Reporter
He arrived very late
scowling dark
tree-top tall
wearing yellow pants
to talk about my life
in Oklahoma
and Dust Bowl exodus
to California
Confessed his grandmother
came from Oklahoma
but he wanted me to know
HOW
he wanted me to know
she never hoed a row
of cotton
or picked a migrant boll
letting me know
she was of a higher caste
and he bolted out the door
with his legal note pad
never said Thank You
or go to heck
To the Poppy Fields
Late as the season was
spring did hobble in
that crippled year
Gophers began to burrow
and birds learned to fly again
but I hadn’t learned to drive
a car
A boy in a spasmodic Dodge
with no license plate
gave me a ride to the edge
of infinity
There I was among the poppies
clothes didn’t fret me
loose blowy blouse
thoughts free as wind
my purse empty
except for a box of raisins
and a rosary of olive seeds
My old shoes eager
to wade deeper into a bog
of flowers
not knowing what the
depth might be
not even caring
Amateur Weather Man
I don’t know if Wang Lee
has any hair
beneath his pillbox hat
but I do know
he has two gold teeth
and a big book on weather patterns
considers himself a sage
among meteorologists
He predicted with his widest smile
that my life would be fair
not a cloud in sight
Wang makes great sweet and sour
but he doesn’t know his weather
it is always hit and miss
when I show up at the Rice Bowl
I must watch for swaying lanterns
steady the quaking teacups
crack fortune cookies
with the heel of my shoe
and hide under the table
when the storm strikes
Ms. McDaniel’s descriptive prose may be vignettes of towns and folk from her collective Okie experience before and after her arrival in California, but her poetry stands in a class by itself as it captures memories, images and feelings with a style as deceptively sparse as it is insightfully moving.
Wilma’s poetry is--unique. Her ability to parse down experiences that transform readers in the telling alludes to her power through minimal use of language for maximum literary impact. She is not wordy or verbose, yet many of the images she vividly conjures through her poetry are striking, if not breathtaking. [See additional text at the bottom of this page, and additional reflections by this publisher in the introduction to Wilma’s Illustrated Bibliography. . .]
In her published work with Back40 are some solid collections of poetry, including Tatted Lace (1997, second ed. 2009), Getting Love Down Right (2000), and a posthumous collection of poetry & prose, Walking On An Old Road (2007).
In Tatted Lace (and Other Handmade Poems), Wilma deftly combines short vignettes with her classically sparse, plain-spoken poetry for some deeply revelatory work. The book has been republished recently as a second expanded edition. Here are five from this collection:
Defending My Domain at Fifteen
We were almost twins in age
and I loved my city cousin Vy
but she wounded me
when she said haughtily
“I hate all your little dried up towns
how on earth can you stand Chowchilla
is that really its name
Ceres and Turlock and a dump called Delhi
“What do you do on Sundays
in these hick towns
“Why doesn’t Uncle Ben move to Oakland
and work in the foundry with Daddy
and Uncle Albert
“You could go with me so many places
the Cliff House and Chinatown--
really start living, girl
eat all kinds of foreign food”
I just stood there
beside a bottlebrush
my eyes caught in its crimson flowers
hot sand worked into my sandals
and I couldn’t say a word
to defend the little towns that clung to me
Duties and Risks of a Godmother
Accustomed to rowboats
on sluggish ponds
I now sail toward Pixley
in a red Toyota
I cruise with a wetback
my own godson Ampiro
who can’t steer a boat
and neither can I
no problema for us
Now we wave at Tipton
Saint John rings his bell
and blesses us three times
I hold a fruit basket on my lap
bon voyage gift from the sheriff
in deep appreciation
we break all records
as we speed along
my head scarf whips
thirty times a second.
Ampiro’s beard parts in half
every other breath he takes
Ahead we see our destination
the duty-free Port of Delano
Wilma’s natural cadence with free-verse seems to have flowed effortlessly from mind-through-pen-to-paper, lending insight to her unique, self-described “affliction”. . . as a life-long poet sharing her perceptions and experiences with friends and the world-at-large. As Wilma relates in her pricelessly revealing WEM on W.E.M.* letter to fellow writer Joan Jobe Smith:
“. . . about at age nineteen or twenty, I discovered Walt Whitman. The old established poets were a lost cause. I obtained a copy of Leaves of Grass and devoured it after work. I also had to be wary of family eyes, and hid the thin green book far back under the couch between clandestine readings. I rarely met anyone with whom I could express my awe at discovering this incredible book. Indeed, I was afraid to do so. I began to allow myself strange thoughts. Maybe it would be permissible for me to string my poems out line by line any way they came to me. . . . ”
That significant event in Wilma’s process of self-discovery, validating a manner that would allow her to more freely hone her mastercraft, was a profound turning point for this remarkable young Depression-era woman, who from as early as age eight insistently strove to capture and describe images through words.**
*[‘WEM on W.E.M.’ first appeared in Chiron Review, issue #59, Autumn 1999, as ‘The Almost-Interview of Wilma E. McDaniel’]
**[Don’t miss reading some other poems by Wilma featured on the previous page; and a click away on each photo in Wilma’s Visual Timeline, also featured on the previous page]
All poetry and prose of Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel presented here and on the adjoining webpages are
© 2009 Back40 Publishing, Sebastopol, California; and are posted on the pages of this website in tribute to,
in memory of, and as an informative resource highlighting the late poet and her literary legacy
Comments? To reach Back40 Publishing, please contact: james@back40publishing.com (back to top) (back to home page)