Magic 50 of COVID-19 Poems by Sandile Ngidi and Yuri Kageyama(From Aug. 31, 2020 ~April 5, 2021. All rights reserved by the artists.)
1 (S)
Poetry kins
us to these basal stems.
Moisture is
life.
Gardens
petals fresh & resilient.
Mother
breathes songs of roots strong.
Words curate
a healthy leaf mass, fruits defying leaf scorch defining these heavy seasons.
Plumes as
words dancing in the winds.
2 (Y)
Dragonflies
flutter by the slowly swelling river.
Moisture is
life.
Blue-green
of their wings play in the light.
Mother cries
songs of currents deep.
Leaves of
Grass bend soft with the seasons, shining dew recalling these tears of birth.
Plumes as
words dancing in the winds.
3 (S)
Far in the
somewhere of dazzling seas,
nothing
stops the seasons of fruitful friendships.
Dancing
field to field feeding the imagination,
it’s the
spring of delights, radished words.
Grass
gesturing towards well-shaped flower leaves, moistured mosaics of words.
Life.
4 (Y)
Plumes as
words dancing in the winds,
Tiny
sparrows warble, not in fun but fear,
Scattering
like debris, dirt, weeds and words,
Over oceans
and deserts, swamps and streams,
The now of
Dreams connect the All of history, the eternity of Forgotten nightmares.
Yes,
Life.
5 (S)
Across seas
the rooster is red,
Crowing in
the weeds.
Greek sea
edge sinking Black lives.
The wind is
nightmarish.
In drying
Eldorado Park, slain Nathaniel Julies is rising.
Fresh
gardens strut their stuff,
A poetry
skyline in full sun,
greening the
eversick landscape. Life.
6 (Y)
Poetry
whispers in tanka and haiku,
Across
oceans, red, blue, yellow and black,
Repeating of
pain, repeating of life,
Repeating of
love? Repeating,
Iwao
Hakamada just smiles and believes
In God.
7 (S)
After the
soft rains,
Blooms
fresh.
My epistle
is no flower.
Naked, Black
and pregnant,
Woman shot
beast-like on a darkened Mozambique road –
Drowning
soldier-savagery
Shamed
seasons.
Lizalis’idinga
lakho,
God of Black
women now rise,
in
tanka-maskandi cries.
Poppies.
8 (Y)
She is duped
and gets easily used;
She is
defiant and easily explodes;
She is vain,
obsessed with appearance;
She let
herself go, looks fat and shabby;
She is too
quiet and can’t speak up;
She is
psychotic and can’t shut up;
She is all these things, all at once,
Deranged.
9 (s)
Would you dance naked on your veranda
seeing madigras brass band
mad boots on grass,
killing your soul’s shongololo?
Beyond the gleam of your silverware, the sun still shines.
Shun the sun if drunk in the polemic of your vomit.
The palm tree is tall still,
yet peaceful.
10 (Y)
Her robe
translucent like briny waves
An ancient
pagoda zooming to a giant moon
She will
never come back
To an earth
that’s unjust, unequal, unfree;
She will
never look back
At those who
have sought to capture her
Her eternal
dance
Gagaku
11 (S)
We hello each other,
a morning ritual.
He walks into the dew,
whistling with the ancestors.
Mapholoba, a shepherd breathing poverty.
This dark mist, common as whites walking their dogs.
Seeing them pee with glee.
Peace.
His dogged legs a plea.
Ulaka lwabaphansi.
12 (Y)
Four an unlucky number,
sounding the same
as the word for “death,”
the 442 has two fours
and a two,
any even number unlucky,
divisible,
inevitable separation coming,
and Go For Broke they did,
from desert Camps,
to win what they never had,
the right to be American,
not an enemy.
13 (S)
Casting a warm eye on this land
my line to kiss her forehead
give her gladness sandwiches
water my mother’s spinach
add black pepper to the seasons
good taste into the bowl
a poetry pot firing the broil
simmering hope
the slow dawn of a brighter day.
14 (Y)
Taking a lazy walk next to this river
the gulls kiss the tips of the water
children laugh in floppy hats
I remember my father’s beatings
my mother’s Edamame
cooked in Salt, served with cold beer
a poetry pot firing the broil
simmering hope
the slow dawn of a brighter day.
15 (S)
Stratus clouds in the skies
Wishing blue skies smiled
Chuckled like Louis Armstrong
The air was friendly
Night undaunting
Unbanning lazy solitude strolls
Poets oets perching in trees
Chickening every silly sunset
Dazzled by darkness
Her seductive light.
16 (Y)
Skyscraper
windows
Unblinking light
Dot the aging
skies of night
With stories
each window tells
That age-old
face of every city,
Tokyo, LA,
Johannesburg,
Breathing
suicidal loneliness
With violence
smoothed only by time
His seductive weeps
Await that trickle of dawn
17 (S)
after a long trip is a place
where one returns
changes into fresh clothes
puts the heavy load down
drinks cold water
eats porridge and amasi
while the dog licks wounds back to health
where suicidal fantasies die
hopelessly lacking any poetic imagination.
18 (Y)
sighs of
exhaustion breathe through
the night, screams
of wind choked silent,
kissing pleats
on rain-filled waters,
river to
river, sea to sea, blood to blood,
is it dawn somewhere
else?
do the birds
care enough to remember
the messages from that somewhere else?
19 (S)
He says hi
inkabi back from jail
straw grass world
exhaustion
brute storms
leopard lonesome
blood-heavy yoke
motherless calf
can’t be licked for first milk.
He’s a local
no hate blues.
Do I offer my hand
to the killer-ox
talk weather
disgust Bushiri?
20 (S)
Body seducing sleep
Swinging on her axis
Tell the night be tight.
Behind the sun sleep is light.
In dreams lovers kiss the ground in flight
Saliva no dread on Covid lane.
Children dance the morning dew into song.
Laughter.
Phezu komkhono!
Bujitsu
21(Y)
That needed daily
fix of kimchee,
Granpa’s growling
snores
Rattles shoji screens,
Like gently shaking
maracas:
Where miso
soup cooking,
And cooking
and cooking
Wafts through
The peppermint
morning air.
22 (Y)
Memories repeat
Even in dementia
eyes:
A ring that
sparkles,
Gem of
yellow,
Rainbow and diamond,
Promising a love
eternal,
Fool-proof,
never betrayal,
Like the immeasurable,
Unfailing Worth
Of Truth and
Freedom.
23 (S)
In a deadly pandemic
blackened skies
hellish eyes
greed so pathetic
so trump-manic
muzzled jingle bells
Wakashio in Mauritius
shits oil
kills marine life
kills food
kills kanji
even after Fukushima
drills invade the Okavango
kill life
kill laughter
Pula.
24 (Y)
Death nudges closer
The pandemic world we share,
Skin cracked of disinfectant,
Sweat dripping on masks,
Prayer and hope,
Remembering music:
Winston Monwabisi “Mankunku” Ngozi
25 (S)
Pain pierces the heart like an assassin’s knife.
See the restless sea.
Shingled memories, the coffee blues.
Rumours of Christmas in the warming moist air.
Humming with the moon, its tears.
Pleading for the lost lotus flower seeds.
Impepho.
26 (Y)
one pandemic year
blurs
into the next,
those who hate
must hate
blinded to truth and fact
but we recognize
more than ever
what is important,
and who
27 (S)
America, poop fools climb walls in tantrums.
Haters copiously eat garlic.
Whiteness is no guesswork.
Hard stools on TV.
For COVID-19 deaths to be sweet & swift.
Trumps.
In my hood, the owl headlines death.
A cry for a strong midrip.
Palms.
28 (S)
The stubborn heaviness in our shoulders.
The bloodshot eyes, now we know,
our lives are being irrevocably torn apart.
Those who are ill, dying and dead, are familiar names.
Family.
Friends.
Beloved ones.
Death is no longer a metaphor.
The nightmare. The nightmare.
The nightmare.
29 (S)
Since we are already here.
Poetry of faith at the full.
Kindly keep these sandwiches, too.
To be shared at the golden hour
That poets dream of,
Even as it madly thunders.
30 (Y)
Our poem will end
When we overcome;
We will celebrate
For once,
An end
As we always do
With beginnings
31 (Y)
Laugh, belittle, ridicule,
Call me naive
Over-blown
Narcissistic,
Easily duped,
Those names,
Whatever is up
Entitled sleeves,
To silence stereotype enslave.
32 (S)
The dread of your dying wick.
A single lung blighting all joy.
Memories of your dead mother.
Your pus-filled body.
A cry for green stones of home. Hot springs.
Jail is sad.
Prisoners die at this cursed hour.
Now on my kneeling mat, milling the moon.
33 (S)
At the local dumpsite, I flinch
improvise a mind-soul spin.
Kids playing atop the site,
happy-hip outdoor crib with a view.
Good times rolling like Kamala Harris,
dogs fighting over smelly nappies.
Kids running away, stained condoms
popping up.
They are doing it.
34 (Y)
it used to be simple
getting on a plane
breathing without a mask
touching a doorknob
and not being afraid
it used to be simple
laughing on an elevator
just going out
hugging someone
you love
35 (S)
Ziyagiya ziqethuke.
Mqombothi plastic cups.
Lives dangling on the lion’s jaws.
Ease the storm beloved ancestors.
We miss the magic of hugging the clay pot.
The odd belch.
The tickling cold stir on lips.
The Khongisa spirit.
Songs against thunder and disease.
Rain.
(Section 35 was written by Sandile Ngidi on the day of the death of legendary South African vocalist, and his friend, Sibongile Khumalo, evoking the spirit of one her great songs, a prayer to the gods of Africa. Let us mourn in prayer this collective loss as we face a world torn by the pandemic.)
36 (Y)
Shivers of monster icebergs
Fevers of raging forest fires
Fuzzy spikes running amok
Vessels organs flesh and muscle
Dropping phlegm immunity bombs
More virus more virus more virus
Tentacles piercing nails red-blue
Hoping to wipe out Humanity
Weighing who gets to live
Which rich nations get vaccines first
37 (S)
The vaccine arrives in the rain,
I wave on TV,
frown lines of relief.
Puppy-happy, playing fetch
The bride is here, for
migrants too.
Waves crash onto shore,
a swash of stars
arresting the frozen hours.
Maize seedlings ready, hands to earth.
Fresh starts.
38 (Y)
Yurikamome float like lotus
Heaven on earth
This river of fruit and birth,
Tender Flowers,
A moment in this pandemic Hell
That enslaves, rapes, steals,
Infections of greed and envy
39 (S)
Humming leaves giving rhythm to the reticent day.
Fruits.
Mapholoba off to his cattle post.
Our morning ritual in flight.
Salutes to sunrise.
Laughter shared like bread.
A mbhubhudlo bond.
Songs.
The heaven of village handshakes.
Palm leaves.
40 (Y)
Hot pink buds are shaking dew,
Airplanes roar over clouds of spring
And the weeping of sirens,
Piercing the city smog;
We wonder if it’s COVID-19
Or some other emergency;
We pray for anshin anzen,
Safe and secure,
As elusive as those broken promises.
41 (S)
Sibiya’s laughs are boiled maize kernels we throw in the air,
Right into our mouths.
Sweet rain drops.
In the wasp-killing sun, we breathe dreams into the soil,
Muting the weeping sirens.
The soil’s ulnar verse spreads and breaks like seawaves.
We are silk songs.
42 (Y)
We wake up today to the Earth shuddering,
Rumbling in fear of human evil,
Magnitude 7.3 almost midnight.
We wake up today to water levels sinking
In reactors that sank 10 years ago
Meltdowns in Fukushima,
Half-cracked containers spewing,
No one gets close without dying;
Remembering human greed,
Evacuating in fear of radioactive imperfection.
43 (S)
You ntanga yethu, David Sibisi.
Walking talking with stoic grace.
Broomcorn strong.
Smile bristles giving the day her delayed radiance.
Some milk cows perished in the recent hellish rains.
But you braving the forest,
giving the village her health.
Brooms.
44 (S)
It’s a year since that freezing wind struck,
left its bloodied knife on the floor.
The winding path of pain, indefinite tracks on a hill.
The dead can’t smell the flowers, and play with their dogs anymore.
Yet memory drapes each day with protean seeds.
45 (Y)
Smell the soy sauce cooking
See the squints stab desert skies
Hear the heartbeat taiko vibration
Feel the texture of kimono silk
Taste the ocean sashimi brine
So Simple: Has it been a year?
We are alive we mourn filled with love
Can you remember how that love made you afraid?
46 (S)
Empty lands,
where brutal spiderworlds
silence women.
In the name of tradition,
the kikuyu loses her green heart.
Tribesmen betray justice.
Blowing their noses at a woman,
as she cries for justice.
When her speech is chilli hot,
her eyes a stubborn flame.
47 (Y)
Vagina warm and snug,
Dark and tight Slant Eyes,
Shot at a Massage Spa;
Skin as smooth as China Silk,
Straight Black Hair a Tightrope,
Shot at a Massage Spa;
Serve your addiction
But Not racially motivated,
Shot at a Massage Spa;
He just had a bad day,
The women are dead.
48 (S)
Sunny days are darkening at load-shedding speed.
Seasons of foul stench.
Skunks squealing with careless glee.
Children too happy to play outside.
Far from the smell of the political millipede.
To wink at the transient sunrise.
Holding on to its warm scarlet scarf.
49 (Y)
Oblivious to the pandemic,
Sakura buds fatten,
Burst in benevolent explosions,
Millions of screams
Crying out to Stop Hate,
Pink pompoms spilling Pink Periods
On a timeless Manuscript
Of pavement and dirt.
50 (S)
Bright skies and the sea full of grace, heroic balsamic kisses.
Hugh Masekela’s Homeric bloom.
Bliss.
It’s the season of the kindest sunlight.
Petunias strutting their lot in lilac, red –
And Hughey’s enduring love petals.
Hip grazing in the April grass.
“The canvas is big. Gets beautiful with every brush stroke. What matters to me is the possibility of the festival. We are still afloat.” _ SANDILE NGIDI
“I must answer to my brother poet’s challenge and spirit, our words weaving together as family, across oceans, skies and continents.” _ YURI KAGEYAMA
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.
Who: Rock Legend Morgan Fisher plays host to a collaboration with Poet Yuri Kageyama and the Yuricane _ Hirokazu Suyama Jackson (drums), Yuiichiro Ishii (guitar) and Nobutaka Yamasaki (keyboards) in Morgan Salon No. 5
What: The Spoken Word, Improvisation, Film, Rock ‘n’ Roll, Swing, Funk, Life and Death and other Meanings and Moments.
Where: At Morgan’s. A fine minute walk from Daitabashi Station (Keio Line near Shinjuku) 2-2-4 Izumi Suginami-ku Tokyo 168-0063
When: SAT June 13, 2015 7 p.m. (doors open 6:30 p.m.)
Another Who: SPECIAL GUEST Trupti Pandkar vocals.
Why: Why not?
My Poetry and Music with Morgan Fisher. Poster by Annette Borromeo Dorfman. Photos by Eba Chan.
Drummer Hirokazu Suyama reads my poem “ode to the stroller” and teaches me and moves me more than I knew I could have ever hoped for.
Thank you, Hiro, for your music, for believing in my poetry and for simply being so special.
Read at the Japan Writers’ Conference in Okinawa.
Nov. 2, 2013.
Film by Adam Lewis of Okinawa Vision.
We are really one.
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
YURI KAGEYAMA, a poet of both worlds Japan and America, American drummer PHEEROAN AKLAFF and Japanese filmmaker YOSHIAKI TAGO come together to tell a pan-Pacific tale of pain, love and survival that defies racism and sexism over moments and generations.
Witness, celebrate and join in this exhilarating crossing of barriers of cultures and genres to debunk stereotypes and find free expression.
MON Aug. 6, 2012. 8 p.m. (door opens 7:30 p.m.)
at Live space plan-B (4-26-20 B1 Yayoicho Nakano-ku, TOKYO.
FREE ADMISSION (Donations welcome for plan-B).
Yuri Kageyama is the author of “The New and Selected Yuri: Writing From Peeling Till Now.” Her works, winning praise from literary giants like Ishmael Reed and Shuntaro Tanikawa, appear in “Y’Bird,” “Pow Wow,” “Breaking Silence,” “On a Bed of Rice,” “Konch” and “Phati’tude.” She has read with Eric Kamau Gravatt, Isaku Kageyama, Ashwut Rodriguez, Seamus Heaney, Shozu Ben, Victor Hernandez Cruz and the Broun Fellinis.
http://yurikageyama.com
Pheeroan AkLaff is a New York-based drummer and composer. He has played with Rashied Ali, Oliver Lake, Henry Threadgill, Cecil Taylor, Yosuke Yamashita and Andrew Hill. A headliner at many festivals including Moers and Nurnberg, he is in Japan on the “Dear Freedom Suite” tour with Jun Miyake and Toshiki Nagata. He has led an ensemble dedicated to John Coltrane’s music. He teaches at Wesleyan University.
http://pheeroanaklaff.com
Yoshiaki Tago directed “Worst Contact,” “Believer” and “Maid in Akihabara,” and served as assistant director on many Japanese feature films. A graduate of the prestigious Japan Academy of Moving Images, Tago frequently works on TV shows and promotional videos for pop artists, major companies and government projects. He is documenting Kageyama’s readings with music in a work-in-progress “Talking TAIKO.”
For more information, email yurikageyama@yahoo.com or 090-4594-2911
Drummer Isaku Kageyama of Amanojaku collaborates with Yuu Ishizuka of Bachiatari and Makoto Sekine of Taikoshownin Medetai to explore new possibilities in MODERN TAIKO. at Super Deluxe in Roppongi, Tokyo. SUN Nov. 28, 2010. Doors open 5:30 p.m. Music starts 6 p.m. advance 3,500 yen. door 4,000 yen. Make your reservations online. B1F 3.1.25 Nishi Azabu, Minato-ku, Tokyo 106-0031, Japan tel: 03-5412-0515 5 minutes walk toward Nishi Azabu on Roppongi dori from Roppongi station (Hibiya Line or Oedo Line). 30 seconds walk from Roppongi 6-chome bus stop (TO-01 Shinbashi >> Shibuya). 1 minute walk from Roppongi 6-chome bus stop (TO-01 Shibuya >> Shinbashi).
From left to right: Isaku Kageyama, Winchester Nii Tete, Robby. The “MoveThatPoem” poets from Spain read after the music at the Moon Stomp in Koenji Tokyo Sunday Oct. 11, 2009. The music keeps getting stronger. And the poetry _ read in their Spanish original by the poets, followed by English translations _ was a perfect way to end a multicultural evening. Isaku plays with minyo musicians tomorrow night Monday, Oct. 12, 2009, at Takanoya in Shinjuku, Tokyo.