April 17, 2017
comedy, cure, daughter, Diagnosis, doctor, family, fitting in, friend, humor, incurable, mother, poem, poetry, see, Sharon Olds, sight, talk
By the time I was six months old, she knew something
was wrong with me. I got looks on my face
she had not seen on any child
in the family, or the extended family,
or the neighborhood. My mother took me in
to the pediatrician with the kind hands,
a doctor with a name like a suit size for a wheel:
Hub Long. My mom did not tell him
what she thought in truth, that I was Possessed.
It was just these strange looks on my face—
he held me, and conversed with me,
chatting as one does with a baby, and my mother
said, She’s doing it now! Look!
She’s doing it now! and the doctor said,
What your daughter has
is called a sense
of humor. Ohhh, she said, and took me
back to the house where that sense would be tested
and found to be incurable.
“Diagnosis” by Sharon Olds, from One Secret Thing. © Random House, Inc., 2009.
December 23, 2016
Dissociative Identity Disorder, poem, poet, poetry
aim, arrant, base, baseball, batter, communicate, comprehend, eccentric, errand, mark, misunderstand, misunderstood, passion, pitcher, poem, poet, poetry, Robert Francis, see, sight, technique, The Pitcher, understand, understood, wild
His art is eccentricity, his aim
How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,
His passion how to avoid the obvious,
His technique how to vary the avoidance.
The others throw to be comprehended. He
Throws to be a moment misunderstood.
Yet not too much. Not errant, arrant, wild,
But every seeming aberration willed.
Not to, yet still, still to communicate
Making the batter understand too late.
November 26, 2016
Dissociative Identity Disorder, poet, poetry
bottom, Charles Simic, cool, dark, dove, gnash, happy, hard, inside, light, listen, moon, outside, poet, poetry, puzzle, quiet, riddle, rock, rock bottom, rub, rubbed, see, shine, shining, sink, slow, sparks, Stone, strange, tiger, tiger tooth, tooth, wall, walls
Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger’s tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.
From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river,
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed.
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star charts
On the inner walls.