Mayworks 2020: North of Wyandotte/Poem of Despair and Great Longing

North of Wyandotte/Poem of Despair and Great Longing is the fifth collaboration for Mayworks Windsor between Windsor photographer Douglas MacLellan and I. Originally, the plan was to produce a series of 3×5 handbills with MacLellan’s photographs and a five part poem by Noonan and distribute them at random in different bars around Windsor and Detroit. However, since it may be some time before there are any bars open in Windsor and Detroit, we present the work first in virtual form. The tenor of the times forced me to change the structure and tone of the poem.

Doug has now created these attractive portfolios for sale. They contain a printed version of the poem and 8 limited edition prints of his photographs. Please contact me in the comments if you are interested in purchasing a copy.

Portfolio cases for various projects and stand alone made in 2020 in Windsor, Ontario.

Poem of Despair and Great Longing

Last night you said: “It’s so quiet, 

and we can finally see the stars!”

I replied: “But look how dark, behind them.

And listen how uncaring,

its monstrous eternity.

The next night,

incautious,

you stepped into

the void.

You stuck

to its circumference

as it expanded.

It neither laughed nor smiled,

but just increased  

the distance between us.

I was fixed in place,

but could see

your beautiful face

drifting off.

I cried out:

“Take my hand!

It’s not too late!

Reach out!

We can pull each other back!”

But we could not.

The more I needed

you,

the faster it pulled

you away.

[And I thought: “It is my fault

for thinking,

that cold January day

walking down 16th St.

in Philadelphia

that travel is too much bother

just to:

Eat the same different food,

see the same different people,

drink the same different drinks.

and look at the same different buildings.”

And thinking that, I tightened my scarf

against a dry-ice cold wind

blowing up the Delaware River

kept walking,

and wished I were home].

The dark expanded,

But then, from its centre

a faint light,

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like an LED glow.

I could see you,

but it did not lessen

my loneliness,

but burnished it with melancholy.

You were already becoming

just a memory.

You looked the same,

even from a distance.

I would be happy

just to see you,

maybe,

if I were an electron cloud,

or a wave function,

or an image, an avatar, an algorithm.

But I am substance:

mass, bone, tissue, blood;

flesh and soft curves.

A knowing glance

is not enough

for me.

I say: silence is better

than weak wit

and saccharine sentiment.

I do not want your

thoughts and prayers

or hopes

or home recipes

for profound positive change.

I want to touch.

I want to kiss

and be kissed.

I want the sun on my face

as I walk along the river,

free.

And if I cannot have that,

I want to weep, suffer,

and mourn my loss,

while I make onion gravy,

and play loud music

and drink strong drink.

North of Wyandotte


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