tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18347113136697627342024-03-08T15:00:39.470-06:00AUTISM by Edward ByrneA Book-Length Poem in Progress (an open experiment of poetry composition)Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-56315739133614110992011-12-01T00:21:00.002-06:002011-12-01T00:28:04.819-06:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >AUTISM: A POEM</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XXXVII. Fall Walk at Forest Park</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>1<br /><br />The blade of his body leaning a bit<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . .</span> into this stiff breeze, Alex leads<br /><br />me toward the crab orchard grove<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>where he disappears under cover<br /><br />of boughs, seems swallowed by late<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>day stains of shade spreading out<br /><br />from beneath each tree. Somewhere<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>above, a flock of white-crowned<br /><br />sparrows sounds loudly, suddenly<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>fluttering among a rustle of leaves<br /><br />stirred anew in every rushing gust.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>Across that still-damp ground all<br /><br />around us remain the thin scribbles<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>of smaller branches left last night<br /><br />by a rainstorm, a few already bare,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>their outlines configured in twists.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>2<br /><br />They lie as if arthritic on an uncut<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>lawn among twitches of tall grass,<br /><br />long and wet yet shifting with each<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>fresh drift of air current. The cold<br /><br />front slips onshore from the lake.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>My son runs through dark woods<br /><br />to huddle under those low longer<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>limbs of a willow. Hidden below<br /><br />their canopy, he again feels safe<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>from swift northern winds, waits<br /><br />for me to follow and to find him.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>Though Alex knows these leaves<br /><br />can’t last much longer, he needs<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>such a brief relief before winter,<br /><br />hopes for one more chance to hold<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>on to what he has learned to love. <br /><br /></div><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></div>Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-12123575751565367692011-11-13T19:07:00.005-06:002011-11-13T19:16:59.402-06:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >AUTISM: A POEM</span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>XXXVI. November Morning: Two Crows</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>1<br /><br />We step across a narrow ditch of frozen<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>runoff opening along this hillside still<br /><br />filled with a thin film of overnight snow.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>The slim shape of its slit fades away,<br /><br />disappearing into a split in that distant<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>line of pines rising straight and stable<br /><br />despite a persistent hint of northwest<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>winds chilling the early morning air,<br /><br />twisting through a covering of leafless<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>trees. Slowly moving among some<br /><br />fallen branches, Alex carries a camera<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>slung by his side, awaits my advice<br /><br />on where to aim and how to frame<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>a photo to preserve the perfect image.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>2<br /><br />He pauses, listens to the caws of two<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>crows floating in currents overhead—<br /><br />the pair seen between trees a moment,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>then unseen—and he feels the cold,<br /><br />knows that beyond the broken canopy<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>of looming black limbs, somewhere<br /><br />not far past this last ragged shore ridge<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>edging Lake Michigan, winter will<br /><br />soon arrive once more. Thrilled, yet<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>wordless, Alex lifts his lens, tilting<br /><br />at the crisscross pattern of treetops.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>He directs it toward that jagged gap<br /><br />of sky showing above him like space<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>meant for a misplaced puzzle piece.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-6313249072570744312011-10-05T00:08:00.002-05:002011-10-06T23:25:13.598-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span><br /></span></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>XXXV. New Construction</span><br /><br />In the distance, construction workers<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>hammer for hours at a new house<br /><br />taking shape. Alex sits on our porch<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>and listens, softly nodding his head<br /><br />under the slant of morning sunshine,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>as if remembering steady drumbeats<br /><br />of an old song or offering a private<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>signal of approval. When we walk<br /><br />to watch the walls of the home rise<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in late afternoon light, the second<br /><br />floor nearly done, he shades his eyes<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>to peer up toward one of the higher<br /><br />cut out places, as though he knows<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>a son like him will some night look<br /><br />off from that bedroom, in the same<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>manner he does at times, and might<br /><br />wonder about people passing below<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>or view the brighter stars far above,<br /><br />attempting to gauge ways of worlds<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>always forming outside his window.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-10898169437284225272011-09-06T20:53:00.004-05:002011-09-06T21:09:30.389-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span><br /></span></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>XXXIV. Disappearances</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>1<br /><br />Crisscrossed limbs of winter trees<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>rise along this winding river bank<br /><br />yet littered with wet leaves. Heaps<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>of bright clouds drift downstream,<br /><br />moving through a struggling noon<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>sunshine as blue skies shift to white.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>2<br /><br />Alex appears to like that blanched<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>wintry sunlight as it seeps between<br /><br />these tree branches—the long lines<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>of silhouette drawn on a steep incline<br /><br />of lawn—smiles when he finally sees<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>first flakes fill the folds of old weeds.<br /><br /><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>3<br /><br />Every dim December evening seems<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>to disappear into an empty night sky<br /><br />as quickly as a slipknot, its string<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>pulled tight, suddenly becomes undone,<br /><br />or as silver coins might vanish, lost<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>to sight by a magician’s sleight of hand.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>4<br /><br />For more than three weeks now,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>our son continues to refuse to speak<br /><br />one word, his soft voice silenced<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>by a will of stolen language. Though<br /><br />Alex still listens to each question<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>we ask, conversation has been absent.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>5<br /><br />We await the uncertainty of another<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>cold front while the Weather Channel<br /><br />warns of heavy snowfall. Tomorrow<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>morning we will note the slow erasure<br /><br />of everything, even those natural<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>features marking grounds around us.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>6<br /><br />The storm will arrive by dawn,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>sometime just before Alex awakens<br /><br />for his birthday only to notice<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>once more the way this landscape<br /><br />has transformed, those familiar<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>details of his world again taken away.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-17792950369105506422011-07-18T00:05:00.001-05:002011-07-18T00:09:57.164-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>XXXIII. Learning Sign Language: “Yes</span>”<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>1<br /><br />Driving home from the post office,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>we notice a stalk of black smoke growing,<br /><br />rising from that blister of wreckage<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in the distance, its far-off image dimly lit<br /><br />by late daylight, the dying sunshine<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>hiding behind one fine line of cloud cover,<br /><br />a dark couple of charred semis still<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>smoldering in the lingering heat of summer.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>2<br /><br />When we ask Alex whether he sees<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>this sign of damage hovering high above<br /><br />the road ahead, my son, from whom<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>we’ve heard no more than a word or two<br /><br />for four months, slowly folds fingers<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>into a fist (gesturing the way his mother<br /><br />taught) as though to knock, hoping<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>for opening of an unseen door before him.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-52261570545148207582011-06-16T01:22:00.005-05:002011-09-17T23:21:47.140-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>XXXII. Following Alex</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>1<br /><br />A lone motorboat cuts like a blade<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>through blue lake water as a couple<br /><br />of clouds attach like lint to the high<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>sky and a few ring-billed gulls slide<br /><br />by, drifting above in whatever wind<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>remains. Alex steps past last night’s<br /><br />collected debris, sticks of driftwood<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>and gathered shells left after a storm.<br /><br />Along the shoreline, its rough edge<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>still fringed by frayed white threads<br /><br />of breaking waves, we watch a dog<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>make its way toward the low mounds<br /><br />of dunes bordering a line of pines—<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>old and twisting within their shadows.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>2<br /><br />Beside these trees, spring blossoms<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>now flower, flashes of red or yellow<br /><br />sneaking among the facade of green.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>Once more, my wife and I allow Alex<br /><br />to lead. We follow as he steers us<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>near the water line, where damp sand<br /><br />shines, glistening under an angled<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>slant of sunlight, and when we listen<br /><br />to his laughter after each awkward<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>toss of beach pebble splashes its ring<br /><br />in a deeper distance he can reach,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>we excuse that lagging in language<br /><br />and take his cue, simply satisfied<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>by such a sound expressing delight.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-42004450620919433132011-05-17T01:31:00.007-05:002011-05-17T02:01:16.622-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span><br /></span></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>XXXI. April Reverie</span><br /><br />Pausing with Alex along a park path<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>on our way out toward a fallow field<br /><br />in northern Indiana on a late morning<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in early April, bits of light drizzling<br /><br />through new growth of an old oak,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>slipping between its green lacework<br /><br />of little leaves bristling in the wind<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>above, a couple of crows still caught<br /><br />in the draft moving overhead, a few<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>cream-colored clouds slipping past,<br /><br />drifting in deep blue sky, sliding by<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>like pale sails seen on an unbroken<br /><br />horizon, that straight line of an open<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>ocean, calm and seemingly endless,<br /><br />I remember watching one afternoon<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>alongside a deck rail more than four<br /><br />decades ago, the same age as my son<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>today, crossing the Atlantic, cruising<br /><br />waters west of the Azores and testing<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>the taste of salt in the air, wondering<br /><br />when wet sunset breezes and humid<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>nights might at last give way to arid<br /><br />days in a landlocked location far off<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>somewhere, only thinking once again<br /><br />of a curious course ahead, as always<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>fascinated by what the future offers<br /><br />but puzzled by its many possibilities,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>just as I am now, here in this spring<br /><br />setting, observing as Alex measures<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>every step, gauges the walk before us,<br /><br />checks a stopwatch to time our pace,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>knowing so well the distance yet to go.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-22993240199175519472011-04-10T00:17:00.005-05:002011-04-10T01:50:18.561-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>XXX. Still in Spring</span><br /><br />My son tries to climb a steep dune<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>rising high behind the beach, stopping<br /><br />just a second after each awkward<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>step to contemplate the next. As I lag<br /><br />back a bit, snap a picture—capture<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>one moment in a frozen pose, hoping<br /><br />to halt the motion of time—I notice<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>how bright daylight briefly fades away<br /><br />from the camera’s frame. Narrow<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>clouds slowly cross just above a bluff,<br /><br />floating past as easily as those two<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>offshore scows we once watched slip<br /><br />into a distant mist. Although I am<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>sure the shifting north breeze will not<br /><br />be seen in this quick photograph,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>and though nobody needs to know how<br /><br />a cold lake current suddenly carried<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>its bitter wind in early spring weather,<br /><br />I will never forget the chilled gust,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>the hurried air still ruffling Alex’s hair.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-72354621926966810472011-03-13T01:00:00.006-06:002011-03-13T01:32:47.571-06:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XXIX. January Ligh</span><span style="font-style: italic;">t</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>1<br /><br />Despite cold winds and snow-covered<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>limbs outside, bright sunlight spills<br /><br />through a bay window like clear liquid<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>flowing so slowly into a crystal bowl<br /><br />or white wine filling a glass decanter.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>My son runs one hand along whorls<br /><br />stained in the veined wood of the sill,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>his long thin fingers lit with sunshine,<br /><br />as if he’s feeling for heat beside rising<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>flames blazing from the hearth’s fire.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>2<br /><br />Outdoors, the daylight now appears<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>translucent, as seen through a jewel<br /><br />or like a low amber glow pooling<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>under the blush of an old gas lamp,<br /><br />the frozen scenery merely a backdrop<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>as Alex explores for more warmth,<br /><br />moves his hand again through a slant<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>of rays in that late afternoon glare,<br /><br />cups light in a palm, perhaps hoping<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>to save a sample for after nightfall.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-70313277918238613252011-02-04T00:05:00.003-06:002011-02-04T00:11:23.075-06:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XXVIII. November Stillness</span><br /><br />We do not speak, the quiet broken<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>only by echoes of footsteps on a lone<br /><br />trail, stones twisting between slim<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>evergreens and beyond until unseen,<br /><br />lost among a black patch, a mystery<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>bit of thickets yet filling the distance<br /><br />except for one line of light above,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>that cold flow of sunlight still rising<br /><br />higher over everything, indicating<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>the beginning of a new day—offering<br /><br />a sharp contrast to this dark path<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>we have entered—its bright opening<br /><br />like a slit that finally might split<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>the thin screen of silence between us.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-36507602951310517682011-01-19T00:11:00.001-06:002011-02-04T00:10:59.156-06:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >AUTISM: A POEM</span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>XXVII. At the Outdoor Concert</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>1<br /><br />The brass band plays favorite<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>holiday tunes, festive music<br /><br />in late afternoon one weekend<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>ahead of Independence Day.<br /><br />A blanket spread wide, we lie<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>on the lawn, watch darkening<br /><br />blue sky above, horizon tinted<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>with the hint of a new bruise.<br /><br />A sudden file of black clouds<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>crowds out the sun. Someone<br /><br />runs quickly across a distant<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>meadow now becoming lost<br /><br />in shadow. Already, distinct<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>arrows of treetops disappear.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>2<br /><br />As the squall line edges near,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>my son listens for the far off<br /><br />rumble. As always, he knows<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>to expect a change in plans—<br /><br />again he learns of uncertainty<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>that often accompanies him,<br /><br />aware we cannot even count<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>on this calm summer setting;<br /><br />and so he wonders how close<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>the storm front’s swift winds,<br /><br />how soon before we’ll leave,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>hustling under heavy rainfall,<br /><br />how much longer until a last<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> . . . . . </span>note lingers with the thunder.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-51843106137346759342010-12-28T15:10:00.003-06:002010-12-28T23:37:23.508-06:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >AUTISM: A POEM</span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>XXVI. Solstice Snowfall</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>1<br /><br />Another lake effect storm forms<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>over the shore just north of here<br /><br />on the shortest day of the year.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span> A low late-day sun yet slowly sets<br /><br />beyond a snow bank, although<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>still frozen in place for a moment.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span> 2<br /><br />Behind empty nests, abandoned<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>by birds or squirrels, now caught<br /><br />in shadow like knots of darkness,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>we see—between black wet-bark<br /><br />branches of leafless trees—streams<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>of chimney smoke rise ever higher.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>3<br /><br />Alex smiles, sliding a full shovel<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>along the driveway. He repeatedly<br /><br />scrapes its steel blade down our<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>steep blacktop, so pleased to be<br /><br />easing a fresh layer once more<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>toward the corner border of road.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>4<br /><br />Again, he shows his persistence.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>Even knowing everything taken<br /><br />away will be replaced by morning,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>he continues until a path is clear,<br /><br />pushing each load to where all<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span> the old snow has hardened to ice.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-85923961174461735092010-12-05T00:06:00.002-06:002010-12-05T00:28:58.420-06:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >AUTISM: A POEM</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>XXV. Afternoon Assessment</span><br /><br />Shadows shortening toward noon,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>those dark partners accompanying<br /><br />everything all morning begin to slip<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>away. A spot of sunlight yet flutters<br /><br />inside the blank frame of an upstairs<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>window, flickering like an isolated<br /><br />star in a night sky. V-shapes of geese<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>moved on one month ago, drifting<br /><br />south over ripples of river current<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>glistening under sunshine, leaving<br /><br />behind only a flat slab of skyline.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>Bare limbs of backyard beech trees<br /><br />sway in a chilly breeze. The brown<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>stalks of garden flowers that once<br /><br />bowed, weighed down by summer<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>growth, are now empty, stand stark,<br /><br />straight and stiff amid this early<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>winter landscape. By the time those<br /><br />outlines of afternoon’s silhouettes<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>begin to lengthen across a tawny<br /><br />stretch of lawn beneath the three<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>elms bending alongside our house,<br /><br />where my wife and son are still<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>waiting for me to drive with them,<br /><br />we will know a diagnosis, terms<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>we had hoped to avoid learning,<br /><br />complex sentences with words<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>strung together like beads threaded<br /><br />into an old ornamental bracelet<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>worn as a reminder of the missing.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-71419986142925629922010-11-18T00:16:00.002-06:002010-12-05T00:29:17.406-06:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >AUTISM: A POEM</span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>XXIV. Morning Walk in Late Autumn</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>1<br /><br />Under thin light of late autumn sun,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>brisk winds drag a mixture of brittle<br /><br />leaves—red, orange, brown, gold—<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>along cold ground around our house<br /><br />and toss them above the hardened<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>earth in the backyard flower garden,<br /><br />where we had turned the black soil<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>during spring seeding. Its pine fence<br /><br />has been weathered gray by decades<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>of days like today, wood splintering<br /><br />even before the harsh frost in winter,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>provides another way to measure time.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>2<br /><br />Awakened by a swift shift of winds<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>this morning, we saw first snowflakes<br /><br />settling among those empty limbs<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in a row of willows across the road,<br /><br />filed beside a shallow pond already<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>frozen over even though the winter<br /><br />season has not yet begun. When we<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>walk toward thicker woods beyond,<br /><br />chains of footprints remain to track<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>our path. With each word you speak,<br /><br />your tiny clouds of breath disappear<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>nearly as quickly as they’d appeared.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-84946670967892446562010-10-07T07:57:00.003-05:002010-10-07T08:02:30.162-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XXIII. Wind Currents at Dusk</span><br /><br />New gusts rustle through the few<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>trees that edge our backyard fence.<br /><br />Their thick branches shift slowly<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in the wind with the strict rhythm<br /><br />one might find in a chorus line,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>as though a whole row of dancers<br /><br />had been choreographed to move<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in time with the mellow melody<br /><br />of an orchestra’s tune. A gray<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>haze of chimney smoke unfolds<br /><br />and gently rolls over the steep<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>slope of our roof. It slips across<br /><br />the darkening lawn disappearing<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>below, sifted by stippled patterns<br /><br />of shadows in the trees. My son<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>watches all through his bedroom<br /><br />window, counts each black leaf,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>calculates the world around him.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-73114808317781900262010-09-15T08:44:00.005-05:002010-09-15T08:51:45.719-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span><span style="font-style: italic;">XXII. Balloon Launch</span><br /><br />My wife, my son, and I<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>watch two dozen balloons launched<br /><br />from the middle of a mud-filled<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>meadow, each one rising like another<br /><br />colorful sun suddenly added<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>to the wide morning sky, shining<br /><br />in bright reflection as it drifts<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>into a slant of dawn light, reaches<br /><br />toward farmland farther east.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>Every year we come here, hoping<br /><br />to notice once more how<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>these large objects float so easily<br /><br />with even the slightest breeze,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>moving smoothly through the blue<br /><br />fields above us, now cruising<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>the wind current as quietly as those<br /><br />final few scraps of clouds<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>forging higher overhead, nothing<br /><br />more than decorative remnants<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span>left over from yesterday’s storm.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-79465771579918622552010-08-31T21:53:00.002-05:002010-08-31T21:59:07.837-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XXI. Insomnia</span><br /><br />After a month of drought, the August<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>lawns burnt brown under bright sunlight,<br /><br />a few weightless clouds now drift by<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in a late afternoon sky. Already, parched<br /><br />leaves of our backyard trees have begun<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>to turn; each curls like a crisp bit of paper<br /><br />placed a little above a flickering candle<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>flame. My son shades his eyes to glimpse<br /><br />the horizon, as if again awaiting tints<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>he sees every evening hinting at the finish<br /><br />of one more day. In his mind, Alex is<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span> measuring time by charting the sun’s arc,<br /><br />tracing its rate of descent beyond far<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>lines of black trees, marking this brilliant<br /><br />vision of backlit landscape to recall all<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>these details in the darkest hours of night,<br /><br />when he will fear the sounds he hears<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in dry winds blowing outside his window,<br /><br />hoping to remember even those distant<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>stones glowing like embers in a dying fire.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-58229504279301105942010-08-19T00:16:00.001-05:002010-08-19T00:16:00.362-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XX. Beneath Leaf Shadow</span><br /><br />My son sits on one of the cement<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>benches beneath bulky shadows<br /><br />of park oaks, again awaits the late<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>flash of sunlight that will angle<br /><br />below those long lower branches<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>like a white page of stationery<br /><br />secretly slipped under someone’s<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>shut door. Leaves flutter above<br /><br />like black moths with each breeze.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>Alex enjoys the way he seems<br /><br />to disappear in the darker corridor<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>of shade, as though no one will<br /><br />know he’s still there, staying safely<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>away from sight like some young<br /><br />thrush tucked into its nest, just<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>knotted twigs, or as a cold hand<br /><br />is hidden in the pocket of an old<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>coat, hoping for more warmth.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-7629612243805851152010-07-24T00:46:00.000-05:002010-07-24T00:46:37.342-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>AUTISM: A POEM</b></span></div><br />
<br />
<i><span style="background-color: white;"></span> XIX. On Learning of Our Son's Illness </i><br />
<br />
The only sound we hear is that warm afternoon <br />
wind still sifting through the long arms of elms <br />
<br />
everywhere around us. We watch as our son <br />
runs alone across the grass, his figure silhouetted <br />
<br />
now against sunshine slowly dying in the sky <br />
behind him. Our own shadows are lengthening<br />
<br />
along the lawn, drifting like little splotches <br />
of cloud cover, spotty knots of shade blotting<br />
<br />
bits of landscape in that late light—as always, <br />
eventually seeming to link us with everything <br />
<br />
we can see until nightfall once more gathers <br />
all together in the false security of its embrace. <br />
<br />
Even in such darkness, as the three of us return <br />
home, fears of what might lie ahead never disappear.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-40415381389416203342010-07-12T00:19:00.000-05:002010-07-12T00:19:00.297-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XVIII. At the Chapel</span><br /><br />As late daylight moves through<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>a few stained windowpanes, these walls<br /><br />take on an appearance of murals,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>though printed mostly in paler shades<br /><br />of primary paint. My son slowly<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>guides one hand along the tinted images,<br /><br />dipping his fingers into that palette<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>of illuminations now brightening white<br /><br />space before him—as if he is trying<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>to test its temperature or in an attempt<br /><br />to enter an alternative existence.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>His wide smile disguises apprehension<br /><br />when he reaches to touch the green<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>serpent twisting like some vine winding<br /><br />around the brown bark of a branch <br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>toward its ruby fruit. And by the time <br /><br />Alex grabs at the image—hoping<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>to hold an apple, his whole arm tattooed<br /><br />with a brilliant glaze—he is sure<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>this world offers more colorful options.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-17106678198510647652010-06-27T16:28:00.007-05:002011-01-25T11:51:11.170-06:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span></div><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /></span> . . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XVII. Basketball with Alex</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span> 1<br /><br />He dribbles as though with rhythms<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>learned from listening to those older<br /><br />recordings of mine, the vintage jazz<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>he loves so much. Each time driving<br /><br />the basket, he even seems to imitate<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>the pulse of remembered downbeats.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . .</span> 2<br /><br />Counting every bounce, he bounds<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>across half court toward an empty net,<br /><br />appearing to appreciate reassurance<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>he receives whenever the ball returns,<br /><br />trusts that way it always snaps back<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>as if never wanting to leave his hand.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-36971826288586809022010-06-20T21:49:00.007-05:002010-06-21T15:05:47.934-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></span></div><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /><br />. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XVI. The Art of Memory</span><br /><br />First he lists the digits, numerals<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>tied together in his mind like ivory<br /><br />beads for keeping count on a rosary.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>He knows intimately those figures<br /><br />most cannot fathom, has memorized<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>pi to thousands of places. He claims<br /><br />he visualizes the numbers printed<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>as columns of cuneiform characters<br /><br />posed in pictures seen on a tinted<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>screen, perhaps in the way Cezanne<br /><br />celebrated nature’s abstract gifts<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>by suddenly delivering vivid imagery,<br /><br />broad lush brush strokes imitating<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>its right angles and the vibrant tones<br /><br />or those blunt shapes of dull stones,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>discovering true hues of shrubbery,<br /><br />finding bright lines of sunshine, light<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . l</span>sliding over slopes of shadowy hills.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-52760547116590596542010-06-12T00:46:00.003-05:002010-06-12T00:51:45.967-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /><br />. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XV. Seeking Inklings in an Old Video</span><br /><br />He held mussel shells—indigo blue inside and black<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>on back—or those round pebbles he had<br /><br />found rolling like dark marbles in the tidewater<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>wash, as if he had a handful of hard candy.<br /><br />The wind’s speed picked up, the sea shining behind<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>him, each wave displayed like a crinkled<br /><br />sheet of tinfoil unfurled under that day’s final<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>splay of sunlight. Every one of our son’s<br /><br />uneasy steps at the ocean’s edge left an impression,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>still refilling with water—even as I witness<br /><br />it now, in midwinter three years later. We could<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>not have known then to watch for the few<br /><br />symptoms we would soon learn to view with fear.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>Even those little hints we missed, a lack<br /><br />of balance whenever he would lean to lift another<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>stick of driftwood, as if the shoreline’s<br /><br />slant had suddenly become too steep, or the tipped<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>head and sideways glance he’d give us,<br /><br />though we thought he only wanted reassurance,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>were never seen as dubious sorts of acts<br /><br />that ought to indicate a reason to have misgivings.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>But to the two of us, now so suspicious,<br /><br />feeling guilt, every unsure move that camera caught<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>appears to be uninvestigated evidence left<br /><br />behind, even in this scene when the tape runs to its end. <br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>He sits on the sand, back toward the shore,<br /><br />counting out his collection of shells in a single file,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>as if pretending every one of them were part<br /><br />of some private treasure, the way anyone might<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>arrange family keepsakes, jewels or gems<br /><br />kept as heirlooms somewhere in a darkened drawer,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>brought out for comfort in a time of grief.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-85256469455978082842010-06-12T00:12:00.005-05:002010-06-12T00:18:28.430-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /><br />. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XIV. Lake Gulls at Daybreak</span><br /><br />Again the daylight begins<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in stages as a vague sun gives way<br /><br />to flames rising high behind<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>that drapery of gray sky still shading<br /><br />a smooth glaze of lake water<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>tinted jade beneath it. A tattered<br /><br />patch of flat pasture borders<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>this shoreline, an edge of dead grass<br /><br />aligned alongside the dunes,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>where white-winged gulls with ringed<br /><br />bills fly by, lift, hover above<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in an onshore wind. I watch my son<br /><br />run through a few shallow<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>pools along the soft slope of beach.<br /><br />Each time he reaches out<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>toward the birds floating overhead<br /><br />as if holding a bright new kite<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>with tightening string, feeling every<br /><br />bob or weave aloft, hoping<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>he might reel one in before we leave.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834711313669762734.post-78414818349567359952010-06-12T00:06:00.004-05:002010-06-12T00:18:49.338-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUTISM: A POEM</span></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /><br />. . . . . </span><span style="font-style: italic;">XIII. Dark Refuge</span><br /><br />My son runs among the thick trees in this wildlife<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>refuge, and I’m amazed at his ability to maneuver<br /><br />through the narrow gaps—leaping each obstacle<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>in the covered maze, jumping every exposed root<br /><br />jutting up or fallen branch underfoot—leading<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>me through those limited openings as if he knows<br /><br />where he is going, even though we have never<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>been here before. He seems unafraid of what lies<br /><br />ahead. Birds chirp somewhere in the dark snarl<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>of limbs looming above us, then fly away unseen.<br /><br />By the time we reach a wide clearing, I’m nearly<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>out of breath and in need of rest, but Alex appears<br /><br />refreshed, ready to begin again. Without a word,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. . . . . </span>he rushes by me, back to that black web of shadow.Edward Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09840825927726253150noreply@blogger.com0