Poetry Wednesday - more thoughts on Autistic Poetry

The one where I destroy a piece of my poetry by telling it as it really is.

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Hello poetry people,

So I had a thought whilst waiting for R to wake, in the early morning gloom, that I really didn’t like this poem and it was autistic me that took umbrage. So I decided to put the workings of my brain on here. Maybe a rash decision but hey, that’s the way today crumbles.

Photo by Wisely Woven on Unsplash

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The poem is a golden shovel where you take a line from a song and use that line for the last words of each line. I found it hard. So, the bold words are the words of the song line, the italics my thoughts on my own poem. Firstly the original poem, then it annotated with my thoughts.

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First Born - Golden Shovel - from Feel About You by Aislin Evans pub 3red

Born of me, through me, you  
are my precious first born, who came 
so precipitously. Beautiful inside and out  
with skin ten sizes too big for a babe of 
your delightful petiteness. Nowhere
did they say the wrinkles would fill and 
warn that you would grow to be so amazing; you 
bloomed. Love filled us, our hearts opened 
wide, our souls filled up. 
I received love so sharp it pierced my 
heart and my eyes,  
tormented me but opened me to 
your incredible sunlight.

***** and then *****
			
First Born - a Golden Shovel poem (You know gold is soft and is incapable of shovelling anything. Right?)

Born of me (yep sharing my DNA, making up 50% of you, not some ethereal birthing ghost like and all shimmery weird), through me (literally, through my vaginal canal, sticky and gory, and probably not something you want to think about), you

are my precious first born, (all are precious and you already know this fact) who came 

so precipitously (not as fast as your siblings but yes you were quick). Beautiful inside (insides are never beautiful in a conventional way, they are gory and red, and gross, unless you are into them in a medical way in which case they are really fascinating, like those drawing made by Victorian body snatchers wanting to learn more about human anatomy and making amazing sketches. Or Leonardo and his brilliant sketches of the human form, they have an artistic beauty about them. But in general, the insides of people are messy and not beautiful) and out

with skin ten sizes too big (I didn’t actually measure, I guessed, it's hyperbole) for a babe of 

your delightful (scary actually) petiteness (I so dislike this word, you were small, 2lbs lighter than the drs predicted, we had to buy smaller clothes). Nowhere

did they say the wrinkles would fill (ack, they probably did, or at least common sense knows they would, children grow that’s just what they do) and 

warn that you would grow to be so amazing (because you might not) ; you 

bloomed (as a kid - yes, as a teenager - not so much). Love filled us (mm, did it though? No space for blood or air or food? We were just skin sacks of love?), our hearts opened 

wide (that would kill us, don’t do that), our souls filled up (I don’t believe in souls). 

I received love so sharp (love is not physical, it cannot have that attribute) it pierced my 

heart (again that would kill you, don’t do that. A pierced heart is not something to aim for) and my eyes (blind, you would be blind and therefore the next bit about seeing could - or could not - work),  

tormented me (ah, finally some truth) but opened me (stop doing this it’s yucky and more a murder scene than a love poem) to 

your incredible (Really? Is that what this is? Incredible? Not difficult and heartbreaking? Not sorrowful and frustrating?) sunlight (what the fuck does that mean? I not blind, I know what sunlight is, unless I’m  expected to believe I am actually pierce by love in the lines previously, and so am blind and now not, but that doesn’t solve the fact I’m dead though with all the heart opening and piercing etc.)

(Lyric used - ‘you came out of nowhere and you opened up my eyes to sunlight’) 

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Now obviously, I understand that’s what a lot of poetry is about, taking the normal and equating it to some thing more, something other, but I am always struggling against this ridiculous inner monologue that shouts at every word I write, that’s insists I am wrong. I struggle to take things sideways so to speak, to not just see the blindingly obvious. And yet I persist. And laugh at myself oft times.

Maybe I should write a book of purely autistic poems, along with the ME/CFS poems and the 1000 other things I want to do. Maybe one day, eh?

So that’s all for today folks, as usual let me know what you think.

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