My poem FUKUSHIMA with Music by Darrell Craig Harris

Talented, intelligent and kind musician Darrell Craig Harris and I collaborate online on my poem “Fukushima.”

The poem is part of my theater piece and film NEWS FROM FUKUSHIMA: Meditation on an Under-Reported Catastrophe by a Poet.

FUKUSHIMA a poem by Yuri Kageyama

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

Fukushima

Fukushima

Fukushima

Premature aging

Nerve cells dying

Sterility, deformity

Unborn baby

Blood count dissipation

Leukemia debilitation

DNA radiation

Godzilla’s affliction

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.

Fukushima

Fukushima

Fukushima

My Poem a Finalist Winner in Cultural Weekly

WHAT GREAT COMPANY.
My Poem “No Gift of the Magi” is among nine finalist winners in a Cultural Weekly poetry contest.
It’s all the more special when I love the other winning poems, too.
Our performance gets featured in _ where else? Cultural Weekly.

No Gift of the Magi
A Poem by Yuri Kageyama
With Bass by Hiroshi Tokieda
Film by Adam Lewis

A reading at the Japan Writers Conference in Okinawa, Japan, Nov. 2, 2013.

we were poor
not dirt poor but poor
me a reporter at the local rag
you a stay-at-home dad and part-time English teacher
and so when i opened that velveteen box
you handed me oh so casually on
Christmas eve
palpitating
anticipation about a
gem or jewel or sparkle
that other girls get
and saw a plain black fountain
pen
the kind no one uses anymore
mont blanc or some other brand requiring finger-smudging
ink,
i was angry
“why did you buy this and
waste money?”
and then you
suddenly
moved
and i thought you were going to hit me
and you took the pen
and broke it in half
hot with something
that was beyond
the anger i felt
sour-tasting disappointment
a feeling of not being
loved
not like that O. Henry story
where the comb unwanted, the watch band unwanted
were simple
priceless proofs of
true love
undeniable,
not that dumb purchase filled with
hate,
and you looked up
and said what I didn’t
think of and what you didn’t
want to say
at all,
“I bought you a pen
because you are
a writer
and that’s what writers use
_ a pen.”