Brain Weather- A poem from a carers point of view

Hello! My mame is Melinda Smith. I am mother to two boys, aged seven and five (there has been a birthday in the family since the last post !). My seven year old has autism spectrum disorder. I am also a poet...
 
This is the sixth in a series of seven autism poems I'll be sharing as guest posts on the Scottish Autism blog. This poem is in the voice of a parent / carer / friend of an autistic child, looking on helplessly while the child has a total meltdown.
 
In case you're wondering, the extra spaces are intentional.
 
I should also note that this poem was written with the support of ArtsACT.
 
Brain Weather
 
    :autistic meltdown ground zero
 
Think of                hemispheres:    Western, Left;
the wind-flows                 that connect them; the currents                       of sea; of electricity.
 
When was  it that             your frontal        lobe
Cauterized          itself against your       will
leaving  you endless       atomised local                   storms
with no way       to blow them    -selves out?
 
The last words you          said before the clouds came
stutter on            your small           tongue;
settle    in like cat-and    -dog rain, the syllables
hammering down, fixing one      thought with      a dozen stabs of lightning.
 
The miracle is not that it                stops, but how afterwards you can be so              calm and charming
- and puzzled that the rest of us still        drip and shiver from the rain.
 
(c) Melinda Smith 2011

Autism poem: The Impossible Blindfold

Hello ! My name is Melinda Smith, and I am mother to two boys, aged seven and four. My seven year old has an Autism Spectrum Disorder. I am also a poet. Read more here

This is the fifth in a series of seven autism poems I will be sharing with you as a guest poster on the Scottish Autism blog.

This poem is in the voice of an adult with ASD, and explores his / her ambivalent feelings about working with a bunch of neurotypicals.

It was inspired by the writings of Edgar Schneider (Discovering my Autism) and Temple Grandin (Thinking in Pictures).

The quote from the Bible used at the beginning is one that Schneider returns to again and again in his book.  If you look carefully, you’ll see I have hidden one word from the quote in each line of the poem.

(I should also acknowledge that this poem was written with the support of artsACT)

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are my ways your ways
– Isaiah  55:8

The impossible blindfold 

an autistic adult prepares for a day in the workplace

 

Today again I’ll strap on my mask for you;

zip up my ludicrous human suit;

force most of my thoughts into small closed boxes

so that when I speak, you are not made uncomfortable.

When I am not trapped in a room full of chattering

sometimes I can pass for one of your kind.

You few who reach for me with well-meaning thoughts:

even you have no clue how hard this is, nor can you.

If you are sighted and want to try blindness,

bind your eyes for a day, a week – you might come close.

But there are no easy ways to shut down your radar,

lock yourself in my clumsy robot cage

and be. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are my ways your ways.

(c) Melinda Smith 2011

Autism poems: Autistic Acrostic and some AutisTweets by Melinda Smith

Hello ! My name is Melinda Smith, and I am mother to two boys, aged seven and four. My seven year old has an Autism Spectrum Disorder. I am also a poet. Read more here...

This is the fourth in a series of seven autism-poem posts I will be sharing with you as a guest poster on the Scottish Autism blog.

Today's post contains a number of shorter autism poems: one called 'Autistic Acrostic', and five 'AutisTweets' (what is an AutisTweet ? Explained below).

Autistic Acrostic is in the voice of a mother who experiences a small moment of clarity during one of her autistic child's meltdowns. It is also an acrostic, meaning the initial letters of all the lines spell out a word or message.  Can you read what it is? 

Autistic Acrostic

Any day now, it will lift.

Under your mask of howls, I see

Two knowing eyes reproaching me,

Incensed that I should try to shift

Some blame, for this, our hell, to you.

Mummy feels like howling too.

(c) Melinda Smith 2009

               

(First published in Quadrant, Volume LIII, No.4, April 2009)

This was the very first autism poem I ever wrote - more than two years after our son's diagnosis. It took me that long to feel at all able to write about it. Even so, this poem cost me a few tears.

***

AutisTweets: Since getting onto Twitter three months ago (yes, I know, a little late…) I have been exploring the 140-character format, complete with #hashtags, as a way of writing condensed poems.

The following autism 'micro-poems' were all originally 'published' as tweets from my Twitter account, @MelindaLSmith. The slashes between phrases show where the linebreaks would go if Twitter allowed linebreaks.

I should also acknowledge that they were written with the financial support of artsACT.

Here goes:

1.

my boy perches on the pool’s edge/flapping his wet hands/people are staring/he sees only me, and grins:/’I caught an imaginary trout’ #ASD

2.

#micropoetry #ASDparenting #firsteverjointsleepover Both sons away tonight/after 7 years/I don’t recognise this quiet/or this calm

3.

#autism #newdiagnosis #bewilderment with that one word/a glass wall traps me/i thump and plead/the doctor looks away

4.

The arrivals board/says my plane has landed/your brother hugs me/you won’t let us go home/the cascading numbers/are too beautiful #ASD

5.

#micropoetry #ASD #autism #anxiety "I still have a 'drenaline feeling'"/so I walk u down the hall/7 years old & terrified/of Bugs Bunny

(c) Melinda Smith 2011

Autism poem: An autistic woman explains the terror of affection

Hello again ! My name is Melinda Smith, and I am mother to two boys, aged seven and four. My seven year old has an Autism Spectrum Disorder. I am also a poet. Read more here

This is the third in a series of seven autism poems I will be sharing with you as a guest poster on the Scottish Autism blog.

This one is in the voice of a young autistic woman.

It is inspired by Donna Williams’ book Nobody Nowhere, in which she describes how feeling affection and closeness with another person was a terrifying experience for her, and made her fear that she would be ‘swallowed up’. She did, however, sometimes feel closeness with inanimate objects, and objects associated with certain loved people would become very special to her. It is an extremely powerful book – highly recommended.

My poem also takes as a jumping-off-point the poem ‘Circle and Square’ by Edwin Muir (an Orcadian, born 1887 in Deerness). Muir's poem was about the opposite problem to Donna Williams' (and one more common in neurotypical 'love') - it explores the desire to totally lose yourself in your beloved. I have quoted Muir's last stanza at the start of my poem. The full Muir poem can be found here.

I should also acknowledge that the poem was written with the financial support of artsACT.

So, here goes...

 

Give, but have something to give.

No man can want you all.

Live and learn to live.

When all the barriers fall

you are nothing at all.   

        – Edwin Muir, ‘Circle and Square’.

An autistic woman explains the terror of affection

A rushing of the sea:

your smile is drowning me -

I have to fight to live.

Why can’t you let me be ?

I feel in negative:

Distress is all you give.

Lost as I have been

I dare not let you in

however loud you call.

I cower in my skin

I curl into a ball.

No man must have me all.

You want to show you care?

You will not reach me there,

that is not where I live.

Just barely touch my hair

- that, I may forgive.

Live, and let me live.

Or give me for my own

a button or a stone -

something smooth and small  -

and when I am alone

I’ll feel you through this wall.

But when the barriers fall

I cannot meet your eye;

you stab me when you try

to look at me at all.

To let you is to die.

I’ll go under, I’ll fall -

I’ll be nothing at all.

(c) Melinda Smith 2011