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Photo credits: Laren McClung as posted on https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/yusef-komunyakaa
Yusef Komunyakaa was born in Bogalusa, Louisiana. The son of a carpenter, Komunyakaa has said that he was first alerted to the power of language through his grandparents, who were church people: “the sound of the Old Testament informed the cadences of their speech”. His subject matter ranges from the black experience through rural Southern life before the Civil Rights era and his experience as a soldier during the Vietnam War. Before changing his name from James Brown to Yusef Komunyakaa, he served in the US Army on one tour of duty in South Vietnam during the Vietnam War. He has since used these experiences as the source of his war poetry collections Toys in a Field (1986) and Dien Cai Dau (1988), the title of which derives from a derogatory term in Vietnamese for American soldiers. Komunyakaa has said that following his return to the United States, he found the American people's rejection of Vietnam veterans to be every bit as painful as the racism he had experienced while growing up in the American South before the Civil Rights Movement. He has produced 16 collections of poetry; Neon Vernacular won the 1993 Pulitzer Prize.
Live Readings
Live Readings
Poems
Poems
We Never Know He danced with tall grassfor a moment, like he was swayingwith a woman. Our gun barrelsglowed white-hot.When I got to him,a blue haloof flies had already claimed him.I pulled the crumbled photographfrom his fingers.There's no other wayto say this: I fell in love.The morning cleared again,except for a distant mortar& somewhere choppers taking off.I slid the wallet into his pocket& turned him over, so he wouldn't bekissing the ground.
from Neon Vernacular (1993)
from Neon Vernacular (1993)
Facing It*
My black face fades,hiding inside the black granite.I said I wouldn't,dammit: No tears.I'm stone. I'm flesh.My clouded reflection eyes melike a bird of prey, the profile of nightslanted against morning. I turnthis way—the stone lets me go.I turn that way—I'm insidethe Vietnam Veterans Memorialagain, depending on the lightto make a difference.I go down the 58,022 names,half-expecting to findmy own in letters like smoke.I touch the name Andrew Johnson;I see the booby trap's white flash.Names shimmer on a woman's blousebut when she walks awaythe names stay on the wall.Brushstrokes flash, a red bird'swings cutting across my stare.The sky. A plane in the sky.A white vet's image floatscloser to me, then his pale eyeslook through mine. I'm a window.He's lost his right arminside the stone. In the black mirrora woman's trying to erase names:No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
-from Dien Cai Dau (1988)
*This poem appeared on the essay portion of the 2012 AP English exam.
My black face fades,hiding inside the black granite.I said I wouldn't,dammit: No tears.I'm stone. I'm flesh.My clouded reflection eyes melike a bird of prey, the profile of nightslanted against morning. I turnthis way—the stone lets me go.I turn that way—I'm insidethe Vietnam Veterans Memorialagain, depending on the lightto make a difference.I go down the 58,022 names,half-expecting to findmy own in letters like smoke.I touch the name Andrew Johnson;I see the booby trap's white flash.Names shimmer on a woman's blousebut when she walks awaythe names stay on the wall.Brushstrokes flash, a red bird'swings cutting across my stare.The sky. A plane in the sky.A white vet's image floatscloser to me, then his pale eyeslook through mine. I'm a window.He's lost his right arminside the stone. In the black mirrora woman's trying to erase names:No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
-from Dien Cai Dau (1988)
*This poem appeared on the essay portion of the 2012 AP English exam.
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