AN UNDENIABLE FACT
A haiku by Yuri Kageyama
March 8, 2020 8:55 a.m.
Some
Writing
has no
Soul
No Voice (No Story being told)
It
Comes
from
Within
The River with effects by Christopher Nolan
THE RIVER
_ a poem in the spirit of Hart Crane _ by Yuri 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
Heron in a Tokyo Park
HAIKU FOR SAGIMUSUME
A poem by Yuri Kageyama
Dance from white to red
A ghostly bride mirrored in snow
Killed by love, she still lives
I saw Kikunosuke perform the Kabuki dance “Heron Maiden.”
I’ve seen the dance by Tamasaburo many times, but this version was special, perhaps because his subdued though utterly elegant interpretation so perfectly highlighted the beauty of the story and the music, or perhaps just because a garden near where I live, Hamarikyu, has herons.
Now, I know they are so still, perched on a rock with their crooked necks, as though they know but don’t care they are forming a perfect picture for an artist, so intensely focused, ruthless in their silence and stillness.
What a bird it is _ and what an image, forlorn and fantastic at once, to depict the love of a Japanese woman.
It is not necessary to have seen herons every day or be a Japanese woman to appreciate this gorgeous theater piece.
But it helps.
And I thank the god of poetry for giving me the gift that allows me to witness how this great Japanese dance and the humble dignity of the heron can transcend the finitude and pettiness of society.
Heron in a Tokyo Garden.
Photo by Hirokazu Suyama, drummer.
HAIKU SERIES
by Yuri Kageyama
Waaaaaah! So much like Wow!
A Child. Fluttering Sakura.
Language. A Moment.
わあああ!でも ワウ!でも
ちるさくらみる子
言葉は無
~~~~
a blue plastic bag
so hard so still no more
Tokyo train tracks
青いシート
もうかたくなり
東京の駅
~~~
in my deathly dreams
your sweet breath, fat knees, wet hands
a child forever
甘い息
死んで夢見る
赤ちゃんの手
~~~~
timeless tweet timeline
scroll blindly touch-panel light
mumbles of loneliness
タイムレス
孤独のつぶやき
みずスクロール
~~~~
stained glass
nudging colors into light
my wife’s fingers
ステンドグラス
ひかりを染める
妻のゆび
~~~~
dead grandchild
a blurring thought lost in wrinkles
skin lotion’s smell
なき孫が
小皺に霞む
化粧水
~~~~
at Hamanako
forgetting burying
beatings by my father
浜名湖に
沈め忘れる
父の虐待
~~~~
Red over green
You got that right, Matisse
Then Today Forever.
グリーンよりあか
そのときもいまも
せいかい
~~~~
spring morning
pink explodes
chiffon whirls
春の朝
ピンクが爆
発シフォン舞う
Haiku for Disco _ a poem by Yuri Kageyama
Too Tired, Brain Is Dead
Chukah Thomp, Chukah Thomp, Chukah Thomp,
Disco Is Music.
Some people who know a lot about music look down upon disco because of its simple repetitive rhythm and how the genre has played in to the evil money-making music industry machinery (although other genres have done this, too). What is being overlooked is that this simple repetitive rhythm, which gets people off their seats and out on the dance floor, speaks to people who work hard all day and need to forget, can’t think, but want to groove _ not those academics who want to sit around, focus on more intelligent music to analyze, contemplate and articulate. Call it dumb. Call it what you will. Call it the primordial beat. I am alive. That is what disco music says. And that is the most important thing any music, any art, any writing can say.
(video from Jimmy Clary, via Hiroyuki Shido)