AUTISM: A POEM

This blog has been created as an open experiment of poetry composition, perhaps a glimpse at an emerging manuscript as it matures. This working manuscript should not be considered as complete or published. Instead, this should be viewed as merely an early stage in the process of creation.

I have placed below some of the pages from an isolated venture in one of my typescript loose-leaf folders. The contents here represent portions of an ongoing personal project with a particularly narrow focus intended to eventually develop toward a book-length poetry sequence with the tentative working title of
Autism.

The poem will grow as new sections are added. The individual posts are designed so that they may be viewed as independent items; however, I have consciously carried themes, images, and similar language through the extended sequence with the hope that connectivity and continuity will be preserved among numerous sections of the long poem.

Readers are asked to regard this piece as a work in progress, a partial or rough draft rather than a finished product (even if some selected segments previously may have appeared in print), and I request everyone realize various edits, emendations, or expansion may be made to the posts at any time in the future. Moreover, at some point the entire sequence will be removed to undergo a complete revision.

Therefore, I urge visitors to become followers of the blog by clicking the link in the sidebar, as well as to follow on Twitter for updates. Readers are also invited to browse my personal web site for additional information.

Indeed, a significant part of this experiment involves a certain amount of transparency that includes the possibility for readers to communicate responses and offer constructive suggestions, both of which I welcome through post comments or e-mail messages.


Also, I advise that the order of the numbered sections is not meant to be at all definitive since the long poem’s sequence will certainly be reorganized as the work in this temporary format starts to resemble a completed manuscript and begins to assume a more formal shape that might eventually be suitable for publication. In fact, I welcome interest from book publishers as well.

Thank you for taking the time to examine this trial stage, a test which I perceive as a preliminary process in the composition of a possible poetry manuscript. —Edward Byrne

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

AUTISM: A POEM


. . . . . XXVI. Solstice Snowfall

. . . . . 1

Another lake effect storm forms
. . . . . over the shore just north of here

on the shortest day of the year.
. . . . . A low late-day sun yet slowly sets

beyond a snow bank, although
. . . . . still frozen in place for a moment.


. . . . . 2

Behind empty nests, abandoned
. . . . . by birds or squirrels, now caught

in shadow like knots of darkness,
. . . . . we see—between black wet-bark

branches of leafless trees—streams
. . . . . of chimney smoke rise ever higher.


. . . . . 3

Alex smiles, sliding a full shovel
. . . . . along the driveway. He repeatedly

scrapes its steel blade down our
. . . . . steep blacktop, so pleased to be

easing a fresh layer once more
. . . . . toward the corner border of road.


. . . . . 4

Again, he shows his persistence.
. . . . . Even knowing everything taken

away will be replaced by morning,
. . . . . he continues until a path is clear,

pushing each load to where all
. . . . . the old snow has hardened to ice.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

AUTISM: A POEM


. . . . . XXV. Afternoon Assessment


Shadows shortening toward noon,
. . . . . those dark partners accompanying

everything all morning begin to slip
. . . . . away. A spot of sunlight yet flutters

inside the blank frame of an upstairs
. . . . . window, flickering like an isolated

star in a night sky. V-shapes of geese
. . . . . moved on one month ago, drifting

south over ripples of river current
. . . . . glistening under sunshine, leaving

behind only a flat slab of skyline.
. . . . . Bare limbs of backyard beech trees

sway in a chilly breeze. The brown
. . . . . stalks of garden flowers that once

bowed, weighed down by summer
. . . . . growth, are now empty, stand stark,

straight and stiff amid this early
. . . . . winter landscape. By the time those

outlines of afternoon’s silhouettes
. . . . . begin to lengthen across a tawny

stretch of lawn beneath the three
. . . . . elms bending alongside our house,

where my wife and son are still
. . . . . waiting for me to drive with them,

we will know a diagnosis, terms
. . . . . we had hoped to avoid learning,

complex sentences with words
. . . . . strung together like beads threaded

into an old ornamental bracelet
. . . . . worn as a reminder of the missing.