What is about daffodils that makes poets addicted to them? (I ask this, of course, because we do not have them here).
This is a poem about daffodils. Fuck.
That said, it’s a different approach to daffodils from the ones the Romantics used when they made me wish for matches so I could burn the poems to ash. For Hudgins, daffodils are warriors — their shoots are “spikes” and “blades”, they “bayonet” the earth, they’re “murderous”, undying, “back-from-death”.
Consider these lines:
the coarse dead yellow
they died back to
last summer, leaf tips
returning as pale flames:
unburied candelabra, a dead
queen rising from below,
led by a cold torch.
Well, fine. Not romantic, then. But still about daffodils.