Pat Parker was a Black lesbian poet known for her empowering and transformative poems. She was celebrated for her candid honesty in discussing topics like sex, race, motherhood, alcoholism, and violence. 

Her poetry on gay pride, activism, and her genuine, fearless love for women inspired many girls to come out openly. Parker’s honest and bold voice empowered many girls to face society, family, and community with confidence. 

What I appreciate about her is her confidence and the clarity of her honest speech. I must not forget her preference for choosing words that beautifully convey a simple thought in the simplest words.

Born in Texas, Pat Parker experienced a childhood of poverty. After completing her education, she relocated to California and married twice during the 1960s—initially to playwright Ed Bullins and subsequently to Robert F. Parker, from whom she divorced in 1966.

In the late 1960s, Parker began identifying as a lesbian and became actively involved in civil rights, women’s rights, and gay rights movements, occasionally sharing her poetry at related events. 

She, along with poet Judy Grahn and others, helped create a community centred on lesbian poetry readings. 

Parker was the author of five poetry collections: Jonestown and Other Madness, Movement in Black, Woman Slaughter, Pit Stop and Child of Myself.

Read her wonderful poem, “My Lover is a Woman” -

my lover is a woman
 & when i hold her
 feel her warmth
      i feel good
      feel safe

then—i never think of
 my family’s voices
 never hear my sisters say
 bulldaggers, queers, funny
      come see us, but don’t
      bring your friends
           it’s ok with us,
           but don’t tell mama
           it’d break her heart
 never feel my father
 turn in his grave
 never hear my mother cry
 Lord, what kind of child is this?

II.

my lover’s hair is blonde
 & when it rubs across my face
 it feels soft
      feels like a thousand fingers
      touch my skin & hold me
           and i feel good

then—i never think of the little boy
 who spat & called me nigger
 never think of the policemen
 who kicked my body & said crawl
 never think of Black bodies
 hanging in trees or filled
 with bullet holes
 never hear my sisters say
 white folks hair stinks
 don’t trust any of them
 never feel my father
 turn in his grave
 never hear my mother talk
 of her backache after scrubbing floors
 never hear her cry
 Lord, what kind of child is this?

III. 

my lover’s eyes are blue
 & when she looks at me
 i float in a warm lake
      feel my muscles go weak with want
           feel good
           feel safe

then—i never think of the blue
 eyes that have glared at me
 moved three stools away from me
 in a bar
 never hear my sisters rage
 of syphilitic Black men as
 guinea pigs
      rage of sterilized children
           watch them just stop in an
           intersection to scare the old
          white bitch
never feel my father turn
in his grave
never remember my mother
teaching me the yes sirs & ma’ams
to keep me alive
never hear my mother cry
Lord, what kind of child is this?

IV.

& when we go to a gay bar
 & my people shun me because i crossed
 the line
 & her people look to see what's
 wrong with her
      what defect
      drove her to me

& when we walk the streets
 of this city
      forget and touch
      or hold hands
           & the people
           stare, glare, frown, & taunt
                at those queers

i remember
      every word taught me
      every word said to me
      every deed done to me
           & then i hate
 i look at my lover
 & for an instant
      doubt

then—i hold her hand tighter
      & i can hear my mother cry.
      Lord, what kind of child is this?