The Chameleon Couch Yusef Komunyakaa

 

The Chameleon Couch

Yusef Komunyakaa

Farrar, Straus &Giroux Books

ISBN: 978-0-374-53314-4

2011 $14.00

"a trembling runs through what pulls us

to the blood knot."

Some of the poems, in this collection, have a deep throaty

longing. In Komunyakaa's poems the longing roots us to what

each verse reveals "the cold stings." The poet waters

each word in which to feed the reader, his contemplations

concerning the birth of each word is there. He writes like

his life depends on setting the words on the page and I envision

each poem spread before me:

"...My name grew into a sonata he learned

to put back into his mouth, an echo

of his voice in the wind. My blood seethed

into his words, an immaculate conception

in reverse, & no one could keep God's worms

out of the tomb after I died in childbirth."

This is my first time reading Komunyakaa and I read his poems

with trepidation, because he is an accomplished writer, well

known to so many and I want to read the poems as poems.

I realize the poems want more than a sentence or form, they

want to sustain the line, line by line. For me the poet uses every-

thing to find the poem, to have the poem converse, take root:

"...Brushstrokes formed a blade to cut

the hues. A slipped disk

grew into a counterweight,

& the muse kept saying,

Learn to be kind to yourself.

A twisted globe of flesh

is held together by what

it pushes against."

This is a book to be kept, read, and then read again and again:

"My muse is holding me prisoner.

She refuses to give back my shadow,

anything that clings to a stone or tree

to keep me here. I recite dead poets

to her, & their words heal the cold air.

I feed her fat, sweet, juicy grapes,

& melons holding a tropical sun

inside them. From here, I see only

the river. The blue heron dives,

& always rises with a fright fish

in its beak, dangling a grace note..."

Couched in tomorrow, the morning each day brings, the poems

receive comfort and then change and return to their own

presence. They ask to be read and that is all we can do when

we enter any holy place. Read the signs, the omens, the ritual

and then leave with a sense of renewal:

"...I know what it took to master the serpent

& wheel, the crossbow & spinal tap.

Once I was a leopard beside a stone gate.

I am a riddle to be unraveled. I am not

and I am. When their eyes are on me

I become whatever is judged badly.

I circle the park. Hunger shapes

my keen sense of smell, a lifetime ahead..."

The strophes, "echo us back as the years uncount," and there again,

is the sadness, longing for, again. The poems live in our veins, sustain

our present tense. "Perhaps omens speak more clearly across a

desert or the seas."

irene koronas
poetry editor: wilderness house literary review
reviewer: ibbetson street press
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