Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Day 21 of NPM, 2009

Anyone who is unaware of this talented young poet is lucky to be introduced to his work today. Another favorite here at PWB, click here to read Loose by Noah the Great.

Noah writes quite a bit of poetry. He took on the big project of writing his life through verse up to the age of 25. Because he is just a teen some of it is fictionalized. Don't mess this poet's work!


Anonymous said...

Of course, boy and swan isn't on there anymore. Thanks for putting me on there. That piece is actually a fiction in 58, but we'll let that slide. Haha.

I haven't really been into sharing my work with pretty much anybody.

Depression has been rather intense.

Thank you, though. :D

I did turn 19 on sunday.

PWB Manager said...

Happy Birthday! I hope you shake off that depression. I know all too well about that. Artists are more prone to it.

I love your work! I know you'll get back to it in time.

Hugs and love,


Noah the Great said...

Have a draft I wrote on the 18th. I haven't edited or looked at it since.

A quickened pulse shows no mercy
for dirty, clogged veins.
Blood pushes through the plaque

at a troubled pace
to find the hammered beat
at its source of life.

His legs crawl to the concrete floor,
she sits close enough for him to see
from his sheltered corner.

Their eyes meet like lovers,
though nothings are spoken
with lies responded

as shields to the known truth.
Their hearts don't slow
as their faces turn away,

not done, eager,
yet too human to realize
the wants and needs

in both sets of eyes.
He slouches down,
she stares out the window

into the cluttered anarchy.
He looks over to her
then down to a messy thought

scribbled in minutes.
She looks to him,
he thinks he sees her look,

so he looks up,
but her head is forward.
He stirs his tea

and sighs an unused breath
as she watches the paintings
come to life in her mind.

She closes her eyes,
he tracers her face with his own
but fails to turn away.

His hands flip through pamphlets,
but he doesn't read the words,
her eyes open and she takes a sip

of an empty bottle.
She stands up and tosses her glass
in the trash can next to him

but doesn't turn her head,
he watches but turns his own
as if his stare would shatter her.

He hears her exhaled breaths
and feels her every step,
she stands at the counter

and orders one more
then steps outside.
She acts as though she doesn't taste

his presence in the air
and lets the door shimmy closed,
the loss strikes him

as his heart goes silent.
He looks to his tea
and inhales a deep whiff,

though the air stumbles, incomplete;
she glimpses at darkened clouds
for a few moments.

She steps back in
and lets the door shimmy,
he breathes easy.

janetleigh said...

Happy Birthday, Noah! I'm sorry to hear you've been depressed, I'm in one as well. Just have to remember that This Too Shall Pass! We'll get through this. Writing is a catharsis for our emotions if we just get it out on paper, Noah. Write it down, then crumple the paper up and toss it into the basket. If you're po'd at someone, write their name on the bottom of your shoe and do a little tap dance all over that person's face/name. It works..;>

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