by heytherewildflower

I can’t tell you how many poetry books I’ve collected in the past few months. too many. I cant tell you how many book books I’ve collected in the past month. I don’t sleep much. this leaves alot of time for alot of alot.

anyway, I’ve had a specific request from MAXOID robot to post a poem from this book of poems I found (by Rosemary Daniell) called “A Sexual Tour of the Deep South.”

This collection is oddly vintage. the poems themselves, however, are entirely modern. Rosemary Daniell’s hayday was in 1935– but these poems read like one of the wilder “Gurlesque” anthology poems. In other words, she was writing about the same time and place Faulkner was. He was notoriously misogynist in his interviews (in my opinion, facetiously so- for the purpose of perpetuating his SOUTHERN GENTLEMAN JACKASS persona which he carefully constructed to hide behind.) (so whenever somebody asked him something like “HEY BUD, DO YA KNOW OF ANY GOOD WOMMIINN WRITERS?” he’d say “nah, any good woman is a saint. and all saints are in sandwich factories making sandwiches and laced up in corsets.” if asked for the names of good black writers…he’d take a bit longer to answer the question…but generally, he’d try to skirt those too. EHH fuck it. faulkner skirted almost any question that asked him to qualify or offer criticism of his peers. but ANYWAY….no way would he have mentioned a lady like Rosemary Daniell….but yes way, maybe he knew of her or at least inspired her bravado!?)

I don’t have the heart to post the more graphic ones on this blog. I can enjoy a gnarly poem…but underneath it all, im a girly girl and I prefer gnarly romanticism to gnarly gnarly stuff like “THE RAPE OF LILITH” which I will spare you in lieu of something genuinely beautiful (LETS JUST SAY ROSEMARY DANIELL HAS A WORSE POTTY MOUTH THAN I DO so I am doing you a favor here!)

Tiger Lilies

Are the plums on your tree ripe?
My fists hang like heavy pods

And July, the blades of
curved leaves carve my legs.

In the pond, the swerve
of fish is turn, and twist.

The claws of tiger lilies
swipe my restless skirt.

In August, ripe things lapse.
Inside my chest, my heart

(out of step: still pumping)
is hacked by orange knives:

the hot maniacs of city
gardens: repeating, repeating.

-Rosemary Daniell

ok ok and one more:

Note to a Third Husband


though nine years younger
your red beard makes you
the father I never had

and I love
your dirty socks
the freckle by
your left eye
the mole between
your buttocks
-Rosemary Daniell

I actually can’t type up anymore of these. I am blushing and embarrassed as I type. And the ones posted above are easily EASILY the most boring. I don’t know if the rest of Daniell’s poetry is clumsy and rampant shock factor or actually doing exactly what it’s intended to do because I can scream ASSHOLE IS HOLY, Recite Ginsberg and Rimbaud til’ Im blue in the face, and at my high school, I was infamous for always winning “The Penis Game” but I can’t bring myself to type up these poems and post them on this blog.

Ashamed of being ashamed of my pigeon hole???