 Okay, welcome. Let's get started. I'm Jeffrey G. O'Brien, the director of lunch poems, and we are thrilled to have Yusuf Komenyaka here today. Even remotely, I expect that his presence and the poem's presence to warm up this digital space, and welcome to all of the invisible poetry lovers out there. I'm going to start just by reading two quatrains from the emperor of water clocks from two different poems, and I just want to say something about them that I think speaks to Komenyaka's practice across his incredibly extended and necessary career. The first quatrain of Commonwealth reads, after trench warfare rolled over Europe, the scent of nitrate and mustard gas hung in valleys and avarice drifted into dance halls. Just let that sit with you for one second. And then, in another poem called Praise Bean, the third quatrain reads, silence was backed up in the cypress, but you could hear the birds of woe singing praise, where the almost broken through sorrow rose from the deep woods. Pick those two quatrains for several reasons. They both indicate the interpenetration of the human and the natural world of the co-presence, the mutually constitutive presence of woe and praise, of violence and pleasure, mustard gas in the valleys, avarice in the dance halls. And I think they speak to the kind of witness that Komenyaka has performed across his many books, one in which he can't think pleasure and violence and isolation from each other, even for the scope of a single poem. They are always present. Each needs to be reminded of the other's presence and the reader of their co-presence. For that reason, his poems have never struck me as having an optimism in them or some kind of fatal pessimism either. I think they simply want to describe what's there. And if optimism is located anywhere, it's in the very fact of the work, in the very fact of the poems as responses to our present and its multiple deep histories. I should say also that both of those poems and quatrains work a really supple, loose, but palpable, accentual meter. Another way that you can just make a structure that persists, that there's a fundamental optimism of sound and of working in the substrates of syllables as you document everything that has happened again and again and again in myth, in particular moments of history and in their convergence in our present. I think I'll let you hear some of how Komenyaka continues to do that. His most recent book is Emperor of Water clocks, but we're incredibly fortunate to have everyday mojo songs of earth, a new and selected coming out. Is it new and collected or new and selected? New and selected. New and selected coming out in March, I believe. Yes. And there you will be able to feel how long and how far Komenyaka has managed to make those optimistic structures that actually just captured the world as it is. Please join me in welcoming Yusef Komenyaka. It's great to be here. So I'm returning to Berkeley. I'm going to start off by reading a poem. It's the first poem and everyday mojo songs of earth. It's called A World of Daughters. Say like clean at birth say, weeping in the tall grass where this tender lies and song begins. Birds perch on a crooked branch over grave of an unending track into the valley of cooling waters. The soils thirst. Lessons of earth on more of the first tongue say, I have gone back says the Oracle. Counting seasons and centuries undoing fault lines between one generation and next. As she twirls side cloth edge with pollen. And one glimpses what one did not know say. This is where the goat spoke legends ago and the ring of fire to deliver a sacrifice to feel signs. Depends on how and why. The singer song fits into the mouth. Well, I believe the bar rip story. The other way. Round entangled and decree blessing law and myth. One owner has to listen to night long please of a mother. Who use all thousand chance and prayers of clay. Blown from the lips onto the high stone wall. Retracing land bridge to wishbone. My own two daughters and granddaughter. The three know how to work praise and lament. Say. Ready to sprout. Wings. Of naked flight and labor. Yes. Hanged into earth. We rose. From Lucy to clan from clan to tribe. And today. We worship. Her son Polish bones remembering. She is made of questions. No. Mama. It's not always. The first word before counting aids and the cow birds. Ness. It begins in memory. Now say her name. Say Dinkish. Mother. Of us all. And I'm going to read the first poem. That. Introduces. Emperor of water clocks. The land of Cork King. A drowned kingdom. Rises. A daybreak. And we keep treasured on. Silhouette rides the rope swing tied to a spruce limb. The loudest calm in the marsh. Look. At the sinkholes. The slope brokenness. A twin rainbow straddles the rocks. And we see. Say how. Forgiven. How nature. How brave nature is. She drags us. Through team and reads. And turns day inside out getting up under blame. Gazing at the horizon. As authority sparrow calls throughout home. Is I have a one foothold. Are we still. Moving. This old story. Begans. This old story behind stories. Turned in epic season. A tango roses. Move by night soil. The boron. Congo snake. And earthworm. Eat and to pick wheat. And. Is a hotel of stars. A peacock carousel. And Ferris wheel. Spinning. In the water. As far as vines on stitch. The leech work of salt. Thick mud. Sewn up like bodies fallen into a ditch. Blumen. About to erupt. Water lily. I see the tip. Of a purple mountain. But sweetheart. If it weren't for your Emperor kisses. I would have turned around. Days ago. Timbuktu. I like to. I should say that I like to just crisscross. Emotional and psychological terrains. And find myself at home momentarily. And write myself out of that place. That. Emotional space. Timbuktu. I sang. An allergy. For the city. Of three hundred thirty three cents. For every crumbling. Crumbling mass. And Menorat. For the libraries. Standing for centuries. Against dust storms. For the nomads. Herding. Trees of life across the desert. Along trails. Cambers. Once. Hall. Salt. To rafts. Worvened. On the river Niger. Before. The Empire. Of Sunday fell. The grills. Of January. Of stardust. In sand. But now mercenaries. Kidcap. Kidnap. Run. Drugs. And killed in bold day night. Blood money. Brought them to Libya. And more blood money. Took them home. Brandishing. And made. When Lord Baron. In tones. And on one. Where geography finds no one. To oblige her. I hear my name. But no one stands up. To prophecies. The other side. Of limbo. Against the modern. As a metallic eye drones overhead. Medieval. Clouds. May promise safe passes. Or escape routes. Of a Molly. But. The God fearing. Cannot remember. The faces of death. After kicking in. All the drums. Fortress. Now. I began with these. Two hands. One hand. And the other hand. To me. As blessing. And weapon. Black birds. In fierce flight. And instruments. Of touch. And consolation. This sign means stop. And this one of course means come forth. Friend. I draw a circle. Where no evil spirit. Dares. To find me. One's hands held. At this angle. Of a boy's head. Or a roof. Over a century. I'm a green horn. In my fortress. In the woods. With my right eye press. To a not whole. I can see a buzz. The cemetery. Is right. Letting go. A tiny. White cross in each seat. A girl's fiery jump rope. Strikes. The ground. I see the back door. Of that house close. To the soul. Crete. Where drunken angry man stumbles. Across the threshold. Every Friday. I see. Forgiveness. Unbearable twilight. And these two big hands know too much. About nail. And hammer. Plank. And uneasy sky. Hewn stone. And mortar. Is another world. And sometimes. A tall gate. Comes first. The huge. Wooden. Barrels of grain. Flower and salt meat. And quick line. Before. 28 crossbows. And for. Towers. Night time. Did a brain. Let me start over. Did. Did a brain. Raise us. Into mountains. To range. Over the valley. To see the approach. Before. Whoever it was. New. They would walk a path. Between dust and dawn. Half away. And I squinted. And sex. Made. The lids. Dance. Now the brain pauses. On the edge. Of a sanction. Or surrender. One sleepy hand. Pointing. At a totem. And the other when a stick. Or jagged. Stone. Blue dementia. When a man. Could lose a swarm of words. Inside his belly. Nestled. Against his spleen singing. In the days of night riders. To life tongue to read. To blues and sorrow song. Call out. Of the deep night. Another man done gone. Another man. Done gone. In the days. In the days. When one could lose oneself. All up inside love that way. And then moan. On the bone. Till the guards cried. Out and someone's sleep. Today. Already I've seen three dark scan man. Discussing the weather with demons and angels. Gazing. About the clouds. Squinting down. Into our arms. Squinting down. Into our own greats. Along the fast streets. Of luminous encounters. I double check. My reflection in plate glass. And wonder. Am I. Passing. Another lucky Thomas. A marin brown. Cornered by blue dementia. Another dark skin man. Who woke up dreaming one morning. And then walked. Out of himself dreaming. Did this one dare. To step on a crack and a sidewalk. To turn. A midnight corner. And never come back home. Or did he try. To stare down a look. A shelf. A blade. Into his heart. I mean. I also know something. About night riders in cat god. Yeah honey. I know something. About talking. With ghosts. This is a fairly new poem. Poem entitled. History. Is human. The nurse says. Sir. Do you want. Do you want something stronger. I shaped my head. Something to get. Into your liver. And hide. Where love hides. Where it scrums. A banjo. And raises a bold fist. Interested. Country. And when white. America gets hooked. Of a history. Is human. Somewhere. A big band. Strikes up. Stardust. And the nurse approaches. At midnight sand. Do you need something unreal. Something. To make your leg feel as if it belongs. To someone else. On a. Checkerboard. Dance floor. Islands. This is a poem that I dedicated to. My name is. Derek Walcott. I visit him in St. Lucia. To talk about his work. On. Islands. It was years ago. Islands. An island is one great eye. Gazing out. A beckoning. Lighthouse searchlight. A wishbone compass. Or counterweight. To the stars. When it comes to outlook. And point of view. A figure stands. On a rocky ledge. Peering out. To watch an archipelago of glass. On the mainland. Seagulls. Wings touching the tip. Of a high wave. Out to where the brain may stumble. But when a mind. Clams down. From its. High craggy. Look out. We know it is truly a stubborn thing. And has to leave through pages. Of dust and light. Through pre memory. And folklore. Remembering fires wrote down there. Till they pushed up through the sea floor. In plumes of ash. Covered the dead. Shaken away. Worlds away. In silence. Fill up. With centuries of waiting. Sea urchin. Turtle and crab. Came with earthly know-how. And one bird. Arrived. With a sprig. In his beak. Before everything clouded with cries. A millennium. In small depths now top soil. And. Seasons. A blossoms. In a single seed. Light edge across. Salt crustace stones. Across. A cataract of blue water. And lost. Sailors parrots. Spoke of sirens. The last words of men. Barret. In the sea. Someone could stand here. Compton Paladin. The future. Leafing through. Tone pages. Of Saint Augustine. A prophecies by fishermen. Translating spur and folly down to Tapwood. The dream-eyed boy. Still. In the man. The girl. In the woman. The way her mother used to pass behind today. But the Mars be young words. To behold a body of water. It's no pig are. Mother went. Whoever this figure is. He was soon returned to dancing through the aroma. Of Daggers log. Ginger lele. Bolling there or you. Between. Between chants and strings struck to gore's rally, the hill in air, and church steeper birds fly sweet darkness home. Whoever this friend or lover is, he intones redemptive hominids to lie down and remembrance. And to know each of us is a prodigal son or daughter looking out beyond land and sky. The chemical and metaphysical beyond falling and turning water wheels in the colossal brain of damnable gods. A eureka hailed up to the sun's blindened eye, born to gaze into far of the conchran, frontiers. The mind comes back to rest, stretching out over the white sand. Turner's great tussle with water, as you can see, he first mastered light and shadow. Faces moving between grass and stone, the beast waiting to the ark, and then the decline of the Carthaginian Empire before capturing volcanic reds. One day, while walking in windy rain on the Thames, he felt he was descending a hemp ladder into the galley of a ship down in the swollen belly of the beast with a cursed hook in the bellowing bucket, and the whimper and howl into shit, and to piss in shit. He saw winds hurl, silt, and mass pole as the crewmen, wrestled slaves, dead and half dead into a darkened whirlpool, there it was, droning. And then the water was stabbed and brushed till voluminous, and the bloody sharks were on their way. But you were right, yes, they're still light crossing the divide, seeping around corners of the thick golden frame. Years ago, I was taught, I was teaching at Princeton, and when I would do, I would walk to work, and I would write short 16-line poems in my head, and when I got to the office, I was just wrecking down with the line braids and all that. It was a task for myself, oh to the maggot, this is the last poem. Brother of the blow fly, and God had, you worked magic over battlefields, in slabs, a bed port, in flap houses, yes, you go to the root of all things, you are sound and mathematical, Jesus Christ, you're merciless with the truth, ontological, illustrious, you cast bells on beggars and kings, behind the stone door, the seizes tune, a spit trench, and a fuel, a rag weed, no decree or creed can outlaw you, as you take every living thing apart, little, master of earth, no one gets to heaven, without going through you first. Thank you. Hi, my name is Noah Warren, and I'm the coordinator. Thank you, Yusuf, for those lessons of earth and Oracle, the poetry of great beauty, vision, and mind. Thank you to the university libraries for our funding and support in all channels, to ETS, who have done such a great job with the technical support here in all our events. If you enjoyed this reading, I encourage you to pick up Yusuf's collections and his forthcoming book, Everyday Mojo. If you'd like to revisit this reading, as with all our other readings, you can find an archive at youtube.com under the Launch Palms playlist. We hope you'll join us for our next event on February 4th with Kiki Petrosino. And until then, thank you. Thank you all for attending, and we hope to see you next year. Email at any time you can go to our website at lunchpoms.berkeley.edu and sign up for our mailing list.