Image of Cheryl Clarke. Photo credit: Nivea Castro.

By emerald faith

Cheryl Clarke’s newest release, Archive of Style: New and Selected Poems captures the 42-year career of a writer whose unquestionable commitment to engaging the dynamic, beautiful, devastating, hidden, and intimate aspects of Black life – of Black lesbian life – is reinforced again and again.

Cheryl Clarke’s newest release, Archive of Style: New and Selected Poems, captures the 42-year career of a writer whose unquestionable commitment to engaging the dynamic, beautiful, devastating, hidden, and intimate aspects of Black life – of Black lesbian life – is reinforced again and again. Clarke’s poetry makes Black lesbian life. While writing a review of her 1993 collection, Experimental Love, one reviewer wrote, “Cheryl Clarke is, perhaps, the preeminent African-American lesbian poet writing today.” With a literary legacy that speaks for itself, Clarke, once again, emerges at a pivotal moment when polarizing opinions on the uses and meaning of identity politics permeate socio-political discourses. Archive of Style challenges us to reevaluate and clarify what defines our Black lesbian feminist politic and its commitments, while lingering in the sweetness of Black lesbian quotidian life.

Poet, critic, and activist Cheryl Clarke was born in Washington, DC. She earned her BA from Howard University and her MA and PhD from Rutgers University. Clarke is the author of five collections of poetry: Narratives: Poems in the Tradition of Black Women (1983), Living as a Lesbian (1986), Humid Pitch (1989), Experimental Love (1993) and By My Precise Haircut (2016), which won a Hilary Tham Capital Competition. She wrote the critical study “After Mecca”: Women Poets and the Black Arts Movement (2005), and a volume collecting her poetry and prose was published as The Days of Good Looks: Prose and Poetry of Cheryl Clarke, 1980-2005 (2006).

Many of Clarke’s most influential essays, including “Lesbianism: an Act of Resistance” and “The Failure to Transform: Homophobia in the Black Community,” first appeared in landmark publications such as This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color (1981) and Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology (1983). Clarke served as editor for Conditions, an influential journal of lesbian feminist literature.

All of Clarke’s writings advocate for queer communities of color, paying attention to the social implications of language and labels and the possibilities of art and activism to stage resistance to dominant culture. According to Alexis Pauline Gumbs, who co-organized a conference on Clarke at Rutgers in 2013, “Cheryl Clarke’s life and work offer an enduring rejection of straightness and a constant reorientation to alternative space.” Clarke was an influential administrator and teacher at Rutgers for more than 40 years. She founded the Office of Diverse Community Affairs and Lesbian-Gay Concerns, which became the Office of Social Justice Education and LGBT Communities, and retired as the Livingstone Dean of Students in 2013. For her service to LGBTQ communities, Clarke received a David Kessler Award. She currently lives in Hobart, New York, where she owns and operates Blenheim Hill Books with her partner, Barbara J. Balliet.

This interview has been edited for clarity and brevity.

emerald faith (ef): Anyone who has encountered your work would know that, as you say in the introduction to your newest book, Archive of Style, sexuality, sex, and desire are prominent themes across your work, but especially beginning in your 1986 collection, Living as a Lesbian. What were the stakes for you in writing explicitly about sex and desire in your poetry at that time?

I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the collection, Black Sexual Economies: Race and Sex in a Culture of Capital, but in it, there’s an article by David B. Green, Jr., entitled “Cheryl Clarke’s Clit Agency: or, An Erotic Reading of Living as a Lesbian.” In part, he writes about your pushback on what you understood as the limitations of metaphor in writing about lesbian sex and desire. Could you talk more about this perspective, and if/how that correlates to my previous question?

Cheryl Clarke (CC): I know David Green. He visited me here in the Catskills some years ago, when he was still a graduate student. I like the article, but he reads the book as a narrative, i.e., beginning, middle, and end; the poems are its “plot.” Though there are patterns there and things that are repeated, he makes his reading rather more or less autobiographical. In that sense, he reflects the contradictions of the narrator. I think David has a point about my refusing metaphor—to a certain extent.

By the “stakes,” do you mean risks? I was willing to take the “risk” of acceptance by lesbian audiences. Don’t we all want to read about ourselves—lesbians no less—and not many writers were writing as directly about sex between women—that wasn’t pornography, which I don’t have a problem with—at that time in 1986, which is why I wrote as directly as I did. I also wanted to be known as a lesbian writer as much as I wanted my black identity to be a key value of my writing. (I must thank Nancy K. Bereano founder of Firebrand Books for publishing Living as a Lesbian in 1986. And as we know Bereano published many, many lesbians in her sixteen years as editor/publisher at Firebrand.)

I imagined a “pushback” that never occurred because lesbians were practically the only ones reading the book. And any so-called pushback that might have occurred were more about the writing of the poetry than about my directness. One reviewer thought my use of forms, i.e., sonnet, rondeau, pantoum, was pretentious. That’s okay. Some reviewers thought the poems not all that well-written. I think they are written well enough. It was only my second book, and I was still growing into the writing of poetry. The “stakes” were high for acceptance by the audience I was trying to develop and an audience that has continued to support my work, i.e., women—lesbian and non-lesbian. The risks were rejection by mainstream audiences and publishing entities, which I was not, in the main, concerned about wooing.

Also, part of my intention with writing lesbian sex and desire directly was to claim space in the African American literary tradition, which I’ve been studying since 1968. Even with my first book Narratives: Poems in the Tradition of Black Women – that tag was not going to be put there originally, but I consulted my friend Linda Powell and decided that I wanted to be explicit about claiming literary space in this canon for Black lesbian writers, Black lesbian politics, Black lesbian cultural claims — in the tradition of Black women writers. I totally agree with what David says about my intention in writing Living as a Lesbian: “. . . In the end, however, [Living as a Lesbian] functions as a lyrical and rhetorical framework to reimagine African American life and history from the unique perspective of a black lesbian.”

As a lesbian writer and woman, I feel I have a responsibility to refuse the silencing that goes on around women’s and lesbians’ lives and sexuality. Metaphor is alright with me. I think literature would be awfully dull without it. And, its limitations are my limitations in deploying it as a device.

“Part of my intention with writing lesbian sex and desire directly was to claim space in the African American literary tradition, which I have been studying since 1968…As a lesbian writer and woman, I feel I have a responsibility to refuse the silencing that goes on around women’s and lesbians’ lives and sexuality.”

Portuguese Translation of *Living as a Lesbian* Cover.

In an essay entitled “New Notes on Lesbianism” published in the January 1983 issue of the feminist journal Sojourner, Clarke wrote, “lesbianism, as politics, as a way of being in the world, as just plain life, needs talking about, not silence, not subterfuge, not coyness.”

ef: In the digital re-release of Narratives, facilitated by Julie Enszer in 2014, you write about how both your friend Linda C. Powell and yourself were “ambivalent about [the] brazen black identity” of the 1980s. You also say that you were insistent on the lowercase b in this context — can you talk about what your understanding and experience of [B]lackness was at the time that necessitated this lowercase b expression and what it opened up for you? Also, I’m curious what part of your activist/organizing history influenced this perspective?

CC: Not so much the “brazen black identity” as much as the “brazen” homophobic and sexist capital B black identity. Actually, policing of people’s expression of “blackness” was on the wane by the 1980s, and I talk about the related “black supremacist” tendency in my article “The Failure to Transform: Homophobia in the Black Community,” and I do so by looking at various Black Arts writers—men and women—because I wanted to name names and “push back” against the “police.”

In fact, in 2011, my friend Darnell Moore set up an interview between Baraka—whom I really lay into in “The Failure to Transform”—and me at Baraka’s house in Newark. It occurred on the day before the 8th anniversary of the death of his daughter, Shani Baraka and her lover, who were murdered by a homophobic brother-in-law. The murder is addressed in part ‘i’ of my poem “A Child Die/Shani Baraka and Rayshon Holmes.” In my conversation with Baraka — he was so funny — he kept saying, “Well, you know, nobody said that any of y’all had to agree with us — we didn’t ask or force you all to agree with us. We were just putting our thing out there about blackness.” But, they did police people’s expression of blackness and that referred to if you weren’t properly deferent to men — which they required — if you didn’t subscribe to love and sex between men and women, if you didn’t subscribe to the hatred or rejection of white people. I agreed with them about the rejection of white values, but I certainly disagreed with Black nationalism. I had [grown] up in an integrated experience in Washington D.C., though the city was incredibly segregated. In D.C., you couldn’t even shop in stores below New York Avenue, which is several blocks up from Pennsylvania Avenue where all of the white establishments were. They didn’t have “coloreds only” or “we don’t serve black” or “whites only” signs, but you couldn’t go down there…

The use of the lowercase “b” in Narratives was to signal at once the ordinariness of “blackness,” and thus “black women”; also, the rejection of the black supremacist inclinations of the Black Power Movement, which I also wrote about in my book, After Mecca: Women Poets and the Black Arts Movement. The lowercase “b” draws attention to the subject matter, because some people get surprised or shocked at its use, especially by a black person. I think my embrace of black feminist politics influenced my use of the lowercase “b” because my understanding of black feminism rejected black nationalism because of the emphasis on male dominance and heterosexism. So, for me, the lowercase b was a rejection of black supremacy with the capital B.

“My embrace of black feminist politics influenced my use of the lowercase “b” in blackness because my understanding of black feminist rejected black nationalism because of the emphasis on male dominance and heterosexism.”

Jewelle Gomez’s review of Narratives in April 1983 issue of *WomaNews, vol. 4, issue 4*.

ef: In this same introduction, you write that Narratives reflected your desire to write yourself into the literary history of Black women writers — I want to build on this idea of literary [and artistic] lineage. You mention an array of folks, from Alice Walker and Mabel Hampton to Betty Carter and Aretha Franklin — Could you talk about the Black women (lesbian and otherwise) writers/artists/activists who you consider yourself in the lineage of? What about their work draws you in and/or has inspired your work?

CC: I do not care for the term “lineage,” for it evokes biology and family, i.e., “heredity,” too much. I like to consider the women writers and singers who have influenced my writing as “community.” I also like to think of Alice Walker, jazz artist Betty Carter, lesbian feminist Mabel Hampton, Aretha Franklin, Billie Holiday, and others who appear across my work as those who made it possible for me to take up the challenge of writing— singing—politically, i.e., exploring the power dynamics that surround issues of sexuality, lesbianism, blackness, violence against women. I have spent many years listening to the music of Billie Holiday and many other vocalists, and many, many R&B singers—women as well as men—because of the rich history and many years writing while listening. I, of course, would add to the list of writers Gwendolyn Brooks, Audre Lorde, June Jordan, Pat Parker, James Baldwin – he was very daring and courageous in his essays. He was so critical of white people – I don’t think anyone was as critical of white people, at the time, as he was. Also, Amiri Baraka (essayist, poet), Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsburg, Toni Cade Bambara (the essayist), Nikky Finney, Evie Shockley, and younger people like Arisa White, Stacy Ann Chin, r. erica doyle, Samiya Bashir. I am certain I’ve left out many I love, but I like to see us as in a circular relationship to one another, as opposed to a line.

I must say about Betty Carter – you had to see her live; maybe you can get something on Youtube. You can listen to her studio recordings, but because of her voice, I don’t think she ever really had the right sound people around her. In performance, she was very much like an actress. The first time I saw her was in 1959, if you can believe it. I don’t even know how old I was – I guess I was 12. Then I saw her in the late 60s, a couple of times in the 70s, then in the late 80s because they brought her to Rutgers – that might have been the last time I saw her. But I say you had to have seen her because, except maybe the album she did with Ray Charles, which was with Atlantic, I don’t think she was ever recorded well. I actually had a friend, a white male, who was into sound and recording and actually made a microphone for her.

Anyway, Betty Carter, wonderful. Nice person, too.

Photo of Betty Carter. Photo Credit: Kotivalo, CC BY-SA 3.0, Wikimedia Commons.

ef: Narratives was put on as a production, produced by your sister Breena Clarke – could you give us a brief history of how this came about and your role in it?

CC: It was my sister, Breena Clarke, the actress Gwendolen Hardwick, and the singer Linda Powell – who died a few years ago and was the first person to encourage me to write a book. The three of them came together and did the first performance of Narratives at Linda’s apartment on 14th Street in Chelsea as a fundraiser for the printing of the book. It was well received, the performance, and we raised the money for the printing. I was able to self-publish the first edition through Iowa City Press. That first performance also led to additional invitations to perform at other venues, which they did, including the San Francisco Theater Festival [and the Basement Workshop – an Asian American Arts Collective space, which ran from 1970-1986].

Feature on Narratives the production in 1984 issue of Heresies: A Feminist Publication on Arts & Politics, vol. 5, issue 1.

L-R: Gwendolen Hardwick, Breena Clarke, and Linda Powell of *Narratives.*

ef: Archive of Style: New and Selected Poems is the first publication of your poetry to come out of a “mainstream” press — your previous works came out of Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press (Narratives (1983), Firebrand Books [Living as a Lesbian (1986), Humid Pitch (1989), Experimental Love (1993)]; Da Capo Press [The Days of Good Looks (2006)], The Word Works [By My Precise Haircut (2016)], and Bushel Collective [Targets (2018)]. Can you talk about the importance of independent lesbian feminist publications and also what publishing with Northwestern University Press means for you in this moment?

CC: Northwestern is an academic press. I have published with an academic press previously, Rutgers University Press—not poetry—with After Mecca. Of course, independent publishers have been my lifeblood as a writer, as well as my own ability to self-publish my poetry. Word Works is an independent press, not necessarily a feminist press, though the women who run it, I think, would call themselves feminists. The Bushel Editions is a local Hobart entity that produces limited-run books, like Targets, and 10: The Anniversary Collection of Writers of the Hobart Festival of Women Writers. They are managed by paper artist, Miona Takahashi, and poet and translator, Anna Moschovakis, who translated David Diop and played a key role in the development of the independent press, Ugly Duckling (Press). Of course, the lesbian presses Firebrand Books run by Nancy K. Bereano (1984-2000), and Sinister Wisdom run Julie R. Enszer (2013 to the present), which reprinted Living as a Lesbian in 2014, have kept lesbian writers in the mix, were instrumental to keeping my writing before the public. Working with Northwestern has been a very lovely experience and very laid back. Everyone on the team I have worked with there has treated me and my work respectfully, thoughtfully, and with humor.

“Cheryl Clarke is, perhaps, the preeminent African American lesbian poet writing today.” – Feminist Bookstore News Ad for Cheryl Clarke’s Experimental Love, 1993.

Ad for Cheryl Clarke’s *Experimental Love* collection in the October 1993 issue of *Feminist Bookstore News*– “Four from Firebrand for Fall 1993”.

ef: Relatedly, I wanted to ask about your rich, robust editorial history in lesbian feminist publishing, specifically with Conditions Magazine – could you talk about this trajectory?

CC: It was a great experience – it was 1981, and Barbara Smith recommended me to the Conditions Collective, which was, initially, three Jewish and one non-Jewish, lesbian women. They had a commitment to being an all-lesbian collective, and by 1981, one of the original members had left, and they decided they wanted to diversify. I joined alongside Jewelle Gomez, Dorothy Allison, Carol Oliver, and one other person. We only published one journal a year because that’s all we could manage and afford, and because we had to raise all that money to keep printing. I co/edited 8 editions of the magazine between 1981 and 1990; I think I functioned more as a managing editor because I wrote the grants; I was the one who had to close it down [once] we couldn’t afford to do it anymore, and we were getting to the point where people didn’t have time to remain volunteers.

But it was a great experience for me. Actually, it was life-changing. It was transformative because I was involved in getting lesbian writers into the public eye, like Shay Youngblood [self-described as a “georgia-born black womanist/Feminist, a writer willing to ‘travel in the dark,’ and to other places real and imagined…”] who died recently. We published her fiction quite a few times before The Big Mama Stories came out [originally published in 1989 by Firebrand Books.] She was a good writer, very funny and lovely person.

ef: Archive of Style encapsulates a 42-year career of published poetry – how do you understand the arc of your poetic work? There are some clear thematic throughlines and central concerns, but I’m curious about what things have shifted for you across this time? Are you asking different questions of yourself and your work now?

CC: Firstly, what do you mean by “arc”? I see my work as my “work,” which encompasses issues crucial to sexuality, blackness, being a woman, being a black lesbian feminist. I think my work advances the politics and visibility of gay, lesbian, queer, homosexual communities, which challenge and question the dominance of heterosexuality and heterosexism, just as it challenges and questions the dominance of whiteness and maleness. All three are oppressive and repressive institutions—in which many of us languish and suffer all our lives. Thanks to the gay and lesbian movement, I saw a way out. My work opens that world to others who may be languishing and suffering under their power. Of course, while I am not languishing and suffering, I am still oppressed by whiteness, maleness, heterosexism, because same-sex, non-heterosexual relationships remain at risk.

Not much has shifted for me in how I present the issues or in the issues I tend to present. I still use narrative energies, formal interventions (e.g., sonnet, elegy, blues tropes, etc.), current events (“Miami 1980,” “Mother Emanuel,” “Targets,” “sister of famous artist brother,” etc.), and historical events and issues (“Bulletin,” “Women of Letters,” “Forty-eight Years”). I am a little more interested in creating my own forms, in terms of lineation, like Evie Shockley’s creation of forms. I suppose the question I am asking in 2024 differently from 1982 is what form do I create through which to put this concern. And I still work “to critique the historic erasure of the black lesbian body [and the black non-heterosexual body period] in discourses of African American life. . .”.

Relatedly, I would like to do a book of essays, like Amiri Baraka’s book of essays, Home, or James Baldwin’s essays, Notes of a Native Son and Nobody Knows My Name. Essay writing is crucial to oppressed people, e.g. women, queers, blacks. There must be a form of writing that educates people about the conditions of their oppression, and which tries to show them/us a way out of it—if I may be so arrogant as to assume I know. The essay has been extremely important to African American culture, in the sense of its opposition to slavery, Jim Crow, ongoing racist treatment of black people by white people and white institutions. And we created our own means of dissent and literary production. Thus, I continue to use it as a form of protest and dissent.

About the author: emerald faith (they/them) is an English PhD Candidate at the University of Wisconsin-Madison where they also received their master’s degrees in English and Afro-American studies. Their research interests include 20th century African American literature, Black queer literatures, Black queer theory, and Black feminisms. They are currently an editorial fellow at JSTOR Daily. You can follow them on Twitter at @emeraldfaith. You can follow them on Twitter at @emeraldfaith.

Archive of Style: An Interview with Cheryl Clarke