I chanced upon this speech by Monique Truong at the Library of Congress in 2019, “The Pleasures of Not Being Lonely.” Below is what she says about my poem, “My Mother Takes a Bath.” I still like this poem. I’m proud and happy Monique likes my poetry _ and thank her:
“I want to share with you a poem by Yuri Kageyama, whose photograph in the anthology was a canvas of pitch black, with only her face, the waves of her hair, and a standing mic emerging from the darkness; her eyes are cast downward, focused on the instrument that is amplifying her voice. Her biographical statement identifies her as a “performer” who was born in Japan; grew up in Tokyo, Maryland, and Alabama; and now calls San Francisco her home. This poem is entitled “My Mother Takes a Bath,” and the body is at its center. This is how it begins:
My mother
Sits
In the round uterine
rippling green water
hazy vapor-gray dampness
soapy smelling
in the air—a circle cloud—above
the tub of a bath
the wet old wood
sending sweet stenches
sometimes piercing to her nose and sometimes
swimming in the hot, hot water
tingling numb at the toes and fingertips
when she moves too quickly but
lukewarm caught in the folds of her white white belly
Her face is brown-spottled
beautiful with dewdrop beads of sweat lined neatly where
her forehead joins her black wavy tired hair
and above her brown-pink lips
one drop lazily hangs, droops over,
sticking teasingly to her wrinkle
then pling! falls gently
playfully disappears into the water
She sighs
And touches her temple
high and naked
runs her fingers over the lines deep
Her hand
has stiff knuckles
enlarged joints crinkled and hardened
but her thick nails thaw in the water and
her hand is
light
against her face
and gentle and knowing
and the palm
next to her bony thumb
is soft
Her breasts are blue-white clear
with soft brown nipples that dance
floating with the movements of the
waves of the little ocean tub
slowly, a step behind time, slowly
She sighs again . . .
For me, the pleasure of recognizing a kindred body, a family of kindred bodies, was followed in quick succession by the pleasure of recognizing the kindred spirit.”
It turns out that Keiko Beppu also referenced the poem “My Mother Takes a Bath” in her 1981 essay, “Women in Contemporary Anglo-American and Japanese Literature: Of Cherry Blossoms, and Weeds.”
This is what she says:
“Throughout history woman as the eternal nourisher of life has given herself freely because it has been decreed as her sole function in life _ to give. More than two decades ago Lindbergh posed the question: but is it purposeful living? In the poem quoted above, an old Japanese woman asks the same question, and answers in the affirmative. The old woman forgets the passing of time and ages, ‘As she sits alone/With the water/singing koto strings in her ears.’ This is a twilight world of serenity and pseudo-contentment.”
