Ode To Asperger's Revision 2

The world's too close; and never safe or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there
beyond my door: it's chaos and old pain.
I want to drive somewhere, so I must bear
my old garage door's perforating din.
Unraveling, I climb into the car;
the seat-belt viciously abrades my skin.
No choice; each time I have to go too far.

I see each single leaf and piece of trash
across the floor; before the car's in gear
I'm rattled by a buzzing in the dash;
a squeal as well, that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust;  the dog;  a spilled essential oil;
damp wool;  deodorant.  My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.

Dried water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
are overlays that move and disappear
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist I see them near:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.

Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
So far it isn't fun, but still time flies
as dread accumulates: a tidal wave
created from impending mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.

My self-reliance dictates policy,
(It always does, regardless of my fear.)
I sell an apt pretence of normalcy
but even so, the effort costs me dear.
My neck's as stiff as steel when I arrive
and sidle in, avoiding every eye.
I shrug my way past chattiness; contrive,
with every unmet glance, my alibi.

So no-one knows that I've got what it takes,
or calls to mind a word I left unsaid.
I'll leave sometime before my patience breaks,
and once I'm gone, I might as well be dead.

Revision 1
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
I want to drive somewhere, so I endure
the shrieking metal door of my garage;
then tense as seat-belt webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a fraying wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear;
assaulted by a rattle in the dash,
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust;  the dog;  a spilled essential oil;
damp wool;  deodorant.  My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My self-reliance dictates policy,
(it always does, regardless of my past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even so, the effort's just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so, as I arrive
I sidle in, avoiding every gaze,
and furtive, ducking through the crowd, I strive
to vanish lamely in the social maze.
I've never proved that I have what it takes;
I never can remember things I said.
I  leave about the time my spirit breaks;
I always end up wishing I were dead.
(Apparently I'm in a creative frenzy right now....the critiques so far really clicked.)
Original
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
Suppose I want to drive; I hunch and bear
the shrieking metal door of my garage,
then tense as nylon webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a twitching wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear,
distracted by a rattle in the dash;
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
In rapid train I catalogue the smells:
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water spots displayed on side-view glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My confidence convinces even me,
(at least it's done so in the recent past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even though I try, I'm just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so when I arrive
I sidle in the door, avoiding every eye
and weaving through the crowd. Furtive, I strive
to put my back against the wall and spy
out my escape. I never can remember things I said:
each time, before the end, I find I'm wishing I were dead.

(02-24-2015, 09:58 AM)Leah S. Wrote:  The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain. Feels as though 'old' is there just to achieve meter count
Suppose I want to drive; I hunch and bear
the shrieking metal door of my garage, 'bear? as in carry it?
then tense as nylon webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a twitching wreck. I'm not convinced by 'the itch' - you've called it chaos and old pain


I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear,
distracted by a rattle in the dash;
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
In rapid train I catalogue the smells: 'rapid train' doesn't work for me
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil. Good use of sounds and scents

The water spots displayed on side-view glass Not sure what 'side-view glass' is.
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.

Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.

My confidence convinces even me,
(at least it's done so in the recent past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even though I try, I'm just half-assed. this contradicts the line 'my confidence convinces even me'
My heart's not in it, so when I arrive
I sidle in the door, avoiding every eye You lost your iambic pentameter in this line - two too many syllables
and weaving through the crowd. Furtive, I strive and this line - stress should be FURtive
to put my back against the wall and spy Not keen on the enjambment here


out my escape. I never can remember things I said: four extra syllables here
each time, before the end, I find I'm wishing I were dead. and here

A good view of the world experienced by a dysfunctional person. I think you've padded out your poem with excess words just to achieve the required meter though. Thanks for posting this.

I pretty much go along with mercedes' technical critique; it's the diagnosis that bothers me.

You're describing "attention deficit disorder", not "Asperger syndrome".

(02-24-2015, 10:34 AM)just mercedes Wrote:  

(02-24-2015, 09:58 AM)Leah S. Wrote:  The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain. Feels as though 'old' is there just to achieve meter count
Suppose I want to drive; I hunch and bear
the shrieking metal door of my garage, 'bear? as in carry it?
then tense as nylon webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a twitching wreck. I'm not convinced by 'the itch' - you've called it chaos and old pain

I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear,
distracted by a rattle in the dash;
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
In rapid train I catalogue the smells: 'rapid train' doesn't work for me
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil. Good use of sounds and scents
The water spots displayed on side-view glass Not sure what 'side-view glass' is.
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My confidence convinces even me,
(at least it's done so in the recent past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even though I try, I'm just half-assed. this contradicts the line 'my confidence convinces even me'
My heart's not in it, so when I arrive
I sidle in the door, avoiding every eye You lost your iambic pentameter in this line - two too many syllables
and weaving through the crowd. Furtive, I strive and this line - stress should be FURtive
to put my back against the wall and spy Not keen on the enjambment here

out my escape. I never can remember things I said: four extra syllables here
each time, before the end, I find I'm wishing I were dead. and here

A good view of the world experienced by a dysfunctional person. I think you've padded out your poem with excess words just to achieve the required meter though. Thanks for posting this.

"out there" is where "chaos and old pain" is. It's supposed to be a riff on 'chaos and old night.' Obviously it didn't work.
'bear' as in 'endure.'
"side view glass" = side-view mirror. That's actually a place I was forcing the meter though.
The "itch" is from the seat belt strap on my dysfunctional neck. Sounds like that didn't work either.
The last two lines are supposed to have seven feet..... I'm not keen on the preceding enjambment either.
Sounds like I need to be even more descriptive about the process of suffering through the sensory overload of the sound of my garage door, the textures and smells in the car, the detritus on the road while backing out, and the traffic while driving to a social event which required mustering my courage, even if in a rather half-assed way. If I fix the enjambment, can I get away with a couplet with seven feet to end an ode? I couldn't get much information on the structure of odes.
I'm already working on a revision....seems most fixable so far.

---

(02-24-2015, 10:52 AM)rayheinrich Wrote:  I pretty much go along with mercedes' technical critique; it's the diagnosis that bothers me.

You're describing "attention deficit disorder", not "Asperger syndrome".

Sorry to disagree: see 'sensory overload' and 'intense world' theory. People on the spectrum (like me) often see every detail of the world around them vividly and in a very immediate and intense way. It can produce extreme distress, but it's a result of not being able to stop paying attention to every little tiny detail of every single thing, not a 'deficit' in attention.

(02-24-2015, 11:04 AM)Leah S. Wrote:  Sorry to disagree: see 'sensory overload' and 'intense world' theory. People on the spectrum (like me) often see every detail of the world around them vividly and in a very immediate and intense way. It can produce extreme distress, but it's a result of not being able to stop paying attention to every little tiny detail of every single thing, not a 'deficit' in attention.

That "attention deficit" in "attention deficit disorder" comes from:

"He can't pay attention in class."

So the "deficit" is not in the lack of attention, it's the inability to control it.

Maybe the disorder should have been called:
"concentration deficit disorder"
"inability to focus disorder"
"distraction abundance disorder" (my fave )

Or more prosaically:
"Everyone else saw the tiger about to slash him to pieces;
but Ray, observing its beautiful strips, noticed the ones on
the right were slightly wider than the ones on the left."

BUT!!

My critique wasn't about better names for "attention deficit disorder",
it was about you titling your poem:

Ode to Asperger's

when you were describing (as you just have again):

"Attention deficit disorder".

Now I'm fine with poets taking all sorts of liberties with our known
universe for some sort of demonstrable reason, but in this case I
can't seem to find one and am left to assume that you confused
the two terms.

Please feel free to justify.

ray


Definitions and such:

A.D.D. (Attention deficit disorder):
Often fails to give close attention to details or makes careless mistakes.
Is easily distracted and forgetful. Has trouble holding attention while
performing daily tasks. Does not seem to listen when spoken to directly.
Does not follow through on instructions and duties (loses focus, side-tracked).
Has trouble organizing tasks and activities.


Level 1 autism (Asperger syndrome*):
Difficulty initiating social interactions. Unsuccessful response to social
overtures of others. Decreased interest in social interactions. Engages in
communication with others, but to-and-fro conversation with others fails.
Attempts to make friends are odd and typically unsuccessful. Inflexibility of
behavior causes significant interference with daily life. Has difficulty
switching between activities and problems with organization and planning.


*The diagnosis of Asperger syndrome was eliminated in the 2013 fifth edition
of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5) and replaced
by a diagnosis of level 1 autism spectrum disorder.

(All this smushed together from Mayo clinic and
Medline (U.S. National Institutes of Health) sites.)

Speaking personally here, I respectfully decline to argue about the correct diagnosis. However, I would appreciate some feedback and critique for the revision, which I hope addressed some of the (very helpful) line by line critique. If anyone feels the need to continue the discussion about topics like the DSM 5 and ASD, perhaps it would be better to PM me, or even better, I can refer you to a qualified psychologist specializing in adult diagnosis of ASD.

(02-24-2015, 09:58 AM)Leah S. Wrote:  Revision 1
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain. -- one semi-colon here would do a better job than the two commas to smooth out your first line, with a small change -- "the world's too close; it's never safe or plain."  Over-caesura-ing the first line can destabilise a poem (why yes, of course that's a word!)
I want to tell you what it's like out there -- -- no need for a dash here if you use a colon in the next line instead.  
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
I want to drive somewhere, so I endure
the shrieking metal door of my garage;
then tense as seat-belt webbing scrapes my neck. -- you might try "I tense" and then "and breathe in deep" on the next line (without a full stop on this one)
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage -- my accent makes this a very awkward rhyme but you must write for how you say it yourself, of course
the itch; already I'm a fraying wreck. -- stress-wise, this is just the tiniest bit off.  Stresses are fixed by "the itch; I have become a fraying wreck", but I don't like how prosaic that sounds so I'm just putting it in as an example, not a suggestion.  

I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,  -- the leaves are not strewn by the floor, so this is odd to me
and still I haven't put the car in gear;
assaulted by a rattle in the dash,
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:  -- these lines are excellent, both meter- and content-wise
exhaust;  the dog;  a spilled essential oil;
damp wool;  deodorant.  My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.

The water-spots on rear-view mirror glass -- with "the" at the start of the line, it seems odd to miss it out before "rear-view mirror" -- it's not a big deal but it does detract slightly for me, even if I can't think of an immediate fix -- unless you start the line with a one-syllable adjective for water-spots instead of the article
make ornamental patterns on the scene -- "the scene" is vague -- this whole line seems a bit of a filler to fit the rhymes in
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock. 

Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies -- this little throwaway aphorism seems out of place
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.

My self-reliance dictates policy,
(it always does, regardless of my past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even so, the effort's just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so, as I arrive
I sidle in, avoiding every gaze,
and furtive, ducking through the crowd, I strive
to vanish lamely in the social maze. -- I feel that this stanza is more tell-y than show-y -- I'd have loved a couple of concrete images 


I've never proved that I have what it takes;
I never can remember things I said.
I  leave about the time my spirit breaks;
I always end up wishing I were dead. -- although this ending seems melodramatic, it rings of truth.

I tried to address some of the comments in this latest revision...thanks to all. Leah

Hi Leah, I haven't read the critiques, but I remember reading the original and having no time to comment. So, I've come back now. I'm going to focus more on content and word choice less on form. Here goes:


Ode To Asperger's Revision 2


The world's too close; and never safe or plain.--I like the idea expressed about the world pressing in, but it feels like you're just giving me the flat idea. I'd like something a bit more evocative for an opening line. If you could go down one more level to an image that brings this idea across it would probably be stronger and give the poem force to propel the reader forward.
I want to tell you what it's like out there--This line could be cut because you go into line three if the rhyme scheme wasn't a consideration and lose nothing. The writing itself is the act of telling--this line reminds me of a habit I have that irritates my wife. I say: Can I ask you a question. She says: You are. This is filler much like my question.
beyond my door: it's chaos and old pain.--Chaos and old pain is vague
I want to drive somewhere, so I must bear
my old garage door's perforating din.--perforating din is a nice touch.
Unraveling, I climb into the car;--I like unraveling but I think you need to build more to show that word as the ultimate conclusion of the sequence.
the seat-belt viciously abrades my skin.--viciously is too telling. Can you get there with an action and not an adverb?
No choice; each time I have to go too far.

I see each single leaf and piece of trash--This is still not definite enough. The vein of each single leaf. Some distinctive element of the trash.
across the floor; before the car's in gear
I'm rattled by a buzzing in the dash;
a squeal as well, that I can barely hear.--The buzzing and the squeal present an opportunity for imagery. Animals or insects? Something to make this more than just flat words. Bring us into the scene.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust;  the dog;  a spilled essential oil;--good list, maybe an em dash after oil naming the particular oil.
damp wool;  deodorant.  My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.

Dried water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
are overlays that move and disappear
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist I see them near:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.--While I like the sense of overload you may want to introduce a parallel tension. A child on a bike perhaps, an animal near the car. If you can weave a real danger into the overload it might ratchet up the intensity. If you're not careful too much will eventually become noise. I want to have a reason not to read this too quickly.

Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,--is it likely that there is more than a single jet in under a mile
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
So far it isn't fun, but still time flies--cliche ending to the line detracts
as dread accumulates: a tidal wave
created from impending mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.

My self-reliance dictates policy,--This line feels sterile and disconnected from the previous lines. The effect is likely deliberate but I don't know if it's a good choice.
(It always does, regardless of my fear.)
I sell an apt pretence of normalcy
but even so, the effort costs me dear.--In fact, I really don't like the content or tone change of these first four lines. They detract from the scene and content for me.
My neck's as stiff as steel when I arrive
and sidle in, avoiding every eye.
I shrug my way past chattiness; contrive,
with every unmet glance, my alibi.

So no-one knows that I've got what it takes,
or calls to mind a word I left unsaid.
I'll leave sometime before my patience breaks,
and once I'm gone, I might as well be dead.--I don't dislike the ending, but I think you need to build to it more to actually sell it to the reader. I think that work has to be mostly done in the previous stanza.


I like the idea you're exploring quite a bit. I hope some of these comments will be helpful to you. 


Best.


Todd

(02-24-2015, 09:58 AM)Leah S. Wrote:  Ode To Asperger's Revision 2

The world's too close; and never safe or plain. Shouldn't that be a comma? The semicolon I find detracting.
I want to tell you what it's like out there
beyond my door: it's chaos and old pain. So is the first line just meant to set up this line into the rhyme? It's not a strong, or perhaps even a good, opener. Too much of a load into an idea that's either unfamiliar or all too familiar to the readers -- if such a line was to be made, I think that would be better for a conclusion.
I want to drive somewhere, so I must bear
my old garage door's perforating din.
Unraveling, I climb into the car; A period wouldn't hurt here -- I feel that somehow, the overuse of the semicolon might just end up robbing this of the visceral power the whole "sensory overload" thing you're trying to show here has. Semicolons tend to scream "oh this poem is all sophisticated and intellectual and whatever", and that surely doesn't fit this ode.
the seat-belt viciously abrades my skin.
No choice; each time I have to go too far. So should the semicolon here. And "I have to go too far" feels contrived.

I see each single leaf and piece of trash
across the floor; before the car's in gear These two sentences would be better separated by a period. And shouldn't there be a comma at the end?
I'm rattled by a buzzing in the dash; 
a squeal as well, that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells: 
exhaust;  the dog;  a spilled essential oil;
damp wool;  deodorant.  My nose rebels Okay, that list I am sure should have been defined by commas, not semicolons. That was overdone. And deodorant sounds funny here -- the stress at the end is kinda forced.
against the random mix, and I recoil. Random doesn't feel right.

Dried water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
are overlays that move and disappear
as I back out the drive. Before I pass, 
a dozen things insist I see them near:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock. I'm bothered by the semicolons again.


Overall, though, for this part, I really, really get the vivid feel of sensory overload, especially with the two catalogues. Onto the next part.

Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear) These two lines sort of rattle me. A sudden jump in time that's too close in mood to be the real twist -- I think this could be smoother.
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear. Why is it that this list is in commas, yet the two other lists are all semicolons? :S
So far it isn't fun, but still time flies This line also feels contrived. The readers already know it isn't fun, and the idea hasn't been developed well enough (although, mind you, it doesn't need to be developed furthermore, I think) for it to have reached a climax worthy of repetition. And the play on the idiom doesn't work for me.
as dread accumulates: a tidal wave
created from impending mouths and eyes 
of people I don't know. I must be brave. This is weird. Unlike the earlier portrayals of the condition, where the sensations are exaggerated so that the regular reader can feel those same ticks themselves, this metaphor isn't really strong enough to make us feel that sense of alienation. I would discard this metaphor altogether, and use something else, something more relatable or, er, physically painful.

This stanza keeps to the strong imagery of the earlier stanzas with its first half, but then loses it when it goes into a slightly different idea without maintaining the same sense of vividness.

My self-reliance dictates policy, The meter sounds forced by "policy".
(It always does, regardless of my fear.) Feels kind of redundant, this line -- we already know you're filled with fear (or an emotion close to it), and the first line already establishes the idea that you'll keep on anyway. This line should be different.
I sell an apt pretence of normalcy "an apt pretence of normalcy": isn't the stress in "pretense" at the second syllable?
but even so, the effort costs me dear. This idea feels like it could be better elaborated -- what do you lose, exactly? Or what kind of pain do you feel, which would again be best related with some hyperbole or whatever, as in the earlier stanzas.
My neck's as stiff as steel when I arrive
and sidle in, avoiding every eye. 
I shrug my way past chattiness; contrive,
with every unmet glance, my alibi. 

So no-one knows that I've got what it takes,
or calls to mind a word I left unsaid. The conflict with the speaker having to overcome the great fear of talking to people, and being pretty good in doing so, is completely overshadowed by the speaker overcoming the sensory overload of inanimate things, which might not be so different, sure, but most neurotypicals are not bothered by regular things, whilst a good ratio of them are so bothered by social interaction. This resolution feels deficient.
I'll leave sometime before my patience breaks, "Patience breaks" downplays the speaker's struggle here -- I find that it's more a matter of patience that she manages to break through all of this, instead something about determination or willpower or something. I think something along the lines of "I will leave soon, before the levee breaks / and victory is swallowed by my fear", something more forceful and dramatic, would work better. 
and once I'm gone, I might as well be dead. I really dislike this line, since it invokes the speaker's death unnecessarily. The speaker has already gone through so much, and seems to have won through in the end -- to suddenly view the speaker's escape as form of death is basically making the whole passage meaningless, which I don't think this ode intends to do.

The last two stanzas end up being fairly weak for me, as they're somehow disconnected, in a not very smooth or twist-y turn of thought, from the neuroticism of the earlier passages. Otherwise, a strong poem, I think -- thanks for the good read!

(02-24-2015, 10:52 AM)rayheinrich Wrote:  I pretty much go along with mercedes' technical critique; it's the diagnosis that bothers me.

You're describing "attention deficit disorder", not "Asperger syndrome".

Im going to critique this poem in another comment, but I have to address this one comment in particular. The title is obviously very intentional, and unless you are in a position to categorize or diagnose someone, please shut up. You obviously have no idea what it's like to be on the spectrum.
The OP responded to this comment two months ago. Stepping in now with "Shut up" is uncalled for. Please use the PM system or Pig's Arse to crit a crit and address your critique to the poem, as you did below. /mod

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(02-24-2015, 09:58 AM)Leah S. Wrote:  Ode To Asperger's Revision 2

The world's too close; and never safe or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there
beyond my door: it's chaos and old pain. I think 'familiar' would work instead of 'old'. Old implies past, but clearly the speaker is not past it.
I want to drive somewhere, so I must bear Really forced rhyme. Instead of 'so I must bear' try 'without a care'
my old garage door's perforating din. 'To escape my old garage...
Unraveling, I climb into the car;
the seat-belt viciously abrades my skin.
No choice; each time I have to go too far.

I see each single leaf and piece of trash
across the floor; before the car's in gear 'floor' is not specific enough. Is it the floor of the car? Maybe try 'I see each single leaf and piece of trash flash in my peripheral'
I'm rattled by a buzzing in the dash;
a squeal as well, that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust;  the dog;  a spilled essential oil; Lose essential oil. You need a more visceral olfactory image to go with exhaust and dog.
damp wool;  deodorant.  My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.

Dried water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
are overlays that move and disappear
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist I see them near: The language in this line is labored. 'A dozen things I see relentless in my rear' (a suggestion)
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.

Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear) Play with time in this line. You have a great start to this stanza. 'Backwards, but so fast forward' (suggestion again)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
So far it isn't fun, but still time flies you could add '(or crawls)'
as dread accumulates: a tidal wave
created from impending mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave. Weak. 'Pupils restricted, sudden light to my cave' (I dont know, something like that...)

My self-reliance dictates policy,
(It always does, regardless of my fear.)
I sell an apt pretence of normalcy
but even so, the effort costs me dear. Forced rhyme again. 'Shift my conscious effort into gear."  
My neck's as stiff as steel when I arrive
and sidle in, avoiding every eye. Love this. Eye contact avoidance is very real.
I shrug my way past chattiness; contrive,
with every unmet glance, my alibi.

So no-one knows that I've got what it takes,
or calls to mind a word I left unsaid. 'words that hang unsaid or said'
I'll leave sometime before my patience breaks,
and once I'm gone, I might as well be dead.

Revision 1
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
I want to drive somewhere, so I endure
the shrieking metal door of my garage;
then tense as seat-belt webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a fraying wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear;
assaulted by a rattle in the dash,
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust;  the dog;  a spilled essential oil;
damp wool;  deodorant.  My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My self-reliance dictates policy,
(it always does, regardless of my past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even so, the effort's just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so, as I arrive
I sidle in, avoiding every gaze,
and furtive, ducking through the crowd, I strive
to vanish lamely in the social maze.
I've never proved that I have what it takes;
I never can remember things I said.
I  leave about the time my spirit breaks;
I always end up wishing I were dead.
(Apparently I'm in a creative frenzy right now....the critiques so far really clicked.)
Original
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
Suppose I want to drive; I hunch and bear
the shrieking metal door of my garage,
then tense as nylon webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a twitching wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear,
distracted by a rattle in the dash;
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
In rapid train I catalogue the smells:
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water spots displayed on side-view glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My confidence convinces even me,
(at least it's done so in the recent past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even though I try, I'm just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so when I arrive
I sidle in the door, avoiding every eye
and weaving through the crowd. Furtive, I strive
to put my back against the wall and spy
out my escape. I never can remember things I said:
each time, before the end, I find I'm wishing I were dead.

(04-23-2015, 05:44 PM)TimeOut Wrote:  

(02-24-2015, 10:52 AM)rayheinrich Wrote:  I pretty much go along with mercedes' technical critique; it's the diagnosis that bothers me.

You're describing "attention deficit disorder", not "Asperger syndrome".

I'm going to critique this poem in another comment, but I have to address this one comment in particular. The title is obviously very intentional, and unless you are in a position to categorize or diagnose someone, please shut up. You obviously have no idea what it's like to be on the spectrum.

You assume too much. Don't let what you feel mislead you. While suffering is the same
no matter what it's called, I think it's absolutely necessary to be clear about any aspect
of mental illness. Miscategorizing, misnaming might seem trivial to you, but it is NOT to me.
The public perception of mental illness is distorted enough, it's damaging to make it worse.
Look at the information, the references I provided in my comment. If you can't provide
better references, I suggest it's you who should shut up.
ray