Читать книгу Pleasure Dome - Yusef Komunyakaa - Страница 9

New Poems

Providence

I walked away with your face

stolen from a crowded room,

& the sting of requited memory

lived beneath my skin. A name

raw on my tongue, in my brain, a glimpse

nestled years later like a red bird

among wet leaves on a dull day.

A face. The tilt of a head. Dark

lipstick. Aletheia. The unknown

marked on a shoulder, night

weather in our heads.

I pushed out of this half-stunned

yes, begging light, beyond the caul’s

shadow, dangling the lifeline of Oh.

I took seven roads to get here

& almost died three times.

How many near misses before

new days slouched into the left corner

pocket, before the hanging fruit

made me kneel? I crossed

five times in the blood to see

the plots against the future—

descendent of a house that knows

all my strong & weak points.

No bounty of love apples glistened

with sweat, a pear-shaped lute

plucked in the valley of the tuber rose

& Madonna lily. Your name untied

every knot in my body, a honey-eating

animal reflected in shop windows

& twinned against this underworld.

Out of tide-lull & upwash

a perfect hunger slipped in

tooled by an eye, & this morning

makes us the oldest song in any god’s throat.

We had gone back walking

on our hands. Opened by a kiss,

by fingertips on the Abyssinian

stem & nape, we bloomed

from underneath stone. Moon-pulled

fish skirted the gangplank,

a dung-scented ark of gopherwood.

Now, you are on my skin, in my mouth

& hair as if you were always

woven in my walk, a rib

unearthed like a necklace of sand dollars

out of black hush. You are a call

& response going back to the first

praise-lament, the old wish

made flesh. The two of us

a third voice, an incantation

sweet-talked & grunted out of The Hawk’s

midnight horn. I have you inside

a hard question, & it won’t let go,

hooked through the gills & strung up

to the western horizon. We are one,

burning with belief till the thing

inside the cage whimpers

& everything crazes out to a flash

of silver. Begged into the fat juice

of promises, our embrace is a naked

wing lifting us into premonition

worked down to a sigh & plea.

Water

If only I could cleave myself from the water table

below this two-step, from this opaque moan

& tremble that urge each bright shoot up,

this pull of the sea on fish under a pregnant

moon. I sweat to buy water. It breaks

into a dirge polishing stone. The oathtaker

who isn’t in hock to salt merchants & trinket kings,

says, Drink more water, Mister Bones.

The taste of azure. To rinse bile from the bony cup

of regret, to trouble rivers till the touch of gold

Columbus & his men killed the Arawak for

floats up to ravenous light, to flush out every tinge

of pity & gall—each of us a compass star

& taproot down to what we are made of.

Jasmine

I sit beside two women, kitty-corner

to the stage, as Elvin’s sticks blur

the club into a blue fantasia.

I thought my body had forgotten the Deep

South, how I’d cross the street

if a woman like these two walked

towards me, as if a cat traversed

my path beneath the evening star.

Which one is wearing jasmine?

If my grandmothers saw me now

they’d say, Boy, the devil never sleeps.

My mind is lost among November

cotton flowers, a soft rain on my face

as Richard Davis plucks the fat notes

of chance on his upright

leaning into the future.

The blonde, the brunette—

which one is scented with jasmine?

I can hear Duke in the right hand

& Basie in the left

as the young piano player

nudges us into the past.

The trumpet’s almost kissed

by enough pain. Give him a few more years,

a few more ghosts to embrace—Clifford’s

shadow on the edge of the stage.

The sign says, No Talking.

Elvin’s guardian angel lingers

at the top of the stairs,

counting each drop of sweat

paid in tribute. The blonde

has her eyes closed, & the brunette

is looking at me. Our bodies

sway to each riff, the jasmine

rising from a valley somewhere

in Egypt, a white moon

opening countless false mouths

of laughter. The midnight

gatherers are boys & girls

with the headlights of trucks

aimed at their backs, because

their small hands refuse to wound

the knowing scent hidden in each bloom.

The Whispering Gallery

She’s turning away, about to step

out of the concave cuddle of Italian tiles

before walking through the grand

doorway to cross 42nd Street

to glance up at The Glory of Commerce

as she hails a yellow taxicab

when he whispers, I love you, Harriet.

Did he say something to himself,

something he swore he’d never think

again? Or, was she now limestone

like Minerva, a half-revealed secret,

her breasts insinuating the same

domed wisdom? Maybe his mind

was already heading home to Hoboken—

his body facing hers—his unsure feet

rushing to make a connection

with Sinatra’s ghost

among a trainload of love cries

from the Rustic Cabin to Caesar’s Palace.

Hugged there under the curved grandeur,

she says, I love you, too, Johnny.

Tuesday Night at the Savoy Ballroom

Entangled in one motion

of hues stolen from innuendo,

their exulted limbs couple

& uncouple till the bluish

yellow fuses with three

other ways of looking at this.

With a touch of blood

& congealed tempera,

black & white faces surge

through a nightlife

sweating perfumed air.

Their moves caught

by brush strokes

force us to now feel

the band on an unseen

stage. Bedazzlement

& body chemistry …

eyes on each other break

the law. They work

hard for fun, twirling

through sighing loops

of fray & splendor,

watering down pain till naked

hope glimmers in a shot glass.

Doppelgängers

I wait outside the Beacon Hotel

for a taxicab to La Guardia,

& dead ringers for Memnon

slink past. Here’s another.

Wasn’t Aurora’s son

killed fighting in Troy

for the Trojans?

His look-alikes stroll

through glass towers

& waylay each other’s shadows.

How many southern roads

brought their grandparents

here? Why so many chalk-lined

bodies mapping departure

routes? The Daylight Boys

haunt these footsteps tuned

to rap & butterfly

knives that grow into

Saturday-night specials

tucked inside jackets

ensigned with Suns, Bulls …

Ice. Ecstasy. Crack.

Here’s another young,

bad, good-looking one

walking on air solid

as the Memnon Colossi,

& may not be here at dawn.

Somewhere

I was on the corner

when she paused

at the crosswalk.

If a cobra’s in a coil, it can’t

take back its strike. Her

purse was already in my hands

when the first punch landed.

She kept saying, “You won’t

take nobody else’s money no

more.” Her voice was like

Mama’s. I couldn’t

break free. Women & kids

multiplied before me.

At least thirty or forty.

Everywhere. Kicking & biting.

I kept saying, “I give

up.” But they wouldn’t

stop aiming at my balls.

The sky tumbled. I was a

star in a late-night movie

where all these swallows—no,

a throng of boys swooped

like a cloud of birds

& devoured a man

on a lonely beach

in Mexico, & somewhere

outside Acapulco that damn

squad of sunflowers

blazed up around me.

What I heard the stupid

paramedics say scared me

to death, as the bastards

worked on my fucking heart.

Never Land

I don’t wish you were one

of The Jackson Five

tonight, only you were

still inside yourself

unchanged by the vampire

moonlight. So eager to

play The Other,

did you forget

Dracula was singled out

because of his dark hair

& olive skin? After

you became your cover,

tabloid headlines

grafted your name

to a blond boy’s.

The personals bled

through newsprint,

across your face. Victor

Frankenstein knew we must

love our inventions. Now,

maybe skin will start to grow

over the lies & subtract

everything that under-

mines nose & cheekbone.

You could tell us if

loneliness is what

makes the sparrow sing.

Michael, don’t care

what the makeup

artist says, you know

your sperm will never

reproduce that face

in the oval mirror.

Pepper

If you were alive, Art

Pepper, I’d collar you

as you stepped off the

bandstand. Last notes

of “Softly as a Morning

Sunrise” fall between us,

a hint of Africa

still inside your alto.

Someone wants to blame

your tongue on drugs: “If I

found out some white broad

was married to a black guy

I’d rave at her in games

& call her tramp, slut,

whore.” Did you steal

the Phoenix’s ashes

listening to Bird?

I’m angry for loving

your horn these years,

wooed by the monkey

riding you in L.A.

as if changes in “Mambo

De La Pinta” could be

rounded off to less

than zero. Words

you tried to take back

left blood on the reed.

South Carolina Morning

Her red dress & hat

tease the sky’s level-

headed blue. Outside

a country depot,

she could be a harlot

or saint on Sunday

morning. We know

Hopper could slant

light till it falls

on our faces. She waits

for a tall blues singer

whose twelve-string is

hours out of hock,

for a pullman porter

with a pigskin wallet

bulging with greenbacks,

who stepped out of Porgy

at intermission. This is

paradise made of pigment

& tissue, where apples

ripen into rage & lust.

In a quick glance,

beyond skincolor,

she’s his muse, his wife—

the same curves

to her stance, the same

breasts beneath summer cloth.

Rendezvous

Her fingertips touch his

left palm, her grin

like an image stolen

from Fellini’s La Strada.

“Don’t you ever wonder

where the Chinese were

in the ’60s, when you

& Chavez were out there

facing dogs & billyclubs,

don’t you wonder?” Her voice

somewhere between Atlanta

& Boston. Her blue eyes

linger on his Igbo face.

“Family makes them so

strong,” he says, smoothing out

the napkin. “They’ve been here

since the early railroad days,

maybe longer. I don’t know.”

The waitress brings their

chardonnay. Before she turns

to leave, he notices the dragons

on her green silk jacket

in some tussle of pale

light across her breasts.

“I’m fascinated by all this

Chinese stuff. Instructions

for Court Ladies, Du Fu,

I read what I can get

my hands on, anything,”

she says. A tiger fish

kisses the aquarium with its

dark nose, eyes like two

bulbous bloodstones. On a wall

to the right, a representation

of Yan Liban’s The Emperor

Wu of the Northern Zhou looms.

“Have you ever seen a black

waitress in a place like this?”

She’s so quiet at the office—

does he know her, can the night go

anywhere? “I like your dress,”

he says. She nods & smiles.

The waitress serves their sweet

& sour prawns, snow peas

& curry chicken. Blue bowls

of steamed rice. “At Mount Zhiju

is an inscription about black

hair. Oh, well, I don’t know

what I’m talking about

these days.” She pops

a prawn into her mouth.

The hot curry tingles

his tongue. A cube of onion

tastes like something sinful.

“Have you ever heard of Ah

Coy & Ha Gin?” He shakes

his head, knitting his brows.

“I’m just fooling, being

awful silly tonight.”

He notices the poster of Monkey

Creates Havoc in Heaven

tacked beside the kitchen door

where the scent of ginger & garlic

stream up from hot sesame oil

like ghosts. “I used to come

here last year. Every Friday.

The place hasn’t changed.

We used to sit right here

in this same booth. Paul

& me.” He wishes she’d stop

talking. Those flowers

beside the cash register

are too damn red to be

real. “That was before he

started dating a Chinese girl.

I think her family has money.”

The waitress refills their

glasses. “Are you sure you

want to talk about this?”

he says. She picks at

the snow peas with her fork.

“They come here all the time,

& I bet he’d just die

if he saw us together.”

Once the Dream Begins

I wish the bell saved you.

“Float like a butterfly

& sting like a bee.”

Too bad you didn’t

learn to disappear

before a left jab.

Fighting your way out of a clench,

you counter-punched & bicycled

but it was already too late:

gray weather had started

shoving the sun into a corner.

“He didn’t mess up my face.”

But he was an iron hammer

against stone, as you

bobbed & weaved through hooks.

Now we strain to hear you.

Once the dream begins

to erase itself, can the

dissolve be stopped?

No more card tricks

for the TV cameras,

Ali. Please come back to us

sharp-tongued & quick-footed,

spinning out of the blurred

dance. Whoever said men

hit harder when women

are around, is right.

Word for word,

we beat the love

out of each other.

Ogoni

Neighbors, please don’t

mind me this morning

at windows balling my fists

at the sun. Lowdown

bastards, imbeciles

& infidels, a tribunal

of jackasses behind

mirrored sunglasses

with satchels of loot—wait,

calm down, count to twenty

& take a few deep breaths.

You don’t want to disgrace

his heroic tongue. Go

to the kitchen window

& sit in that easy chair

striped like a zebra,

& imagine how a herd runs

with an oscillating rhythm,

like a string bass & drums

trading riffs. The big cats

can only see a striped hill

moving beneath a sunset,

a grid of grass & trees

in motion, a pattern to fear

& instinct, because they run

as one, as sky & earth. Look

at the scrappy robin & bluejay

squabble over earthworms

underneath the ginkgo,

as a boy on the edge

of memory raises a Daisy

air rifle. Look at the robin

puff out its bright chest

like a bull’s eye. Only

a boy could conjure

a ricochet in his cocky head

that hits a horseshoe

looped around an iron peg,

a little of God’s geometry

to get things perfect.

A single red leaf

spirals to the ground.

Where did the birds

go, & why am I

weeping at this window?

That’s not my face

strung to the hands

holding the gun, unmasked

by the Shell trademark

on his gold moneyclip,

worms throbbing behind

the scab grown over

his eyes. Those damn

bastards murdered a good man

when they hanged Ken

Saro-Wiwa. Why was he

so cool, did the faces of his

wife & children steady

his voice? “I predict

the denouement of the riddle

of the Niger delta

will soon come.” Did

you feel dead grass quiver

& birds stop singing?

To cut the acid rage

& put some sugar back

on the lying tongue,

I’ll say my wife’s name

forever—the only song

I’m willing to beat

myself up a hill for,

to die with in my mouth.

Keeper of the Vigil

When the last song

was about to leave

dust in the mouth,

where termite-eaten

masks gazed down

in a broken repose, you

unearthed a language

ignited by horror

& joy. A cassava

seed trembled in a pellet

of fossilized goat dung.

The lifelines on my palms

mapped buried footprints

along forgotten paths

into Lagos. The past

& present balanced till

the future formed a

wishbone: Achebe,

you helped me steal

back myself. Although

sometimes the right hand

wrestles the left, you

showed me there’s a time

for plaintive reed flutes

& another for machetes.

I couldn’t help but see

the church & guardtower

on the same picturesque

hill. Umuada & chi

reclaimed my tongue

quick as palm wine

& kola nut, praisesongs

made of scar tissue.

—for Chinua Achebe

Nightbird

If she didn’t sing the day

here, a votive sky

wouldn’t be at the foot

of the trees. We’re in

Rome at Teatro Sistina

on Ella’s 40th birthday,

& she’s in a cutting contest

with all the one-night stands.

“St. Louis Blues” pushes through

flesh till Chick Webb’s here

beside her. A shadow

edges away from an eye,

& the clear bell of each note

echoes breath blown across

some mouth-hole of wood

& pumice. So many fingers

on the keys. She knows

not to ride the drums

too close, following the bass

down all the back alleys

of a subterranean heart.

The bird outside my window

mimics her, working songbooks

of Porter & Berlin into confetti

& gracenotes. Some tangled laugh

& cry, human & sparrow,

scat through honey locust

leaves, wounded by thorns.

Tenebrae

“May your spirit sleep in peace

One grain of corn can fill the silo.”

—the Samba of Tanzania

You try to beat loneliness

out of a drum,

but cries only spring

from your mouth.

Synapse & memory—

the day quivers like dancers

with bells on their feet,

weaving a path of songs

to bring you back,

to heal our future

with the old voices

we breathe. Sometimes

our hands hang like weights

anchoring us inside

ourselves. You can go

to Africa on a note

transfigured into a tribe

of silhouettes in a field

of reeds, & circling the Cape

of Good Hope you find

yourself in Paris

backing The Hot Five.

You try to beat loneliness

out of a drum.

As you ascend

the crescendo,

please help us touch what remains

most human. Your absence

brings us one step closer

to the whole cloth

& full measure.

We’re under the orange trees again, as you work life

back into the double-headed

drumskin with a spasm

of fingertips

till a chant leaps

into the dreamer’s mouth.

You try to beat loneliness

out of a drum, always

coming back to opera & baseball.

A constellation of blood-tuned

notes shake against the night

forest bowed to the ground

by snow & ice. Yes,

this kind of solitude

can lift you up

between two thieves.

You can do a drumroll

that rattles slavechains

on the sea floor.

What wrong makes you

loop that silent knot

& step up on the gallows-

chair? What reminds you of the wounded paradise

we stumbled out of?

You try to beat loneliness

out of a drum,

searching for a note

of kindness here at the edge

of this grab-wheel,

with little or no dragline

beyond the flowering trees

where only ghosts live—

no grip to clutch the truth

under a facade of skylarks.

—in memory of Richard Johnson

Double Limbo

A sun dog hurries a lover

home from a desk job

or a factory of noise.

Car horns & solstitial candlepower.

Another long day runs

with a pack of house-broken mutts

around the neighborhood, treeing

cats on fenceposts. The runt

which sprung into Cerberus

slinks beneath the moon’s mad

dogma, tamed when bloody feet

touch springy St. Augustine

grass where Ra & Shamash

linger at the timberline.

The winter sun is now Bessie’s

“Yellow Dog Blues”

given to you by a lover

who drove off with a friend

years ago. The shadows long,

& kisses too. A celestial claw

bluffs the last sprigs of wolfbane

into hush as “Yellow Submarine”

submerges in the hue of machines

where a good feeling goes before

it’s known. But there’s a dog-eared

season that never fails to be reborn

as Sirius beside the back door,

hungry for the sound of your VW.

NJ Transit

Penn Station

Images of the homeless

& pigeons on a third rail

roost in my bowed head.

Newark

An apartheid of snow

crowns itinerant ghosts inside

abandoned blue machines.

Elizabeth

“Careless Love”: She is

Athena’s re-flowering,

a rebirth of awe.

Linden

Couples kiss under

B-movie ads, the motion

nudging them on—on. …

Rahway

The Taj Mahal glows

through the out-of-season silk

of her composure.

Metropark

I daydream Ezra Pound

as faces cluster on night’s bough—

where did she come from?

Metuchen

Winter flowers droop

to her nods, suspended there

inside pain’s headshop.

Edison

Here, gods extinguish

a light whenever a lineman

drops dead on the job.

New Brunswick

The voice of Black Horse

a logbook of old sorrows

lives beside the river.

Jersey Avenue

White ice in the trees

mute cathedral. Her dark skin,

her dark eyes, bright mouth.

Princeton Junction

I glimpse happiness

heading the other direction

sometimes, not quite here.

Trenton

I missed my stop

looking at heartbreak, the sky

almost criminal.