Lesbian Poetry Retrospective Part II

May Swenson (1919–1989)

Poet and journalist May Swenson published 10 collections of poetry and served as a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets. In her work, she often used nature to capture and depict the human body, sexuality, love and even science.

Swenson’s mentors varied in style and aesthetic, from E.E. Cummings and Gertrude Stein to the more traditional Elizabeth Bishop. Many of her “lesbian love poems” are found in the collection The Love Poems of May Swenson.

The following poem was published in 1991.

“Dark Wild Honey”

Dark wild honey, the lion's
eye color, you brought home
from a country store.
Tastes of the work of shaggy
bees on strong weeds,
their midsummer bloom.
My brain's electric circuit
glows, like the lion's iris
that, concentrated, vibrates
while seeming not to move.
Thick transparent amber
you brought home,
the sweet that burns.

Mary Oliver (1935—)

As a teenager, Mary Oliver spent time at Millay’s old house, helping the famous poet’s family organize her papers after her death. Unlike Millay, Oliver is known more for her work on nature than on love.

Oliver only came out in the early ’90s, after she had lived with her partner, photographer Molly Malone Cook, for several decades. The two met when Oliver was working as a secretary for Millay’s sister.

Oliver’s first collection, No Voyage, and Other Poems was published in 1963, and 20 years later, her book American Primitive won the Pulitzer Prize. In her work, Oliver brilliantly grounds her questions about spirituality, psychology and humanity in the world of nature.

The following poem, one of her most beautiful, was first published in New Poems (1991-1992):

“The Sun”

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone —
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance—

and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love—
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed—
or have you too
turned from this world—

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?