Week One
Read the poem “Encoded Anatomies” by Arianne True
Arianne True: I wrote this when I had my first huge crash with undiagnosed Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME). I wanted to use cephalopod anatomy as a poetic structure in something and I felt like an octopus trying to walk on land, so it seemed like a good fit. There are two versions of the last section: an original one and the version that’s published that replaced it a year later. What I wanted from the poem changed as I was reading it in community and as time passed. It’s scary not knowing why your body suddenly doesn’t work the same, especially if it’s a dramatic change. We didn’t know if I was dying or what. I remained under-diagnosed, not getting a full picture of what was going on, for five more years.
Writing Prompt: Are there any animals that move the same way you do? Write a poem that both you and that animal are in.
Alternatively, what’s a time when things were uncertain with your health or the health of someone you love? Or someone you know, like a classmate or colleague? Write about it and how that felt. Don’t try to “fix” it, just feel it.
Week Two
Read the poem “The Gravity of Joy”
Arianne True: I wrote this poem in a flurry and read it publicly that same day, which is always exciting! This poem takes place in Wright Park in Tacoma, a park I used to live near. There are a lot of reasons I love this poem, but one reason it’s special to me is how it holds so many things at once: the joy of a Northwest snowfall, the fear of getting concerning medical results, and the conflict/sweetness of being close to people you love. The poem has room for all of those things. That’s how we go through our days, holding all those things and more—sometimes all at once, sometimes trading off—but it’s always there. I like being with that, especially as a very sick person who is always suffering some amount. And I also experience exuberant joy and deep contentment and I fight with partners and notice the little delights of nearby strangers. A lot of abled folks flatten ideas of disabled folks to a single idea, experience, or emotion. It’s a very toxic way to think, so I like anything that pushes back against that way of thinking.
Writing Prompt: When have things been hard or scary, but you managed to find a moment of joy or contentment anyway? Write about it all in a letter or a poem. Tell me as much as you can so I can feel like I was there.
Week Three
Read the poem “because I was already so sick (thank you)”
Arianne True: This one is really what it says on the tin—it’s extremely straightforward. There’s this idea that a lot of abled folks have, that disabilities or illnesses are either static, or they get worse at a constant, unavoidable pace until you die. But a lot of illnesses and disabilities change in all directions, at different times or speeds. My illnesses are dynamic, meaning they get better and worse. Usually for ME (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis), you can get worse slowly or very quickly, but getting better is often very slow and over the course of years (if getting better happens at all). This also means how I am doing can be very different from one day to the next—one day I can have a visitor and a conversation, and another day I can’t even have someone in the house.
Writing Prompt: What’s something you couldn’t do once, but you can now? This could be any type of practical or emotional skill, or it could be something you learned or unlearned. Write a short poem simply appreciating the new skill or remembering the time before you had that skill. Alternatively, what’s something you used to be able to do but can’t now, in a permanent or temporary way? This can be something with your body, mind, heart, or a combination of all three.
Week Four
Read the poem ”Bedtime story: the girl and the quarter moon”
Arianne True: This poem is straightforward, addressing the reader directly. I have this obsession with the idea of expressing myself so clearly that no one can say they don’t understand, with the hope that that will change things. I have been misunderstood and disbelieved an incredible number of times, which has had such severe consequences. These are things I have to bear because of other people’s choices and failings. So, I have this hope (maybe it’s a bit naive) that if I make things so clear there is no way someone doesn’t understand, then they will have to do something about all the awfulness people keep putting me, my beloveds, and my communities through on a personal and systemic level. This kind of thing is my attempt to remove all deniability and innocence-through- ignorance from harmful people. When I wrote this piece, I thought about the audience as being the people who did not share these experiences, who likely have more power and privilege. But a really cool thing happened when I started reading it in different places. Right from the first night, folks who did share these identities would come up to me afterwards and talk about how much it meant to hear things described in a way that really matched their experiences. Sometimes, in ways they didn’t know how to articulate before. This is one of the coolest things that can happen, I think. By figuring out how to describe your own experiences, you help someone else find words for theirs too. It has been such an honor hearing this from folks, especially fellow neuro-divergent folks. The things they said to me were like gifts, and it was really special to be in that together.
Writing Prompt: What are the parts of you that people don’t seem to see, even when you show them?