Tears in Sleep
All night the cocks crew, under a moon like day,
And I, in the cage of sleep, on a stranger's breast,
Shed tears, like a task not to be put away—-
In the false light, false grief in my happy bed,
A labor of tears, set against joy's undoing.
I would not wake at your word, I had tears to say.
I clung to the bars of the dream and they were said,
And pain's derisive hand had given me rest
From the night giving off flames, and the dark renewing.
― Louise Bogan
As I wrote yesterday, I feel as if we have just entered a new era, an era of tears, an era that defies belief in which one might want to cling to the bars of dreams. Or if not dreams, then poetry that can remind one that they have souls, a conscience, an ability to bear witness. Poems like those collected in Dustin Brookshire’s anthology, When I Was Straight, a Tribute to Maureen Seaton, a lovely celebration of both Maureen Seaton’s legacy and the LGBTQIA+ experience. And Maureen Seaton is truly a poet we all miss.
In his heartfelt introduction, Dustin Brookshire writes: “I fell in love with Maureen Seaton’s work when she read at Java Monkey Speaks in the fall of 2004. I was taking poetry classes as electives at Georgia State University, and Maureen was the first rockstar poet that I had met. I can still close my eyes and see Maureen on the Java Monkey stage and hear her reading her poem “Furious Cooking,” I sat in the audience in awe of Maureen. I’ve remained in awe of her since that day, and I’ll remain in awe of everything she accomplished and who she was until the day I die. If you also knew Maureen, then you’re nodding your head in agreement because you know exactly what I mean.” I do know. And I am nodding my head now.
This collection is not only brilliant, and necessary, it is also a gathering of exquisite poets/poetry. Like this one by Julie Marie Wade. https://www.thecommononline.org/when-i-was-straight/
And this poem by Diamond Ford, which beautifully captures the adolescent experience.
When I Was Straight by Diamond Ford
The van mumbled in rush hour, a cemetery yawning gray teeth across the hillside to our right. “Hold your breath,” the birthday girl said, & all the five girls ‘cept me clap shut, hands smacking their happy mouths, matching bracelets nibbling red marks in their cheeks
& it wasn’t because I couldn’t afford a bracelet. & it wasn’t because this was my first sleepover (thought it was, twelve & never spent a night not home)
or that when I entered the birthday girl’s home I stumbled on the stairs that went forever, stiffened hallways, a white couch, a stand mixer, one lilac room, all hers—the birthday girl—who made us play celebrities, so I stilted into Ashanit (because her song carried me through all my imagined heartaches—the first, that none of you knew her name—)
and it wasn’t because there was a girl playing Justin who smelled like soap & smiled when she flicked bangs from her brunette eyes (I sighed, leaning my head into the basket of her thighs, when we claimed a minute, hoping my heartbeat didn’t clang its bell)
but because the birthday girl was Britney & each time their hands fluttered like dizzy birds to meet, I swallowed honey, spoke a quiet sweet enough to drown. What did I know about myself that wasn’t a key in the wrong lock? This desire, unaffordable—the dusty pocketbook of my heart clamped shut.
And this poem by Kelli Russell Agodon, which also takes one back to the life of a teen girl’s sexual awakening.
When I Was Straight by Kelli Russell Agodon
I thought everyone was easy
to love. The boys who brought me
bouquets of bluebells, the girls
braiding daisies into my hair at slumber
parties—the girls I couldn’t tell.
When I was straight, I was mostly curved,
a windy road of fading firs, a sunset
on a dead-end street holding the Indigo
Girls in one hand and Elvis Costello
in the other. Remember how I always wished
to be Tom Sawyer, maybe for the raft,
maybe to be closer to the perfect
Becky Thatcher. Looking back, it’s easy
to understand how I was in enchanted
with every pathway, how each exit was also
a possibility. Everyone is easy to love, I told him,
I told her, I told them—a garland of forget
-me-knots blooming around my waist.
And I can’t resist posting one more on the same theme.
When I Was Straight by Alison Blevins
When I was straight, my body was detached. My face, a portrait in every mirror, changed each night, some new arrangement of drip and swirl, watercolor hair, my lips thin pastel rose then absurdly large and quirked at each corner. My body now still resists recognition, insists on new arrangements of color and sound. But when I was straight, my eyes sand most mornings, sang a language of green and gold—something felt promised to me then, at 13, at 15, so young, fresh mourning in my mouth and breath, even behind closed doors, even afraid, even flat and still in my best friend’s bed, our fingertips only just so, our hips pulling and pulling. Silent in her bed, her fingers touched my arm—gentle as blue and sweet corn and pond water lapping. Nothing would ever be the same after—that pain promised—how want burned, want wetted our lips and teeth. In Japan, they have a word for when your mouth is lonely. Pain promised to never let go at 16 in her bed, on our backs, barely touching skin. When I was straight, I hoped that pain might last forever.