THE RIVER _ a poem in the spirit of Hart Crane _ byYuri Kageyama
THE RIVER _ a poem in the spirit of Hart Crane _ byYuri Kageyama
Katsushika Hokusai’s hawks Still eye this Sumida River Crying their fue whistles Echoing music on scuttling boats, Carrying workers, travelers, modern-day geisha _ Some rickety, faded lanterns dangling, Other ships are futuristic tubes of glass; The torrents are dark with the wind, Torn dreams of star-crossed lovers Jumping tied by cloth as one From the Kachidoki Bridge No longer a draw-bridge, separating at the center, The winding waves glisten in tips of white Like the wings of seagulls that flutter Only during the fall and winter seasons,
In the rain, darting sideways sumi strokes, Tiny people scamper across the landscape The O-Edo “salarymen” and the “office lady” O-Ls Faceless, hustling proletarian lives Clasping sheer convenience-store umbrellas Not the woven straw hats of the past Tokyo Tower to the left Sky Tree to the right Stirring distant eternal visions, Swimming in the Seine, Sumida’s Sister River, And Van Gogh’s deranged mind, Sashaying to the ocean and the connecting skies, Where the sun sets again, Bleeding purple among wispy twisted clouds; And the River churns, Remembering glory, Knowing sin Through an anonymous city of lights
(II) The BIRDS
Kabuki’s answer to the Pelican The Flamingo, the Albatross, The Heron swoops through the sky Perches so perfectly on a pine _ Princess in mirrored waters;
The humble fish-gulping Cormorant Dives in muddy waters, Spreads battered wings to dry, In flight, freed from slavery _ Transforms, a gliding Black Swan;
The Sparrow plays, chirping staccatos, Small furs of speckled brownness, They play, always searching Like a lost forlorn child _ Unchanged from Issa’s poems.
(III) SIGNS OF LIFE _ A Poem and Not a List
Azure-winged Magpie Bobbling Lanterns Giggling Motorboats Baby Crabs, some are still Worms on the pavement, mostly still Fish are jumping, really But Seagulls mew like Cats And Monkeys slide on Dagwood Trees; Smell of Tsukudani, dead Rodents, Where Basho began his Journeys _ If We can feel the Words, A List turns Into A Poem: Zinnia Elegans Profusion Zinging Cicada Couples in Yukata Cotton Clouds After the Storm
(IV) HANABI (fireworks)
Fireworks at Ryogoku by Utagawa Hiroshige
Hiroshige had the idea Roses, wine glasses, mandalas Exploding big in the hot dark Psychedelic flowers blooming Over milling crowds of evil Drunken laughter Exclamations Aspirations of Smallness: I whisper to my blind friend: “It’s lovely like truth, Like forever.” Fragile glows bleed with neon Hanging low only for a moment Hiroshige had the idea
Sumida River fireworks
(V) POETIC MOMENTS
Let me create them Poetic moments A Ditch is a River Poetic moments The River is Vision Poetic moments Lost forever found Poetic moments Everywhere Poetic moments Nowhere Poetic moments Let me create them Poetic moments May I stay pure So I don’t miss them.
SUMIDAGAWA
隅田川 どぶかかわかは 浮世ビジョン
Sumida River Whether a ditch or river Ukiyo Vision
FAREWELL TO TSUKIJI
their fangs shimmer in the darkest of nights in multitudes like starving soldiers they make their run across downtown fur upon fur covering the cement, nails scratching, blocking the office lights, monstrous mice mewing, looking for the fish that is suddenly gone, as they once looked for the Pied Piper of Hamlin, the rats of Tsukiji are moving, not to Toyosu, where the ground is poison but into rich people’s homes to eat their steaks, greed and children; the rats blink with tiny golden unfeeling eyes, diamonds of stench, in time with the stars above
THE RETURN OF THE YURIKAMOME
I waited all summer For your return Flutters of petal Above the water Buddha’s wafting lily pads Your squawks swim the salty breeze Circling, swooping, dancing, They say birds vanish before an earthquake, A hurricane, an apocalypse; It matters not you don’t remember me Your playful swoops Silence screams of hate Your presence is comfort In this Atomic Age You are back: “I will not cry Except in love” _ I wrote those lines When I was very young, And they are still true As I die, You are back
That ring
Solitaire
That glistening rock
Magical
Probably stolen from Africa
No matter
Broken promises
Please marry me
Sitting on a velvety
Cushion
Cartier Tiffany’s
Harry Winston
Van Cleef & Arpels
After the young woman my son just broke up with
That young woman who played the violin
Asked me to go with her
To the clinic to get an abortion
I give her my grandmother’s diamond ring
The only diamond ring I’d ever owned
You can do whatever you want with it
Throw it away, pawn it away,
No, no, no, I can’t take this, she says
No, no no, I want you to have it, I say
That ring
Solitaire
That glistening rock
Magical
Probably stolen from Africa
No matter
Broken promises
Please marry me
Sitting on a velvety
Cushion
Cartier Tiffany’s
Harry Winston
Van Cleef & Arpels
With the passing of years
We outgrow our fetishes
I wonder if she still plays the violin
I don’t wonder about the ring
That ring
Solitaire
That glistening rock
Magical
Probably stolen from Africa
No matter
Broken promises
Please marry me
Sitting on a velvety
Cushion
Cartier Tiffany’s
Harry Winston
Van Cleef & Arpels
An ode to the Asian Uncle Tom A Yuricane poem (or does power always turn evil?) by Yuri Kageyama
a painting collaboration by Munenori Tamagawa and Radio the Artist as Yuri Kageyama reads this poem written by Yuri Kageyama at What The Dickens in Tokyo Feb 4, 2018.
You sit prim with your glasses Behind that desk, title, resume Won on the backs of The 442 Purple Hearts Oblivious in your banal Banana-ism To the fact that Yellow is your Color The most expedient, forgotten, Cheapest of lives Hiroshima My Lai North Korea You sip white wine at ethnic restaurants New York, Tokyo, Dubai, Bangkok They all look alike Smiling in Instagram posts You have it made You have them duped You have arrived Never mind, in your deepest fearful solitary moments, You can’t help but pick out Just those Who look like you: Race suddenly a Reality; You must put them down, And make sure they stay down, Remain the invisible man, the invisible woman, Establish as Fact through rumors and appraisals That People of Color Can’t be objective, and, be careful, Get easily used, You can do the math _ as the stereotype goes _ The slots are limited, Tokenism being a zero sum game, Diversity cannot be the majority; You’ve long lost your ancestral accent You’ve adopted the air of leaders You’ve deleted memories Of how we were all shackled, We picked strawberries, We built the Transcontinental Railroad, We survived behind barbed wires, Instead You go to meetings, Rehearse video appearances, Take vacations to the Caribbean and Bali, Sneer at Chinese going shopping, Plan your retirement, Asian American Only to whites
Our collaboration at Space M in Tokyo May 22, 2018.
The visual artists live painting: Munenori Tamagawa and Radio the Artist.
Hirokazu “Jackson” Suyama on Handpan
My Poetry read with rattles by yours truly “Mythical Monster” and “Hip Hop Fukushima,” both excerpts from my theater piece NEWS FROM FUKUSHIMA: MEDITATION ON AN UNDER-REPORTED CATASTROPHE BY A POET, which debuted at La Mama in New York in 2015, where Hiro also played the drum set and percussion. It was also performed last year in San Francisco Z Space.
Thanks to Kenji Taguchi for the video and for having our poetry at this fabulous showcasing of important visual artists.
MYTHICAL MONSTER
by Yuri Kageyama
The Catfish sleeps
Buried in the mud
Of meltdown metal
A black-light coastline
Fifty reactors
Tomari to Genkai
The Catfish moves
And the Earth rumbles
Sways its tail
And skyscrapers crumble
Swishes a whisker
Bridges, roads shatter
The Catfish grows
Bigger and bigger
Eight snake faces
Eight dragon tails
Volcanic eruption
Yamata no Orochi
The Monster lives
Our daughters and sons
Every year, a sacrifice
Hundred eight brave samurai
They’re all dead,
Trying to kill it
HIP HOP FUKUSHIMA
by Yuri Kageyama
Y’all, it’s a Meltdown nation
Since Three-Eleven
Covered in the fear
Of unseen radiation
But don’t you expect
Any revolution
All you will find
Is fear and contamination.
Here in Fukushima
It rhymes with Hiroshima
Instead of a holler
Hear just a whimper
They say it is safe
The kids like Chernobyl
Are coming down sick
With Thyroid cancer.
Fukushima
Fukushima
Fukushima
Y’all, it’s no hallucination
The refugees’ life
No compensation
No resolution
Just nuclear explosions
Get your dosimeter
Cesium in the water
Lost Imagination
Here in Fukushima
It rhymes with Hiroshima
The radiated Brothers
Faces are hidden
Goggles and masks
Like an astronaut
From head to toe
The Invisible workers
Tsunami Demolition
God’s DeCreation
Genetic Devastation
Our next Generation.
Here in Fukushima
It rhymes with Hiroshima
No-go zones forever
The World must remember.
Photos of San Francisco by Annette Borromeo Dorfman
MY POEM “ode to the Stroller” got published in TOKYO POETRY JOURNAL Vol. 5, dedicated to the Beat Poets January 2018.
THE BOOK PARTY AT OL TOKYO
37-10 Udagawa-cho
Shibuya, Tokyo
7 p.m. SAT Jan. 27, 2018.
ode to the stroller
a poem by Yuri Kageyama
we zip weightless like silent angels
up and down San Francisco hills
running on the mother of all energy
greener than solar
rolling rolling rolling
with laughter
cream acid rock ‘n’ rolling
lightning dazzling wheels gara-gara-gara-gara
teethers jangling dangling dancing
going mad on strangle-free rubbery ribbons
up and down the Avenues
J-town, Clement Street
Golden Gate Park
Museum of Modern Art
we are singing: “Ouma no oyako wa nakayoshi koyoshi
itsudemo issho ni pokkuri pokkuri aruku”
perfume wind in our hair
springing over potholes
not even stopping just for breast feeds
connected as one through this magical machine
me pushing
you riding
the Lamborghini of strollers
the Gundam of strollers
the little train that could of strollers
up up up into the joyous clouds
zooming wheeeeee
down slurping slopes
around swervacious curves
we are one
yes, we are one
tied in the past with our
umbilical cord
and
even in death
in our dreams
I read this poem with my YURICANE spoken-word band: Winchester Nii Tete (percussion), Kouzan Kikuchi (shakuhachi) and Hirokazu Natsuaki (cello), crossing borders so sounds, genres, cultures, people come together in a performance with no score but all soul.
Motherhood poems are usually square or oppressive and so many women don’t like to write about motherhood. I chose pushing the stroller as a metaphor to depict motherhood in all its proper liberated glory. This happens to be in San Francisco because that is where I had my son and I pushed him around on strollers a lot. But it can be about any mom anywhere. The point of this poem is that it is location-specific and so it takes you on a journey, not only where the stroller went but also in our minds and our path of life like a movie.
We dedicate our performance to all mothers, including Mother Earth herself, and, of course, all the children.
ode to the stroller
a poem by Yuri Kageyama
we zip weightless like silent angels
up and down San Francisco hills
running on the mother of all energy
greener than solar
rolling rolling rolling
with laughter
cream acid rock ‘n’ rolling
lightning dazzling wheels
gara-gara-gara-gara
teethers jangling dangling dancing
going mad on strangle-free rubbery ribbons
up and down the Avenues
J-town, Clement Street
Golden Gate Park
Museum of Modern Art
we are singing:
“Ouma no oyako wa nakayoshi koyoshi
itsudemo issho ni pokkuri pokkuri aruku”
perfume wind in our hair
springing over potholes
not even stopping just for breast feeds
connected as one through this magical machine
me pushing
you riding
the Lamborghini of strollers
the Gundam of strollers
the little train that could of strollers
up up up into the joyous clouds
zooming wheeeeee
down slurping slopes
around swervacious curves
we are one
yes, we are one
tied in the past with our
umbilical cord
and
even in death
in our dreams
This version of my reading was recorded at Jackson’s Garage in Tokyo, with Hirokazu Suyama Jackson on drums, Yuuichiro Ishii on guitar and Hiroshi Tokieda on bass.
The poem is about young motherhood some time back, but I wrote this poem recently.
The feelings remain the same, eternal:
I took part in a poetry event in Tokyo’s Ginza to commemorate Kenneth Rexroth and Katsue Kitasono SAT June 9, 2018.
Avant-garde Beat Poetry Lives.
I read works from both poets, as a backdrop of slides of their visual works and portraits played, and one poem was a collaboration with shamisen.
Thanks to Professor John Solt for organizing the memorable experience and for including me.
I usually only read my own material.
And so this was quite a novel meaningful effort for me.
It was wonderful to see all the poets come out and read works by these two courageous poets who sought to explore worlds outside their limiting real borders.
I especially enjoyed a rendition of a Japanese translation of Rexroth’s writing about Kabuki.
“Loving Younger Men,” a poem written by Yuri Kageyama, read by Yuri Kageyama with Yui Shikakura on shamisen and singing at Bar Gari Gari in Tokyo at a Drunk Poets See God gathering Dec. 22, 2017. Her song is traditional Japanese “kudoki,” in which a woman talks about being abandoned by her lover, a genre that is sad but also an erotic celebration.
“Loving Younger Men” was first published in BEYOND RICE, A BROADSIDE SERIES, Mango Publications and NOLO Press, 1979. Loving Younger Men
a poem by Yuri Kageyama
Only the bodies of young men aroused her; the pure innocence in their wide dark eyes, the wild still animal strength in their muscles, the smoothness of their skin, so shiny, stretched out over their boy-like shoulders, flat stomachs, abdominals rippling gently, their thick thighs that could thrust forever into the night, their soft moist lips, where their tonges, so delicious, dwelt, which darted against, into her vagina, making her moan with joy, forgetting everything, which felt so strong against her own tongue at one moment, yet another, seemed to melt like caramel in the back of her throat, their dry fingers, that touched her in the most unexpected and expecting spots, their penises, half-covered by their black curls, seemed smaller, less developed, less threatening, yet as their shoulders strangely widened when they held her, their penises filled her, pointed against her deepest uterine insides, hurting her with a pleasurable pain, as though she could sense with her hand, their movements from outside her belly. Her father beat her as a girl. She ran from him, crying, please don’t hit me! please don’t hit me! No, rather she stood defiant, silent, silent tears drunk down her chest, till he, in anger or fear, slapped her again and again, once so hard she was swung across the room, once on her left ear so that she could not hear for three weeks. She frequented bars, searching for young men who desired her. She sat alone drinking. She preferred the pretty effeminate types _ perfectly featured, a Michelangelo creation, island faces with coral eyes, faces of unknown tribal child-princes. To escape her family, she eloped at sixteen, with an alchoholic. who tortured her every night, binding her with ropes, sticking his penis into her mouth until she choked, hitting her face into bruises, kicking her in the stomach, aborting her child, his child. The young boys’ heads, she would hold, after orgasm, rocking them in her arms. She would kiss the side of their tanned necks, breathe in the ocean scent of their hair, lick their ear lobes and inside their ears. When they fell asleep, sprawled like a puppy upon her sheets, their mouths open, she would lie awake watching, watching, watching, admiring their bodies, how so aesthetically formed, balanced, textured. What she enjoyed the most was their fondling her breasts, suckling, massaging the flesh, flicking the tongue against the nipple, biting, sucking till her nipples were red-hot for days. She could come just by this, without penetration. When she is alone, she cries. In the dark, she reaches upwards, into the air, grabbing nothing.