CONTINUOUSLY POETRY a bilingual collaboration by Osaki HANIYA and Yuri Kageyama with Toshiyuki “Turner” Tanahashi on bass

At What the Dickens in Tokyo June 2, 2024. Haniya Osaki, Yuri Kageyama and Toshiyuki Turner Tanahashi. Photo by On Lim Wong.

CONTINUOUSLY POETRY a bilingual collaboration by Osaki HANIYA (all even entries) and Yuri Kageyama (odd entries) with Toshiyuki “Turner” Tanahashi (on bass). Tokyo. April 13, 2024.

1

Abortions, still births, defects at birth

Violent parents, cheating partners

Children who leave and never look back,

Cancer, dementia, the funeral wake.

Family of Errors

Betrayal, Psychosis:

If God created people perfect,  

We would just miss them too much,

When they die 

2

木漏れ日がさらさらと揺れて

靴の紐を固く締め上げる指先を撫で回す

1922年、T.S.Eliotは書いた

April is the cruelest  month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land

越冬用の木の実とともに今も

シマリスは瓦礫の下に横たわっている

3

ファミレスとはよくいったもんだ

愛おしい家族よ

ジョナサン、デニーズ

サイゼリア

虐待のスパゲティ

Sexual abuse ice cream

痣だらけのお子様ランチ

4

十字路を渡りかけて振り返ると

見知らぬ小さな人が 呟く

missing link

5

Searched for the names of 

Isaku’s Granpa and Granma; 

Made sure they were there: 

Their names, 

Years of birth 1923 and 1924,  

And Minidoka

Then shed a quiet tear. 

Ireizo-dot-com

125,179 Persons of Japanese Ancestry are known to have been incarcerated by the U.S. Government during WWII. 

We vow to remember them all. 

_ written Feb. 19, 2024

Remembering Executive Order 9066 on This Day.

6

山雪〈老梅〉の

四面の狂い

反対色

描きとどめ

回り続ける歳月の二針を

焼き付けても

ひと枝の花

金箔の首筋に熱

記憶というのは幾つくらいから始まるのだろう

白衣の老人が顔を寄せ合ってこちらを覗き込んでいる

見上げると茫洋とした灯りが

ゆっくりゆっくり旋回している

自転車に乗れるようになった頃

朝早くに母の使いで近くの寺へ行った帰り

停車中のトラックに自転車もろとも突っ込んだ

左膝にめり込んだ小石が私そっくりに笑っていた

剥落しているところがあるかもしれない

溢れた塩酸の夢

過度の奏上

エクスタシス排斥し

     * 狩野山雪〈老梅〉

7 (an English translation of sorts of 6)

 Sansetsu’s “Old Plum”

Madness across the surface,

Opposite colors 

He’s painted.  

Two switches from a spinning full moon 

Scalding

Sole flower on a branch

Turns to fever on a nape gilded with gold.

How old are we when memories begin?

Huddled old figures wearing white peer toward us; 

A vast light above

Slowly, so slowly, spinning.  

When I first learned how to ride a bicycle,

On my way back from the temple, running a morning errand for my mother, 

I slam into a parked truck, bicycle and all,

The pebble stuck in my left knee laughs, looking just like me. 

Maybe some parts have flaked off;

Overflowing acidic dreams

Excessive prayers

In exclusion of ecstasy

8

瓦礫の下で目を見開く2歳の私に

母の投身を描き終えた白昼の月に

欠損した踝から頭蓋へ

怒りの破裂を腑分けして

アイボリーブラック

ボーンブラック

1.82×1.225メートルの

ドロップブラック

始めましょう

展覧会

9

I know not where I am when I wake up

America or Japan

Hong Kong or Morocco

Heaven or Hell or Heaven on Earth

It groggily matters not whether Death

Or Life;

Purpose has Vanished

Never existed from the Start _

Not knowing, not mattering,

Like this poem That Is

At least Something,   

A wispy dream ending without sadness,

This last one from me

And one more from you.

10

別れの言葉

逡巡して

沈默を覆う渇いた唇

かつて私はヒトだった

もうヒトではない  

たくさん旅をした

国家

暴力

歪な科学が

じりじりと確実に腐生するなら

透層剤すべてが失われ

骨組み以外は何も残らず

わずかに装っていた善良さを

抹殺するだろう

RENSHI A poetic collaboration Part Two By Osaki Haniya and Yuri Kageyama

Our journey continues. Clich here for the first part of our journey. Below is where we pick up. May 1, 2024.

RENSHI

A poetic collaboration Part Two

By Osaki Haniya and Yuri Kageyama

連詩 第2弾

あなたと交わるのは

薄く大気が身動きする砂塵のあわい

雨と風と時が

廃墟の親和性を完成してくれる

そうだったね

徐々に思い出していくよ

倦んだ傷口と解剖メスの

刹那の痛み

白灰色の泥絵の具に

厚塗りの膠を重ねて

2

Native American Wisdom as Told by Urie Bronfenbrenner

A hip bone defect

Runs down family lines;

When they become warriors,

Some born

Can’t go riding

Can’t go hunting;

A brave white scientist

Maps out Blood

Lineage  

Crooks and crannies,

Buried in Genes;

No child will ever be born again

With a hobbled spine,

No such child will be born again

The brave white scientist is excited

“I have figured this all out,” he says;

“I know. I know.” 

But all the wise chief does

Is shake his head,

Deep pools of knowing  

Beneath the eagle feathers,

And he says these Words

That say it All: 

“We believe in Love.

We believe in Love.”

3

よく眠りなさいと言った母の声も届かない遠方に来て

無(なるもの)への郷愁など持ったこともなく

久しぶりに新古今和歌集を開いている

ーー草枕 旅寝の人は 心せよ

  有明の月も かたぶきにけり

辻を回ると養源院

異国の共犯者が作り上げた不在の輪郭に惹かれ

苦痛と憐れみと嫌悪感と

程よく煽られる感情の臭気と

あなたの所在を見失っても

迷うことはできないと知る退屈さと

4

(With introduction and music playing Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together)  

I, I’m so in love with you

Whatever you want to do

Is alright with me

Cause you make me feel so brand new

And I want to spend my life with you

I bury the body, bloated and sagging,

Fat fingers that no longer hold

あなたの身振りに習うなら

臨床的良心によって射ち、つらぬき

微細な歪みを調合しなおし

名付け

印を彫り

忘却の漆喰から奪い取るでしょう

on Friday night, May 31th CE714

北海を渡ってタイン川へ向かう船室に り戻

紅茶が運ばれてくるまで眠った

すべては襖 の黄金のなか絵

あなたのノックで、やがて

夜の salutation が始まる

6

Romeo and Juliet in Kabuki

Where there was a Balcony is a River divide

Star-crossed lovers flee in the dark

Clinging to each other like souls driven mad

Chikamatsu writes of Double Suicide

Puppets more human in frenzied destiny

And Shakespeare simply asks:

Wherefore art thou?

7

偏愛する友人たち

娘たちが眠りに就くころ

荒れた穂先を尖らせる

風に解けだす辰砂

ペルシャ赤

スペイン赤

答えを求めているわけではないけれど

私は信仰を持たないままです

8

The homeless guy in my neighborhood who is always reading just got a new cute tiger puppet he keeps perched on his cart.

It looks like he washed it recently. It looks so perky.

Today, he had a new wand with a pink pony on it.

You found these?

I wasn’t sure what to expect. Some homeless people aren’t very friendly.

But this guy just looked bewildered. Then he said: You can have it.

It broke my heart.

No, that’s yours.

He has nothing.

And he was going to give me his new toy.

9

白象図

展開部はアレグロ・アッサイ

白色の下塗りが

微かに足音を響かせ

次第に高まり

^

火や花々

産声を上げるディ・モルトを け抜

それから不意に行く手を遮った

^

耳の砂

砂の匂い

夥しいマティエールの間で脚を開き

ゆっくりと押し付けてくるあなたの舌

^

聞き取れない声で呼ぶ

強暴な、母の名

^

風が吹く

引っ掛けるのだ

呼びとめ

伝えてほしいって

^

心配しなくていいんだよって

何かを欲しがったことなど

一度だってないんだよって

^

黒みがかった灰色の

黒ほとんど黄金色の

白象図

^

あなたは描き

ねじり

吊り下げる

^

此処から向きを える

変どちらかといえば少し歪んでいるあなたの肩

そこから遠く海が眺められる

^

なんという静けさだろう

幾つになったのとか

あのとき言っただろうことの意味を考えていた

^

何度もあなたは立ち止まる

そこだけ積もった冷気を吐き出しながら

*俵屋宗達『白象図』

#peacepoetry A collaborative poem by Sandile Ngidi and Yuri Kageyama

#peacepoetry A collaborative poem by Sandile Ngidi and Yuri Kageyama March 2022 ~ May 2022

Sandile

We are crushed still, bulldozed, uneasy.

Give bread, paska, borscht now.

Sink the molten nerves, war hormones.

Pray fair winds, pebbles, sumac delights.

Rachel Corrie flowers, Westbank’s red ruins.

Yuri

Phan Thi Kim Phuc’s back,

Silent chants, red smoke, orphans cry.

Blue and yellow flurry on Tokyo streets,

“We stand with Ukraine.”  

Fissions of fear, hypersonic glide.

Kent State My Lai Mariupol

Akiko Yosano tells us: Mountains will move,

Shuddering dark loins, tangled hair to lips.

Sandile

Stoop, Russians, stoop,

War dogs eat death you planted in the fields.

Spit its blood like wastewater.

Smear the gunpowder to sanctify your sword.

But no gun can kill the hills’ brooding smiles,

Butterflies will survive the heavy rains.

Yuri

When “tactical” dwarfs Hiroshima, Nagasaki,

“Neo-Nazi” is not a name for anyone,

Retreat sends an attack more frenzied than ever.

Poets speak above the silence,

Purify the Meaninglessness

Of words gone Mad.

Sandile

This ominous cloud

Racial hate in sniper fire.

Your fresh light

Brave in stunning pearls.

Still stubborn as our knees.

Your tenacious love,

Shireen Abu Aqleh.

Vibrant in the storms of black powder rains.

Black stones.

Red shrines.

Coral noctilucence.

Yuri

Children in Ukraine and Fukushima

Are sick with thyroid cancer,

More than the usual two in a million.

She cries remembering that day a decade ago,

When doctors tell her you’ll die at 23 without surgery,

“I was wearing a new dress and new sandals.”

AS IS MUCH IN LIFE by Dr. Minh and Yuri Kageyama

AS IS MUCH IN LIFE

A poetic collaboration on Twitter by Dr. Minh and Yuri Kageyama April 22, 2022

Dr. Minh wrote the poem in five minutes after I tweeted the title. I just added the last two lines.   

As is much in life

you sit alone on the edge of a river   

I know

you nurture your solitude

but wonder

tomorrow

you will sit alone on the edge of the river

is your solitude still there

only you know

^___<

As is much in life

solitude is not emptiness

or vacuum or the void

where the real and the real annihilate

to give birth to something new

just emptiness

but this is where life begins

you and I know

as is much in life

Magic 50 of COVID-19 Poems by Sandile Ngidi and Yuri Kageyama

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

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

OUR COLLABORATION AT M SPACE IN TOKYO

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

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 POETRY WITH MUSIC AT MORGAN SALON SAT JUNE 13, 2015

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Photos by Eba Chan.

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.

My Poetry and Music with Morgan Fisher.
Poster by Annette Borromeo Dorfman.
Photos by Eba Chan.

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Photos by Eba Chan.

Hirokazu Suyama reads my poem “ode to the stroller”

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

Poet Yuri Kageyama, Drummer Pheeroan akLaff and Filmmaker Yoshiaki Tago

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

A TOKYO FLOWER CHILDREN production