Of Poetry, Blogging, and Disability

I’ve been blogging for eight years. Most days my blog offers a quirky “combo” of disability rights and the topical. Very often it’s more than a wee bit influenced by poetry. Accordingly Planet of the Blind isn’t for everyone. I sometimes write things like:

I wake and laugh. Unborn trees in the yard. Laugh and laugh.

There are so many minutes for which no proper names exist. Deep in the night I carved my name on a seed. Now I’ve awakened outside the broken temple. 

I studied poetry in my twenties and without further ado, I decided it was my candy store.

I’ve come to know both poetry and disability are often unexplainable. (I don’t mean each can’t be examined—but only that their comprehensive meanings may elude us.)

Last week I told a lecture hall filled with young “to be” physicians at Columbia University no two people with disabilities are alike. And no two people who have the “same” disability are alike.

We should aim to be less “alike”.

I love this quote by Herman Hesse: “We are sun and moon, dear friend; we are sea and land. It is not our purpose to become each other; it is to recognize each other, to learn to see the other and honor him for what he is: each the other’s opposite and complement.”

Would that more able bodied people might learn to see disability as a complement.

Would that we might wake and laugh. There are so many minutes for which no proper names exist.


When I was fresh out of college I had the opportunity to travel some, and I did. Travel is broadening of course, but its also difficult if you have a disability. In my case I was both seriously visually impaired and unable to discuss the matter. Picture walking in strange cities hunched over, feigning sight, following shadows. That was my shtick.

The problem with a shtick is what it does to you on the inside. You know you’re dishonest. And walking along a big thoroughfare like Kurferstendam in Berlin you feel your dishonesty step by step. Why Berlin? I remember walking with five or six young scholars, all Fulbrighters like myself. They were admiring the sights. I was pretending to admire the sights.

On the inside I was scarcely able to trust myself. In Berlin I thought of Goethe’s axiom:  “Trust yourself, then you will know how to live.

If you don’t know how to walk safely you’re not living. In my twenties I lived a pantomime of freedom. I’ve written a great deal about this. What I haven’t said, at least not precisely, is that hiding a disability is another disability—the first is physical, the second is self-administered through an abeyance to culture. The culture doesn’t like your abnormality and you ingest that dislike, much like those cattle in France who eat poisonous flowers in the autumn. And you get used to eating the damned flowers. Goethe again: “Few people have the imagination for reality.

Giving up the flowers is the imagination. Do not, I repeat, do not eat the culture’s flowers.

Of course being “out” with a disability doesn’t save you. Oprah, etc. Being “out” means you’ve traded the shtick of passing, of invisibility, for adventitious and hourly discourses with opposition.

Yum yum! You’re not eating flowers. You’re in a Starbucks in the Newark airport eating a blueberry muffin and your guide dog eyes you and twelve other people, strangers all, are eyeing you because you’re significantly different and roving eyeballs enjoy novelty and you’re the novelty de jour. So even eating your muffin you’re a discourse of difference and sometimes the whole thing is silent—you hear the muffin going down your throat—and sometimes the thing becomes vocal as one of the strangers can’t resist and opens a conversation this way:

Stranger (business man type, with London Fog overcoat): “I knew a blind person once…”

(There’s nuance to this—he knew a blind guy in college, or a blind person who lived down the street.)

Sometimes the stranger asks if I actually knew the aforementioned blind person because after all, shouldn’t all blind people know each other?

You’re chewing your muffin and thinking “what if I asked him if he knows all the other men wearing London Fog raincoats?”

Stranger man sees your blindness. His language is cultural. He sees your difference. He may be sincerely interested. But by definition he isn’t talking to you with full intelligence. And you think about the reasons why this should be so: his bad schooling, his parochial experiences with physical difference; years of bad movies and TV; a vaguely decent neo-Victorian sentimentality pulsing through his veins. But no matter, you’re now a figure of difference and now you must decide how to avoid the self-administered abeyance to culture that once upon a time marked your efforts to “pass” as a sighted person and which now, threaten you with the “flip side”—your role when “out” is to make physical abnormality seem like a snap. My muffin tastes like dark flowers. I take a sip of house blend. I chew.

Do you see how mediocre this is?

Now you’re in a fix. The stranger’s invitation to talk is also an invitation to participate in conversational pornography—“inspiration porn” whereby you, the disabled one, say moderately inspirational things. Or majorly inspirational things. Or the stranger says inspirational things, like, “I knew a blind guy once who could take apart a radio and put it back together.”


I knew a blind guy who climbed a mountain. I knew a blind guy who went sky diving. Who caught more fish than the rest of us combined…

And you want to say—I knew a short guy once. I knew a short guy who could reach the peanut butter on the top shelf with a special device called a step-ladder. He was amazing. Really inspirational. 

But you don’t because its easier to get out of the intrusive moment by being as mono-syllabic as possible. Or you use the dog as a ploy. I’ve got to go. The dog needs to go out.

And you walk around the bloody monolith of the airport feeling the trap of performativity. Your script is handed to you and you can tear it up if you wish. You could screw with the guy’s head and say:

Yeah all blind people know each other. We have psychic powers as the Greeks well knew.

You could eat the flower arrangements on the table.

You could tell him you’re a misanthrope and urge him to go away.

But the best of you is empathetic.

What you say has become more refined over the years.

I don’t talk about blindness. There are agencies for that. Lets talk about neutrinos. 




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Poet’s Notebook, Monday Morning

I make cloud houses for living people.

I’m a fair singer also.

Don’t judge my posture.


Poor Achilles, always a mama’s boy.


Eat more American prunes.


Cat stares down coyote. Past lives are decisive.


Best anagram ever: “Public relations” = “Crap built on lies.”


Imagination had been grudging. Now it was doggish.

Over there, and over there.

The endless ground beneath us.






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Morning Notebook

Life was left sitting alone like a custodian.

School kids were herded past and told to ignore what they didn’t understand.

“We have the most commodified kids in the world here,” said Dr. Tiptoe.


When I die I hope I can really taste the birch leaves.


My clothes traveled far. I didn’t always appreciate their faithfulness.


Tolstoy: “I wanted to run after him, but remembered that it is ridiculous to run after one’s wife’s lover in one’s socks; and I did not wish to be ridiculous but terrible.”


If you want to be terrible you have to practice by sitting still.


A dog month, is a pomegranate split, thirty days of seeds.


Only in New Hampshire can you vote for a Nazi by mistake.


Edith Sodergran: “Every poem shall be the tearing up of a poem…”


Oh my feet, you moth eaten grand seigneurs, keep talking. It’s OK.


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Early Morning Walk in April

I walked in the still bitter wind. My dog scented things far off, one of the skills all dogs have.

I think dogs can scent the past as well as things in the distance—they nose out old men in bearskin coats who traded in furs, women in hats with peacock feathers.

Particles of time flow around us.

I’m OK living without proof, don’t need to know what occurs in the heavens of stones.

A polyphonic hermit thrush was out there someplace. I heard him and thought,  “he’s early this year.”


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On Being a Finn: Thumbnail Sketch

I wake and laugh. Unborn trees in the yard. Laugh and laugh. Gallop through my nervous system. Certain stars were in my dream. When I talk, words like coffee are automatic, but after-dreams are dancing still. They’ll rise, quietly into the shadow sky. The coffee is good. “Time,” I think, “to open a window.”

There are so many minutes for which no proper names exist. Deep in the night I carved my name on a seed. Now I’ve awakened outside the broken temple.

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