it

I just realized that I hadn’t posted anything in days. Thought I’d fix that. Kinda sorta fucked-up tired right now, but the poem is supposed to look like that, with the lack of caps and such. I think I was going for some post-modern lack-of-form. I remain unsatisfied, but I’ll do… something to it, later. Whatever. Tired. Poem.

fake it ’til you make it

i’ll fake it and fake
until i make it all make
some sort of sense

maybe there’s a god and
maybe the end of the road is
just as unattainable

the booze and the drugs
the lies and the stiff hugs
are no way to fix it

so i’ll fake it and fake
a smile a laugh a tear
just don’t touch me

you’ll shatter me i’ll break
into a dozen half-told truths or
a green glass bottle

the best way to confidence
is to fake it and fake it until
there is no doubt

i’m faking it until
i make it

© Bridget Noonan, 2009, 2011.

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