In October, I participated in a wonderful poetry celebration known as OctPoWriMo. One of our early prompts was to write a poem inspired by the word “eccentric.” The creative process remains a mysterious one to me (and probably always will), but through whatever machinations of imagination and muse, “The Dangerous Weird” is the poem that emerged.
I wrote it thinking of all the wonderful people I know in my life who have weathered the storm of being seen as different, odd, less-than-normal. It’s a celebration of that amazing, dangerous weird within all of us, something I think that my online community of creative folk can appreciate.
This community is one that inspires me and encourages me towards all sorts of mischief, like rambling about my love of Hugh Jackman and sloths, or dancing around on tabletops with a lampshade on my head (as seen at the last #myWANA Twitter party). The chance to be fully myself, knowing that I’ll be accepted, is an incredibly rare one, and one for which I am truly grateful.
So this one’s for you, gang. Enjoy!
“The Dangerous Weird”
i am eccentric you say because color tastes of sound because history is my dwelling place i was a child with a calligraphy pen my mother's borrowed cameos a collection of teapots a girl enchanted by amulets faerie unicorns imagined elven revelries worlds that exist only in my head acne-cursed chubby sally-jesse-raphael-bespectacled awkward child too smart too ambitious teased and tormented for the dangerous weird (because idiot child bullies can't pronounce "eccentric" and don't trust the abnormal) but i am a forward-thinking girl despite the obsession with dusty antiques adulthood was my ticket to survival and i waited honed and polished my weird shined it up like the best silver serving set to put on display for rare souls that understood (password: "kindred spirit") today i find the peculiar ones those grownup off-beat children catch them running through the rye together we make a mountain of weird a paradise of strange to us, the song of color the taste of word is to be savored time is neither linear nor measurable and the world is our playground eccentrics one and all