Two Poems - 2.

(Continued from previous post)

Over the last five years, I found that it is difficult to navigate a way for meaningful learning and growing, for a child who types.

This niche carving of a small, safe space consumes almost all my energy resources. 

On one hand there is the child with unique expressive ability, different neurology, social construct, sensorimotor mapping, motivations, and, good comprehension. On the other hand are standard educational systems clocked to practical recipes. 

M was tested by his schools- per requirements- through regular academic tests and special tests. He scored well. 

The tests continue to give him a place in this world but they also show the smallness of our testing methods. 

Because to start with, we still don't medically understand autism, what causes it, what it really is! 

I wrote this in 2013 when M first started typing independently. That is, happily typing on an Ipad-keyboard, sitting a small distance way from me. It was a milestone in my world-view. 

This poem somewhat reflects my conflict. 

*****

the secret of dark matter

are leaves green?     is the universe big?

everyone dies, one way or the other?

happiness makes you smile?

songbirds sing?    is he intelligent?

crystal clear, but not apparent to some  

For we judge from what we know    we casually

invalidate the life of another by a  

glance or sound not considering

the arduous path he walked to come here

For a sip of table water   

survival is a daily struggle

When a body is held by autism     a consistent signal-

I am here, I exist, I understand, let me in..

Above the distracting drums of bodily chaos 

is like a revelation on spiral stairs of proofs

but we mostly ask-    can we test?   

it is we who are palaced in boxes of thoughts and doings

we live by the fine satin ribbons tying us up   this is a

designer bow- two twists, 5 loops    so pretty    no ugly    even as our

sight deftly eludes the plain self-sculpturing truth well within

Our boxtrains    chugging chugging on meter gauges    

setting busy systems and metrics for measuring and pouring out

intelligence    so we can pack, box, label and ship it by ground 
to a known place for other bored systems to unpack and assort

our intellect can take only that much, anything more

is taxing to our neural nets    which we tightened nook and neuron,

patient wrench in hand    school and school and school   so we know only

how to grade others to our inflexibilities    Yes he may

Take one sip of life    no he cannot, go to quadrant B, table 3    parents can look

through a window for 3.57 minutes on alternate fridays

can we bottle birdsong?    taste green from a spring leaf?

not seek meaningfulness because we’ll all die anyway?

yesterday you typed, you typed independently.     fully.

met a metric for validation from set systems    so my weak heart

betrays me; it has joy, it is calm    I went to the same life-schools you see

I can’t come out of my box even after opening up box after

box after box    for every x of loosened ribbon knots, y new

ones appear    and loosening one somehow tightens another

anyway I lean back in my box because now I feel more assured

Of standing room for you at the table of the living    I also feel awkward..

I don’t understand. Like someone after figuring out the secret of dark matter

is waiting on a busy, dusty roadside    nervous chalk in hand   

to tell someone     tell anyone 
who stops -   I can write the proof..      independently.      fully.

April 2013