Bird

And Other Writings

Susan Hawthorne

• Publisher: Spinifex Press
• Year: 1999
• ISBN:
  9781742194011
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

Birds don't fly with leads, says thirteen-year-old Avis when confronted by the limitations imposed on her at school. She has epilepsy and some of the teachers want to stop her participating in the sport she loves most. Susan Hawthorne captures the voice and longings of a child at the edge of self-realisation.
This collection draws on the experience of epilepsy mixed with imagination, mythic consciousness and an intense realisation of life.

THE LANGUAGE IN MY TONGUE

Enigma

Every day there are
Pills on the tongue
In the morning and at night.

Learning to cope,
Eventually it comes again—
Pillow wet, tongue bitten—

See the marks, the ridges—
Your teeth’s tracks running
Evenly along one edge—

Pockets of blood. There’s the
Interminable waiting; the
Living in the present,

Each day wondering, and you’re
Pleased to have made it
So that tomorrow

You’ll begin again. “Will it
Ever end?” you ask,
Pleading. Turning

Inward, you try to
Lead your mind another way,
Engaging in memories—

Prefabricated, imagined
Since only seen by others. For
You they are still too clear

Even though you were not
Present in a sense.
Inside, you know that

Living, simply living,
Establishing a routine,
Presents obstacle upon obstacle.

Safety is one thing,
Your independence another.
Equilibrium, plenty of sleep,

Patience, they all say—
Insensitive to your needs. Don’t
Learn to drive, don’t

Ever fly, or
Parachute, or scuba dive,
Since each could mean the end of

You. But what of life?
Epilepsy is not the end of it.
Pressures and stresses have an effect

Inevitably, then life goes on—
Living, loving like the rest,
Enjoying the world. You

Persist, sometimes you fail. You
Seem hardly affected by
Your fits. You wake

Each day to the
Possibility.
Once

I was there. You
Lunged towards the floor
Entered unconsciousness—

Pile of dancing muscles—
Slept until
Your eyes opened, blank

Empty. But you knew.
Perhaps it was my look.
It could have been the bruises

Left on your arms, your chin
Etched with a graze, a
Prickle of blood on your

Smooth tongue. “Sore,”
You said simply, stretching
Each limb as you

Perused the damage.
I felt powerless to help,
Longing to say something.

“Enigma” was the word that
Presented itself. A puzzle, but
Somehow the storms would pass.

Yawning, you came to again. Another
Electrical storm, another
Pulse of snapping synapses

Inching its way out slowly,
Leaving you thoroughly
Exhausted, leaving me

Perplexed at its
Suddenness and at
You.

Grand mal

I am an electrical impulse.
I dance.
I jump.
I leap across the abyss of the synapse.
I am an excessive and disorderly discharge.
I defy definition.
I recur from time to time.
I am random.
I am entirely cerebral.
I am at the threshold of a seizure.
Grand mal.
Idiopathic.
I give no warning.
I have no aura.
I leap from synapse to synapse.
I create disorder.
She cries out.
I dance.
She waves her arms about.
Everything is in a state of flux.
She falls.
Her pupils dilate.
...

Table of contents

• Other books by Susan Hawthorne
• Contents
• BIRD
• THE LANGUAGE IN MY TONGUE
• SEIZED
• TONGUE TIED
• MEDITATION ON FALLING
• THE ADVENTURES OF AN EPILEPTIC
• Acknowledgements