Tag: poetry

…we know nothing about Sappho. Or worse: everything we know is wrong. Even the most basic “facts” are simply not so, or in need of a stringent critical reexamination. A single example. We are told over and over again that Sappho “was married to Kerkylas of Andros, who is never mentioned in any of the extant fragments of her poetry” (Snyder 1989:3). Not surprising, since it’s a joke name: he’s Dick Allcock from the Isle of MAN. It’s been over 139 years since William Mure pointed this out… yet one finds this piece of information repeated without question from book to book, usually omitting the dubious source, usually omitting any reference at all.

Holt Parker, ‘Sappho Schoolmistress’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 123 (1993)

i.
“but you don’t look autistic”
i know, it’s shocking
i’m sure you were expecting scaly green skin
or another pair of eyes hidden beneath my bangs
but take a look
two legs, two arms, on pair of eyes
i look just like you
i look like a human
because that’s what i am
autism does not have a costume
our wardrobe isn’t embroidered with puzzle pieces and the color blue
funnily enough
like everyone else on this earth
people with autism are all different
our experiences are not stagnate across the globe 
and just because i can disguise my stims
doesn’t mean i am more or less autistic than someone who cannot
and believe it or not
saying that is not a compliment
ii.
yes
autistic people can have jobs
we can be loved by someone other than our family members
we can drive
and go shopping
not all of us are nonverbal
and while most of us cannot handle the horrors of eye contact
and certain stimuli 
once again
we’re all different
try not to act so surprised when we’re able to appear just as neurotypical as you
iii.
“oh, so you’re like Rain Man?”
if this is your way of implying that you can drop a bunch of toothpicks on the ground and then ask me how many there are
kindly fuck off
iv.
“autism is a disease and i’m sure they’ll find a cure for you”
we are not sick
we are not suffering
illnesses are contagious
you can’t catch autism
it isn’t going to spread if you get too close to me
this isn’t rocket science
it isn’t that hard to understand
you either have autism
or you never will
and more importantly
there is nothing about us that needs to be cured
v.
instead of listening to a fear mongering
hate spreading
poor representation
unsupportive
harmful group that markets itself on our existence and feels the need to “fix” autistic people
why not just listen to autistic people instead?

Five Myths / Things You Should Know About People with Autism
(cc, 2017)

A Call for Acceptance

strangerdarkerbetter:

A Call for Acceptance

There is beauty in the ways we move

Every flapping hand and tapping leg

Every spinning, rocking, bouncing body

A symphony of stims

Producing an ethereal melody

The flowing motions of bodies always moving

A special joy lives in our interests

A bubbling, warming, overflowing joy

Derived from our obsessions

We become troves of information

Ready to share at any moment

Wanting to spread the radiance we feel

We build our days with routines

Comfort and peace live in repetition

That which brings a sense of calm and safety

These motions carried out again and again

In a familiar pattern known deep within

Carry us through our days

We see the world differently

Noticing the beauty of the smallest details

The world colored in crisp black and white

Experiencing senses, emotions, life so intensely

Possessing minds that find the solutions others can’t

Seeing magnificence in that which is so often overlooked

Our lives are piles of good and bad things

Just like yours or anyone else’s

The good neither erased nor overshadowed

By that which is unpleasant

And so we call for acceptance

Of all the good and even the bad

Autism awareness is coming

But that will not help us

Awareness paints us as monsters

Burdens, tragedies, problems to be fixed

Highlighting all the bad

While throwing out the good

And so we go Red Instead for acceptance

And call upon you to join us in this fight

We are done asking nicely to be seen as human

We now demand acceptance

Acceptance of brains that work differently

Acceptance of the things you do not understand

For there is good in autism

There is beauty in the ways we stim

Special joy in the intensity of our interests

Peace and safety in the routines we build

Advantages to minds that developed differently

There is good to being autistic

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Autism

fanimation4231domination:

Autism is a highly misunderstood neurological spectrum disorder, but as we move forward, we are learning more and more.

We can be extroverted
And we can be introverted
Or in the middle

And thats okay

We can be talented or geniuses
And we can be average
Or less than average

And thats okay

We can be challenged
And we can overcome
Or maybe not

And thats okay

We can be hypersensitive
And we can be hyposensitive
Or we can be both

And thats okay

We can have lots of friends
And we can have just a few
Or maybe none

And thats okay

We can empathize
And we can express it
Or maybe we cant

And thats okay

We can love affection
And we can avoid it
Or we can be indifferent

And thats okay

We can communicate
And in any way we can
Or maybe we cant

And thats okay

We can be passing
And not passing
Or somewhere in between

And thats okay

We can have autism
And in any form
Or display

And thats okay

Because not all of us are the same
Our spectrum a color wheel
Each of us with a unique palette of colors
Thats makes up the painting of who we are
But it is not what defines us

And thats okay

lucasscheelk:

frodoismycat:

It’s hard to read, so I didn’t finish it but it’s nice.

I can help out with that, @frodoismycat

–

A Prayer for a Non-Religious Autistic

By: Lucas Scheelk

–

May my special interests combat depressive episodes

May my stimming fingers repair what self-harm has taken away

May my clothing layers be my armor

May my toes be graceful, sturdy, and stealthy for travel

May my pocketed stim toys provide comfort in public

May my routines keep me safe

May my routines keep me safe

May my routines keep me safe

May my sensory weapons – be it music, be it noise-cancelling headphones, be it sunglasses, be it grounding smells – defeat the presence of crowds, defeat the sirens, defeat the sun, defeat dissociation

May my self-love flourish, no matter how small

May my reminders aide my memory

May my reminders aide my memory

May my reminders aide my memory

May my hyperfocus enhance my self-education

May my infodumps release overloading information – verbal or otherwise

May my heart shield when necessary

May my logic question and deduce

May my surroundings continuously rain when I am most in need

For I am worthy

For I am worthy

For I am worthy

May my repetition help me heal

May my repetition help me heal

May my repetition help me heal

–

@couragetobe – You can find my poem at QDA: A Queer Disability Anthology (I saw in your tags that you were wondering which book it came from)

I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.

b.e.fitzgerald (Art is a Facebook status about your winter break.)

Ask me what kind of porn I’m into,
and I will take you on a magical journey to
fanfiction.com/harrypotter/nc17—

What turns me on
is Ginny Weasley in the Restricted Section with her skirt hiked up,
Sirius Black in a secret passageway
solemnly swearing he is up to no good,
and Draco Malfoy
in the Room of Requirement
Slytherin in to my Chamber of Secrets,

I am an unapologetic consumer of
all things Potterotica,
and the sexiest part
is not the way
Cho Chang rides that broomstick,
or the sound of Myrtle moaning,
the sexiest part
is knowing they are part of a bigger story,
that they exist beyond eight minutes in
“Titty Titty Gang Bang,”
that their kegels
are not the strongest thing about them,
and still,
I am told that my porn is unrealistic.

Not quite as erotic
as flashing ads that say “JUST TURNED 18!”
so you can fantasize about fucking
the youngest girl you won’t go to jail for;

I’m told that my porn isn’t quite as lifelike
as a room full of lesbians begging for cock,
told that this
is what is supposed to turn me on,

Don’t you give me raw meat
and tell me it is nourishment,
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.

It looks like 24/7 live streaming
reminding me
that men are going to fuck me
whether I like it or not,
that there is one use for my mouth
and it is not speaking,
that a man is his most powerful
when he’s got a woman by the hair;

The first time a man I loved
held me by the wrists and called me a whore,
I did not think, “RUN.”
I thought, “This is just like the movies,”
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.

It looks like websites and seminars
teaching you how to fuck more bitches;
Looks like 15-year-old boys
bullied for being virgins;
It looks like the man who did not flinch
when I said “Stop,”
and he heard, “try harder,”

If you play-act at butchery long enough
you grow used to
the sounds of the screaming.

It is just a side effect of industry;
Everything gets cut
into small, marketable pieces,
you can almost forget
they were ever real bodies.

I will not practice bloody hands.
I will not make-believe dissected women.
My sex cannot be packaged,
my sex is magic,
it is part of a bigger story;
I am whole.
I exist when you are not fucking me,
and I will not be cut into pieces
anymore.

Brenna Twohy, FANTASTIC BREASTS AND WHERE TO FIND THEM 

Brenna’s slam poetry has gone unexpectedly and brilliantly viral — but she’s about so much more than Harry Potter 

(via micdotcom)

WOW that is great

(via feminismforthewin)

Oh there’s the rest of the poem.

(via amemait)