But Could a Dream: Form and Freedom in Gwendolyn Brooks’s Domestic Sonnets Tess Taylor (bio) In her landmark 1970 interview about artistic practice with George Stavros in Madison, Wisconsin, Gwendolyn Brooks said of art: “You just can’t stay in your comfortable old groves. You have to extend yourself. And it’s easier to stay home and drink beer.” In this ideation, Brooks’s version of comfort is “staying home” and her art is “extending yourself,” presumably moving beyond whatever home is. Art asks us to travel; move beyond comfort; unsettle ourselves; realign our familiar. But what does travel mean here, and now? How do we travel? What is unsettlement? The question has new resonance when we consider that so many of Brooks’s poems are actually about literal homes, or about home-like public places. Her poems circle neighborhoods, exteriors, alleys, inhabitants, businesses, but also actually map the inside of homes themselves. In fact, in that same 1970 interview, Brooks described her work this way: “I believe I have written more ‘kitchenette building’ type poems than I have written about birds singing and feeling overwhelmed by grief.” Indeed, rather than leaving “home,” Brooks’s art of unsettlement actually emerges from exploring and voicing home or homes, in making poetic maps of familiar and lived-in spaces. In fact, it’s arguable that Brooks’s project is to explore her own domestic vernacular, to play the very grooves of neighborhoods and people that represent and embody her sense of community, home, and belonging. It’s also important to notice that Brooks’s whole work exists and is framed with contexts of gender and racial and class boundaries that limit the freedoms [End Page 214] to travel, leave, explore, and move away from such “homes.” Brooks often explores the confinements of the places she writes about, whether the ruts of segregation and racism, or the confining experiences of class and gender, or both. The speakers of Brooks’s poems are often reacting to forms of confinement, “involuntary” places where the domestic is a received rather than chosen space. How do you unsettle yourself while staying home? How do you play your life’s given grooves against themselves? In a pandemic when many of us have been asked to “stay home” for nearly a year now, these questions feel newly resonant. I’m about to spend a few moments in the grooves of Brooks’s domestic sonnets, asking how she uses the sonnet form to dramatize domestic containment—fixed enclosures, whether comfortable or not—and also to hint, in the same quarters, at the way the sonnet itself can offer lyric transit, lyric unsettlement, and lyric liberation. I’m interested in how Brooks’s sonnets harness the tension of lyric both to stage protest and to introduce some possibilities of freedom. In a related groove: I speak from a certain frequency. I offer these thoughts on confinement during the ninth month of a pandemic, as I write at 6:30 am in a garage office which is also, I feel I should report, a much-used laundry room. ________ The sonnet, I think, always carries with it the whiff of its courtly history, even when that history is subverted, upended, repurposed. In fact, the chance to subvert the sonnet’s trailing history is also one of its excitements. To reinvent a form successfully is to charge it both forward and backward in time, electrifying it anew. When Terrance Hayes constructs his American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin, and his speakers address the changeable and violent force of American racism, we cannot help but overhear the way that Wyatt or Dryden or Shakespeare crafted the echoing mask of the sonnet’s rhymes to address the elusive, changeable lover. In his later address, Hayes [End Page 215] echoes and subverts this tradition of address: We no longer speak to the unseen lover, but to the unseen assassin, who is outer, but also inner—other, but also self. Hayes’s work reminds us at every turn that the courtly lover may be gone, but we now live in an endless fraught dialogue with racism’s destructive recurring force. The very way...