In the Fall of 2001, just weeks after the attack on the World Trade Center, I befriended a young woman, ten years my junior, in a lesbian chat room. She informed me that she came from a strict Mormon upbringing, was currently enrolled at BYU, and wasn’t out to anyone. We quickly became friends and I took on the role of lesbian mentor, albeit from afar. The whole experience inspired me to write poetry about that time, and I’ve recently rediscovered it while packing to move. I believe there were more, but I was only able to find three. Upon rereading them, I believe them to be some of my best work. I do think there is more to tell within the story I created within these poems, and maybe someday I will. The three poems are below.
The Newcomer
A newcomer has come to our little Isle
she seems unsure at times
as if she took a wrong turn somewhere
or meant to stay on dry land—see Athens, perhaps
I make it a point to welcome her
tell her she needn’t write poetry in order to stay
she needn’t do anything, but the longer she stays
she will likely become someone’s inspiration
I think she will be well received here
the ladies will like her and Sapph will
look on her with pleasure
I have prepared a room for her—it is my old room
it is full of books and paintings and paper on which to write
she will find her voice here
as so many of us have
and will learn to cultivate it
and bring out her best
I am to be her servant
she needs anything she need only to ask
tired from her journey, I have drawn her a bath
and will soothe her weary travelers’ muscles
and hope she will look upon me with favor
Sapph gently scolds me for trying to corrupt the young
I remind her that it is a practice
I learned at her side—she laughs at me
and tells me I have learned too much
“Yes, but what I learn has become art”
She smiles gently at me, I am once again her pupil
“To experience is to live and to live is to love…
and to love is to create art”
then she gives me a gentle push
in the newcomer’s direction
and once face to face with her—I falter
Shy, herself, she smiles at me
I remember my voice and offer a welcome
she lowers her eyes and accepts,
not yet knowing the proper response—
which is to merely say thank you
she follows me as I lead her to her room
hanging back, I think she’s afraid of me
I assure her I mean her no harm
and only have her pleasure in mind
and will take my leave if it be that which pleases her
understanding the rules at last, she says, “Please stay.”
The Newcomer’s Servant
I have been the newcomer’s servant
for many months now
she is an undemanding mistress
and still shy about asking me for things
though time and again I have told her
that her simplest wish is my pleasure to fulfill
Sapph says to give her time
that she will become accustomed to me soon
and not still blush and downcast her eyes
when I bow before her and kiss her hand
“She will recognize love soon enough
and lift her eyes to gaze upon it
and the rouge on her cheeks will soften
into a hue of complacency.”
I want to question her on how she can be so sure
but one does not question Sapph
oh, it is not that she doesn’t care for it—
quite the contrary, to enter into a battle of wits
with the tenth muse is to enter into
an argument that can go on for days
she doesn’t need to be proven right
but she will debate and discuss
until you are proven wrong
Then, our Sapph will laugh, though not unkindly
and proceed to write a poem
about you in which she refers to you as her lover
because we all are, after a fashion
and she does love us all
only now and then, she loves one of us a little more
I am selfishly glad that everyone else
is preoccupied with their own inspiration
and have left the newcomer and I in peace
to my knowledge she hasn’t written any poetry
nor has she requested an easel
but I have noticed her watching me
Whether it’s to see how to act here
or with a lover’s eye, I can only guess
she rarely makes a request of me
but when I feel her eyes upon me
I can’t help but wonder what she wants of me
but I can only hope she soon finds her voice
The Newcomer’s Voice
Things have settled into a routine
Fall is upon us and the wind has begun
to rustle the hems of our gowns
and to cover many a brow with strands
of a stray curl here and there
I have seen this happen many a time
to my mistress—I have seen her
blowing the curl away with
a distracted breath—not knowing
that now I am watching her
Sapph has seen my frustration
and each time she walks past
with her hands clasped behind her
she always gives a knowing smile and
a nod of encouragement or puts a hand
on my arm and whispers in my ear
“Faint heart, fair lady—fair chance”
But Sapph doesn’t realize
that all of my bravado
upon the newcomer’s arrival wasn’t real
Sapph doesn’t realize that despite my years here
I still tremble at a lady’s presence,
and that the young newcomer,
who has, on occasion, touched my hand
makes me tremble most of all
The newcomer has seemed to grow comfortable here
she no longer looks down when she addresses me
and has been known to ask my opinion
about which books she should read
and then discusses them with me after
“Why aren’t any of your books here?
I know you’ve written many—where are they?”
I tell her that I gave them all to Sapph
that when I wrote them she was the only
one who understood them—because they were written for her
“So Sapph is your lover?”
This thought makes me smile
the newcomer misunderstands
“Sapph is your lover too—she is lover to us all
as she is sister and mother and teacher”
“And what are you?”
“For, I am your servant.”
“Will you always be?”
“Unless you dismiss me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I will remain as I am.”
“And if I wish to change your duties?”
“I will do as you wish.”
“And if I wish you to come to me?”
“It has already been spoken and I am already there.”
I did get the chance to meet the newcomer a few years later. By then, she had been out for a while and was looking forward to graduating so that she could live more openly. During those early days, I only saw her twice, and no, there is no love story there to tell. As life often does, it went on for both of us, in different directions. It would be nearly fifteen years before I caught up with her again through the power of Facebook. She’s currently living her best life, with Dr. in front of her name, a woman on her arm, with a house and a dog. I am grateful for whatever time and whatever role I was able to play for her. And, if nothing else, knowing her helped me produce some of my best writing and I have a few good stories to tell, none of which I’ll put here.
T.L. Hayes 
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