Lately, I’ve been thinking about lesbian literature and how it has informed and enriched my life. So I decided to post this early poem titled “The Dickinson House” from my poetry collection When I Was Straight published in 1995 by Insight To Riot Press.
The video of me reading the poem is below and under that is the text of the poem.
This is excerpted from my essay titled The American Sappho: In Pursuit of a Lesbian Emily Dickinson originally published in the Harrington Lesbian Fiction Quarterly HLFQ in 2002.
Poetry is, in fact, the essence of things and, as such, is essential. “Poetry,” as Audre Lorde wrote, “is not a luxury.” It changes perspective; it alters reality; it influences destiny. An older woman once explained to me how—as a recent immigrant in her late teens—a line from Kahlil Gibran directly changed the course of her life, enabling her to pursue her education and support her family and herself.
In my own experience, poetry was, and for that matter still is, a matter of survival. When I think back to the chaos that was my adolescence, I find two lines from Shakespeare embedded in my mind. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,/creeps in this petty pace from day to day. Despite my self-destructive behavior (in my adolescence), these two lines implanted in my mind the idea that I would have a tomorrow. Thinking back on the adolescent girls I knew who never made it into adulthood, I can’t help but reflect that a tomorrow is not a petty thing to have.
Emily Dickinson is myth and riddle, genius and saint, a contradiction that contains—like the lines of her poetry—ever more contradictions. If I had been introduced to her work differently—if her poems that are commonly taught, the safe, accessible ones, were replaced with the explosive, forbidden ones—I would have found her equally as compelling as William Shakespeare, perhaps more so.
In hindsight, I can’t help but think that—despite my resistance to her—more of Emily Dickinson entered my mind and psyche than I ever thought possible at the time. I was not a product of Victorian New England, nor a member of the upper-middle-class intelligentsia. But the fact remained that in the years of my adolescence—full of turbulence, self-preoccupation, and self-denial—Emily Dickinson and I had a few things in common.
In many ways, I was as isolated as critics have depicted Emily. Prior to my freewheeling adolescence, my truest and most interesting life was lived inside the covers of books. And even in my peer-pressured drinking and drugging reveries, I was essentially alone. Like Emily, I wanted desperately to avoid a future that waited for me like a noose. For Emily—so often depicted as pathologically childlike—that future would have been a “mature” relinquishing of herself to what was expected of womanhood: marriage, preferably with children and sedate “ladylike” avocations, not the lifelong passionate outpouring of poetry. Emily did have the model of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s (a favorite poet of Emily’s) passionate poetic marriage to Robert Browning, which produced many love sonnets as well as Barett Browning’s tributes to the spirit of women. But in Emily’s time, Elizabeth Barrett Browning was an exception. And a hundred-plus years later, when I was a teenager, heterosexual marriage was still something expected of young women from all class backgrounds. It was an expectation that I was hell-bent on avoiding.
Like Emily, I was to go on to become a lover of women. I was out of touch with myself and my lesbian sexuality as an adolescent—a fact that stood like the eye of the storm in the midst of my self-destruction. My life was also a “Loaded Gun”—a sentiment Emily had expressed in her poem “My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun.” In tenth grade, I wrote a poem that won a contest in my English class. The poem long since gone, entitled “Wow Man” or something along those lines, was a typical 1970s-influenced ode to disillusionment, culminating in the last line: “there’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.” I was, in my nascent poems and in my young life, obsessed with death. Emily faced her preoccupations with mortality head-on, as illustrated by the opening stanza of her poem:
I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.
In Emily Dickinson’s poems, death was an escape, but it was something else also, a state of its own, a transformation into nothingness, a stillness at the center of everything. Her poem that begins “I felt a funeral, in my Brain,/ And Mourners to and fro /Kept treading-treading till it seemed/ That Sense was breaking through—” entered my mind, as I read it over and over until I, along with Emily, entered the second stanza: “And when they all were seated, / A Service, like a Drum- / Kept beating-beating Till I thought/ My Mind was going numb–.”
The poem was like a shell pressed to my ear, and, in the third stanza, I listened hard with Emily: “And then I heard them lift a Box/ And creak across my Soul/ With those same Boots of Lead, again/ Then Space began to toll.” In relating to the coffin-sized confines of her life, I was then able to move into her expansiveness as she writes in the fourth stanza, “As all the Heavens were a Bell, / And Being, but an Ear, / And I, and Silence, some strange Race/ Wrecked, solitary, here—”
This is where the poem ended for me for years, since in at least one version of her selected works, the editor had neglected to put in the last stanza. Then one day, when I picked up The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson edited by Thomas H. Johnson, I discovered the poem’s final stanza as Emily had written it. This poem had taken up residence in my mind for years, since I had committed its loose, not quite rhymes—so typical to the work of Emily Dickinson with her standard ballad meters composed of alternating four and three-beat lines—to memory.
And since the poem had become, in essence, part of my own rhythms, its meter flowing in my own breath, its cadence pounding in my blood, I could easily make the transition with her into the last stanza: “And then a Plank in Reason broke,/ And I dropped down, and down– / And hit a World, at every plunge, / And Finished knowing—then”.
Emily Dickinson first entered me completely with this poem. Like Dante, I had found my guide. He had his Virgil guiding him through the realms of hell and, as for me, well, I had Emily reaching out her hand, beckoning me to walk with her to the edge of my life.
When I came out as a lesbian, poetry returned me to myself. My love for women wasn’t the only thing I had been suppressing. With it was my love for myself and the essence of my life force, poetry. I hadn’t yet precisely put my finger on it, but there was something implicitly lesbian about some of the verses of Emily Dickinson. Later, I would identify it as the interiority of the language. Consider, for example, her poem that begins “Wild Nights—Wild Nights!”
Wild Nights—Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile—the Winds
To a Heart in port
Done with the Compass
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor—Tonight
In Thee!
“Wild Nights…” is a poem of passion, of longing, and ultimately a request by the narrator to “moor—tonight” in the mysterious “Thee!” She longs for wild nights, intimating that she knows what they are all about and, perhaps, has experienced a few of them in her time. The winds of Victorian-era heterosexuality might have been futile, but her heart was “Done with the Compass— / Done with the Chart!” Emily was a rule breaker: in her life (refusing to marry, refusing ultimately to go out, stubbornly sitting at home writing her poetry); in her writing (her poetry was seen as obscure, too far from the norm to be considered publishable) and in her love for women (in particular Susan Huntington Dickinson, Emily’s sister-in-law who received the most correspondence and “letter poems” from the poet).
The last stanza—“Rowing in Eden”—borders on the explicitly sexual, with Emily as the agent of desire, the rower as opposed to the one who is rowed in. Her beloved is Eden, the Sea, the vastness of two women together. Emily is not asking to be taken, to be possessed or vanquished, most definitely the literary metaphors used by writers of the time, including the Romantic, Victorian and post Victorian-era female writers (Austen, the Bronte sisters, and later the two George’s, Sand and Eliot). Emily wishes to row, to moor, to rest inside of her lover, which in realistic anatomical terms would imply that she had a woman in mind.
Not surprisingly (since I’ve long had a thing for the passionate stirrings of lesbian poets) Emily Dickinson had gotten her hooks into me. I returned to her verses again and again, committing a few more of them to memory. I did not initially read through her work methodically back to back (as I had with a few writers, such as Willa Cather and James Baldwin), but Emily Dickinson—as great American poet—was between the lines of so many of the poets that I had read. It was impossible for me not to have an image of her publicly portrayed personae in my mind. She was a spinster, a recluse dressed in white, the eternal virgin who had little, if anything, to do with men. And now, with my mind awakened to the fact of Emily’s longings for wild nights…she had taken on quite another dimension.
….
When I think about Emily Dickinson, I also think about Sappho. Unlike Sappho, Emily did not go down, (so to speak) in history as a lesbian of note. But like Sappho, Emily also actively pursued her desires. She had no hesitation in stating what she wanted (especially from her beloved Sue), and she also did not shrink from writing of the anguish that came from having what and whom she loved so dearly withheld from her. As Sappho says in one of her fragments, “…I know it is true;/ those that I love best/ do me the most harm…” Emily Dickinson never made any distinct mention of Sappho in her correspondence or her poems. But when I look at two of their poems side by side, there is no doubt in my mind that Sappho was an influence on Emily.
…like the sweet-apple,
Turning red at the top of the highest branch,
Forgotten by the apple gatherers—no,
Not quite forgotten, for they could not reach so far…
***
“Heaven” –is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree
Provided it do hopeless—hang
That—“Heaven” is—to Me!
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud
The interdicted Land
Behind the Hill—the House behind
There—Paradise—is found!
Her teasing Purples—Afternoons
The credulous—decoy
Enamored—of the Conjuror
That spurned us—Yesterday!
The first is a fragment from Sappho, the second is a complete poem from Emily Dickinson. They both write of the apple, Sappho’s highest bough, out of reach of the apple gatherers and Emily’s “Heaven”—the place where a seemingly unattainable paradise is found. And yet she speaks of paradise as found in “The House Behind” Is she telling us something then, that she and Sue did have their piece of paradise? (Sue and Austin’s house was slightly behind and to the side of the family home where Emily lived.) (Sue was said to have been lovers with Emily and Sue’s husband Austin who was Emily’s brother had a mistress.) The “Her” whose “teasing Purples—Afternoons—” might well have been Sue, the inhabitant of that house.
And if there was pleasure (which is obvious from the poems), there was also—as evidenced from the poems—torture. There was the husband, the children, and no doubt the reluctance of Sue to climb too far out on a limb for the eccentric Emily. Sappho, too, wrote some of her best love poems for women who lived far away or who were otherwise unattainable.
For more information on my most recent novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, click here:
To read an excerpt from Loving Artemis, click here.
In honor of Valentines (Vagina) Day, I decided to repost this section from my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love and marriage (published in 2022 by Thorned Heart Press) that was published in the anthology Favorite Scenes From Favorite Authors, from I Heart Sapphic Books. I am particularly enthusiastic about this excerpt because it was inspired by the Lesbian poet Sappho. The excerpt is called “The trees blushing”
“Blurb:
Artemis found the love of her life when she met Linda, but their passionate relationship fizzles when Artemis lands herself on the other side of the law. Pulling the pieces of her life together, Artemis rekindles her relationship with Linda, and together they raise a daughter.
Meanwhile, Grace, running from her past, starts a life with Thalia. At a pride parade, Grace spots someone who reminds her of Artemis, who she was briefly involved with in her youth. Old feelings are rekindled. A lifetime of rejection, abandonment, and fleeing rears its head. Now she must come to terms with her past, put her relationship with Artemis to rest–or risk losing everything.
Artemis and Grace embark on a journey of revolution, love, and marriage and discover that love finds us when we least expect it.
Tell us about this scene:
Art (Artemis) and the love of her life Linda take a motorcycle ride to the nearby quarry where they make love for the first time.
Why did you choose this scene as your favorite?
This scene is heavily influenced by my reading of the ancient Greek poet Sappho (who lived on the Island of Lesvos).
* * *
Excerpt:
(from chapter ten)
They got back on the bike. Art turned the key in the ignition and pulled forward slowly. This was where Art had come with her old girlfriend Allison. They had been on foot then, that first time when they hid behind the trees and called out to each other with lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Art remembered the light shining through the trees, the way it did now as it danced on the ground around them. It was summer then. Now, red, orange, and brown leaves covered the path. Art felt the bump of tree roots under the tires. She brought the bike to a halt. She sat there for a minute, feeling the warmth of Linda behind her: the inside of Linda’s thighs cupping her ass; Linda’s arms hugging her waist. Art had been thinking that it didn’t get better than this. But now she knew it did — and it would. The difference between the time that she first came here with Allison and now, coming here with Linda, was that Art had been here before. She knew what she was doing. But she wanted it to be Linda’s idea. Linda got off the bike first. She walked to a log next to the path and sat down.
“I can see the lake from here,” said Linda. The back of her head was toward Art. Her windswept hair fell over her jacket collar.
“Come on over.” Art swung her leg over the bike. She put down the kickstand and stood there for a moment, holding the handlebars until she made sure that the bike was on steady ground. Then she walked the bike to the side of the path — beyond the log where Linda was sitting.
A narrow trail shot off from the path. It looked familiar. Art walked over to the log. “You can see the lake from here,” Art said. “I never realized that before.”
Linda scooted closer to Art. “You know the first time I walked into school with you, the girl sitting next to me in homeroom asked, ‘Who’s that cute guy with the motorcycle?’”
Art looked at her.
“Art is a guy’s name,” Linda explained.
“It’s short for Artemis,” answered Art. “My mother’s Greek. Artemis is a goddess from Greek mythology.”
“Yeah, the goddess of the hunt. She was always my favorite,” replied Linda, looking at Art perceptively. “I think it’s cool that you’re Greek.”
Art looked into Linda’s green eyes. The woods were shady. Afternoon light filtered through red and orange leaves. Linda’s eyes blazed into Art’s.
“You would make a cute guy,” Linda continued.
Art was drawn into the green vortex of Linda’s eyes. Art’s arms and legs trembled and tiny flames scorched her skin. She opened her mouth slightly to say something, but speech eluded her. Linda leaned in and kissed her. Art kissed her back. Linda’s lips felt as soft as moist rose petals and she smelled like musk oil. Art didn’t know if Linda wore perfume or if the scent came from her own body. A breeze rustled the leaves. Art’s heart trembled. This wasn’t the first time she kissed a girl, but this kiss felt different. A universe opened between them. Their tongues found new language. Soon, Art drew back. Linda looked radiant, as if the moon and stars were glowing inside of her. Still speechless, Art remembered that there was something she wanted to say.
Words formed on her lips: “But I’m not a boy. I’m a girl.”
“A smart girl,” whispered Linda. “I like that.”
This time, Art leaned in and kissed Linda. Their hands were everywhere. They came up for air, stood, and stumbled ahead on the path. They turned down a narrow path and found a large mossy patch that looked inviting. Art thought she had been here before with Allison, but she wasn’t sure if this was the exact place. Now, here with Linda, it was new. They were standing, kneeling, lying on the ground, rolling, touching. It was too cool a day to take off their clothes, but, as it turned out, it didn’t matter. There would be plenty of time for that later.
Art rolled on top of Linda. Excitement sparked in her groin and danced throughout her body. Her fingers tingled. Her tongue entwined with Linda’s. When they were done kissing, Art drew back and looked at Linda. Her hair was the deep red of autumn apples. Her skin was radiant. Shifting her weight, Art thrust her thigh against Linda’s crotch.
Linda groaned. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I got on your bike with you,” she whispered.
Art had wanted to do this ever since she set eyes on Linda. She wanted the bike more than anything, but she wanted Linda just as much. Maybe Linda was the reason she bought the bike. Yiayia (her Greek grandmother)would have understood. The wind blew harder and the leaves rustled. A distant roaring filled Art’s ears. Linda moaned and writhed under Art, as Art rubbed her crotch in a circular motion on Linda’s thigh. Cries overflowed from her throat. A humming filled her ears. The moss felt like moist velvet under her fingertips. It was chilly, but Art was filled with warmth. She rolled to the side.
As she lay there, her arms circling Linda, she imagined that the red and orange leaves looking down at them were the trees blushing.
Here is the link to the free anthology on BookFunnel:
It’s my pleasure to post a review of The Highest Apple – Sappho and the Lesbian Poetic Tradition by Judy Grahn (in 2024) re-published by Sinister Wisdom as part of its Sapphic Classic line. The video of the review is above (on YouTube ) and the text of the review is below.
When I heard that Sinister Wisdom was republishing The Highest Apple – Sappho and the Lesbian Poetic Tradition by Judy Grahn (in 2024) as part of its Sapphic Classic line, I was very excited. This important book was first published in 1985 by Spinster’s Ink Press.
I tend to think of the 1980s, when I came out in my early twenties, as “the old days” which were quite heady with lesbian culture. I was very influenced by Sappho, Grahn, and the other poets she writes about so eloquently in The Highest Apple, including the poets H.D. (Hilda Doolittle), Amy Lowell, Emily Dickenson, and Gertrude Stein as well as the contemporary poets Adrienne Rich, Paula Gun Allen, Audre Lorde, Pat Parker, and Olga Broumas.
I was excited because those days (while far from perfect) greatly influenced me, and I heard all the contemporary poets in this book read from their work in person. I’m not one to be nostalgic, but rereading the lines from Greek-American poet Olga Broumas (from her first book, Beginning With O) :
City-center, mid-
traffic, I
wake to your public kiss, Your name
is Judith, your kiss a sign
to the shocked pedestrians, gathered
beneath the light that means
stop
…
I was filled with memories from “the old days” which included listening to Broumas read her work and talk about her process which involved the Greek tradition of letting the poem well up inside of you, reciting it until it was whole, and then writing it down in its entirety.
So, there was much about The Highest Apple reminiscent of how important this work was, and the importance of the influence of the groundbreaking lesbian poets who were writing and publishing at this time. But this book also spoke to me in the present moment, and Grahn seemed at times to be saying the exact thing that I needed to hear as I read it.
As I have moved on in life, I have become more intersectional, and in recent years I have become vegan. This is something my partner and I have done initially for health reasons (the results turned out to be remarkable), but also in time both of us went through a consciousness-raising about the animals and the planet, making me think more about the universe and my place in it. While rereading the book, what seemed like my mysterious flash of insight about becoming vegan was suddenly illuminated. To become vegan, I had to fully love myself, to embrace all of myself – including my essential lesbian self – and my understanding that came from living under the patriarchy for all these years, led me to where I am now. This was a valuable realization because I am always longing to be whole (in past and present) which is something that Grahn speaks to in this book.
So, I was delighted when I read Grahn’s following paragraph that spoke to me in showing me that The Highest Apple reflects not only my past but also my present and future:
“Lesbian poetry leads itself to its own foundations, and to this idea: the universe is alive, is a place, and we can unite with it; in fact it is essential that we do so. We can build a place for ourselves in it, so long as we understand the stones to be each other; we can reach our long-held apple, the one Sappho held back on the highest branch for us. This is a profoundly feminist and a profoundly poetic and a profoundly Lesbian idea.”
The irony of this important lesbian book being out of print for so long was not lost on me. Important life-changing literature does not have to be burned (as was the case of the classical Greek and Lesbian poet Sappho), but only to be ignored.
Rereading The Highest Apple – Sappho and the Lesbian Poetic Tradition by Judy Grahn republished by Sinister Wisdomin 2024 reminded me how lesbian literature can remind us that we are whole in the past, present, and future.This is Janet Mason with commentary for BookTube and Spotify.
To find out more about the rereleased version of The Highest Apple on the Sinister Wisdom website, click here: The Highest Apple | Sinister Wisdom
To read an excerpt of my novel Loving Artemis, published by Thorned Heart Press in 2022,inspired by Sappho, click here:
Janet Mason, author 