"Body language is foreign, Don’t even know my natural gait, I have no nature to fake."
"I was borne away before coming back. I was much the same, but markedly different."
-
I am of another world –
A visitor, a stranger to your shores,
An immigrant born in your heartland.
I am other,
Apart,
A legal alien in native skin,
Vulnerable,
At your mercy.
So treat me gently:
Your customs are strange to me,
Although I was raised within them,
And I fear your people,
Your places,
You.
Accept my behaviours,
As I accept yours,
And understand that I am different,
Not dangerous;
I shall come to love your world;
And it shall become my home from home;
But at heart,
I am always other,
Always apart.
I am of another world.
Illustration by Spencer CotterellFor more otherworldly features, visit our Alien archive.
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At the end of a story
there always has to be a dog
waiting for the clue
in black and white.Every day he awaits,
the opening of the door;
that is the essence of his existence.
He waits patiently, eagerly
only to please
what he does not understand.After the end of a story
the dog walks a crowded street,
not knowing where to go,
or who to live for,
only knowing the road
in front of him:
black pavement
below a white sky.Every day he awakens
into a world
he does not understand
chasing cats
to horizons,
where dogs are not allowed.At the end of the story,
the door closes,
and faces look just the same,just too damn gray!
Looking for more canine-themed content? Visit our Animal archive.
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An autistic dance
Is a tap, rap, hum
Of a finger drum
And a clicking tongueAn autistic dance
Is a jump, skip, hop
And a spinning top
Never seems to stopAn autistic dance
Is a song of “eeeeee”
And a swinging glee,
And a joy to see.
Illustration by Sophie: "This is me with one of my favourite stims, chewing on my watch. I’m also wearing my space school hoodie, as space is one of my big special interests."
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He sits at his table doing the crossword;
A Zen crossword - doing it by not doing it
A man who sits and thinks and doesn't.
His dreams of riches gnawed at by the mice;
His ambitions of fame drying cold on the plate;
A man with a girlfriend in every town except his own;
A myriad of friends he never sees or calls,
His cushion stained with gravy,
His dictionary torn and thumb-eared,
The television jerking soundlessly,
His fish tank as still as the grave,
The Chinese carpet parked with boxes,
The cupboard filled with boxes,
Shelves full of boxes and books -
The sideboard arranged like a garden,
Filled glass jars the perennials,
Height provided by the wooden spoons,
Showy displays of cheese and jam tarts,
Old favourites like the egg-carton and toaster;
Hanging things from the available hooks,
An Inuit montage, the parsley crop, and wind chimes,
A snake of napkin rings, and a banana rack of cards;
By his chair a bag of heavy metals,
With a flattened water-cylinder atop,
An Inca sculpture with its burnished tones;
And everywhere a stillness like a latent spring,
The leaning tower of flower pots, the piles of paper,
The glass jars full of coloured string.
Poised for Aslan's coming,
Waiting for the Sun to come,
And warm the hearts of Man.
Calling all contributors!
We want to share the amazing archive of autistic prose, poetry and art that is the Spectrum magazine. If anyone who contributed to the magazine doesn’t want their work to be reproduced, please email us at content@nas.org.uk and we will remove it.
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