Welcome to National Poetry Month day thirty. We come to the end of National Poetry Month. It’s been a great month. I’ve had so many great poems posted and I invite you to join in, even beyond April, to post a poem in the comments below.
Today I have fellow GoodReads author and poet Shenanigan Cheesefield. While no one knows what has become of her, you can enjoy her particular brand of poetry below. Then check out the links for more Shenanigan poetry. Enjoy!
A Surrealist Poetess of Yesteryear
Shenanigan Cheesefield — dubbed eccentric, elusive, and enigmatic — is the pen-name for a British surrealist painter whose real name is not known. She was born apparently in Devonshire on the Ides of March, 1908, but nothing more is known about her prior to her association with the surrealists around 1928. After 1933, no record of her has turned up. She left behind only one known collection of poetry before the discovery in 2013 of another small trove of poems.
Poetry obviously meant a great deal to Ms Cheesefield, though she engaged in it only sporadically, it being not her ordinary mode of self-expression. If she were alive to discuss the work, I’m sure she would allude to Man Ray and Tsuguharu Fujita, then smile and shrug a little while richly scented blue smoke curled up from her cigarette holder. Her work speaks directly to the subconscious, unencumbered by the necessity for concrete manifestations of her imagery in trivially parsable prose.
The so-called Mildewed Paper Collection of recently discovered work will be published this summer by Smashed-Rat-on-Press. Below is presented the second poem from this pamphlet. The earlier collection of Ms Cheesefield’s known work is available for free as a “print it yourself” project from the publisher, and the upcoming collection is expected to be free as well.
2. Oh, Sylvienne, My Sweet
Within the sparkling eclairs of your
the moldy puff-pastries of your
upon the silken daffodils of your
the roots of which grow unsullied
on your parlour floor
and creep vividly from the groin
of the kitchen table,
the chopping block,
the benevolent tantrum
in the oven of shame…
I reach for solace in the
of your warbling cataracts.
Naked, naked, naked,
as the goddess of navel oranges–
Wild, wild, wild,
as the dessicated entrails of a
butterfly in a bowl of clotted cream.
Copyright © 2014 The Estate of Shenanigan Cheesefield