Tokyo Correspondence: Notes From a Writer Beyond the Headlines
I kept a blog from 2007 before I started this site in 2011. Here’s the link below. I’m also sharing after this TEPCO CORRESPONDENCE: Notes From a Writer Beyond the Headlines. Those are my posts on Facebook in 2011, while I was covering the utility behind the Fukushima nuclear disaster. It’s amazing to run across bits of your past self _ and what you wrote then. Both so clearly you and not you at all. Yet totally the truth. And all that makes you you.
Having just returned from visiting the U.S., I was struck by how bathrooms (both toilets and bathing facilities) are really super nice in Japan _ clean, everything works, the hot water actually comes out in ample quantity, the tiles aren’t cracked, overall pleasant design/appearance if not just outright intelligent etc. _ and all this is available for those living in cheap housing, staying at affordable at hotels/inns, and of course public spaces.
When you think about what Freud theorizes, the state of toilets speaks a lot about the thinking in a society, about its views on “equaltity,” what is treasured, and the innermost darkest obsessions. (maybe, anyway).
Here ICYMI is the AP Story I did when the Wim Wenders project was first announced and he talks about the film’s setting and the deep meaning of “restrooms”
My AP Story Sept. 4, 2023 about how the men who have come forward are hopeful, and fearful, ahead of the company’s first news conference on the scandal.
My AP Story Aug. 29, 2023 about a team looking into sexual assault allegations at Johnny’s and demanding Julie resign.
My AP Story and My AP Photos Aug. 4, 2023 about a U.N. group looking into the allegations at Johnny’s and how seven men saw that as a big step forward.
My AP Story March 3, 2022 on the verdict for Greg Kelly, cleared on all counts except for charges in one of the eight contested years. He gets to go home because his sentence was suspended. The defense is appealing, asserting complete innocence.
My AP Story March 10, 2022 on the U.S. government seeking the two Americans in prison in Carlos Ghosn’s escape be allowed to serve the rest of their time in the U.S.
A collaboration by Sandile Ngidi and Yuri KageyamaJune 2022 ~ (ongoing)
Sandile(June 12, 2022)
It is windy, rough, chimneys banging in the winds,
begging for mercy, pebbles.
Still meditating, but prayers return as cloudbursts. Blood.
Sky dances, but no raindrops on the lips.
Bare gullies.
Bedrocks rehearsing illness songs.
Orphans on dry geomorphology.
Yuri(June 19, 2022)
The blue-green planet is but a sneeze
Lost in two billion light years of solitude,
That speck of snot, or dot, of human life
In an eternal line of ancestral tradition:
Like Shuntaro Tanikawa and Mansai Nomura,
On this Juneteenth, we remember
Hope, courage, that patient wait.
Sandile(July 2, 2022)
On the first day of the month, the sun went home in splendid form.
A good ruse for me to sleep, and wake up in top form.
A world of theatrical summons suddenly made sensuous.
I am walking into the village where one season,
the magic of laughter died.
My dogs running.
Joyous.
Yuri(July 12, 2022)
The Music falls silent.
Piping, pellets, powder,
Wrapped in tape,
Two smoking blasts
from a homemade gun,
Assassination Assassination
Sinking and numb
We face each other and a new world
Sandile (July 8, 2022)
hope pulses with astonishing freshness.
i’m home
embracing every tiny patch
food in green pastures
songs making me feel whole
while mourning a dear brother
Mandla Dlamini,
his leaf refusing to wither …
Yuri(July 14, 2022)
… you are home:
The rice smells sweet,
Take your shoes off and let
The tatami cool your tired toes;
Take a deep breath;
Let it seep within _
That feeling that you count
When what’s going on around us
Is just the opposite.
Sandile (Aug. 18, 2022)
A man from boyhood rises on a point of order.
Tells a tiktok traffic DJ, his potatoes are wrapped in blood.
Pleads for wifey to go gentle into his black potato sack.
To keep it cool, moist.
This tiny poem is no portrait of a man as a naked cook.
It is his pain.
Sandile(Aug. 24, 2022)
In the punishing winds,
chimneys sing in the bloody winds.
Why can’t you see?
Sit down. Grow wings.
Simply sing along.
Grow dreadlocks. Brush your dog.
Chill out with bafo.
And Hugh. Cool laughers.
Sandile’s photo for the segment above shows “Madala Kunene (left), a superb South African guitarist and raconteur. The young chap is Hugh Mdlalose, a talented documentary photographer. His father was a musicologist and named him after the great trumpeter. Madala is popularly known as bafo. Zulu for brother.”
Yuri (Aug. 26, 2022)
it’s a blessed day
when you wake up and write
a poem,
or rather a poem wakes up
and gets you
to write a poem;
it just comes but it
has to be
a blessed day;
never forget when it happens last,
or those long silent days
when you just suffered.
^____<
(The poetic trans-planetary collaboration between Sandile Ngidi in South Africa and Yuri Kageyama in Japan has evolved over time. Their previous works are: #peacepoetry (March ~ May 2022), and the work that started it all in 2021: “Magic 50 of COVID-19 Poems.” The tradeoff of lines in a literary hand-holding defied geographic borders, in a shared vision, week by week, or almost week by week, through the pandemic, the war in Ukraine, the comings and going of daily life. “This poetic dance is our call and response. A tango of sorts,” Ngidi says. Without having ever met once in real life, the poets know simple but totally perfect mutual understanding. Thank God for Poetry.)
My AP Stories for 2021 are below. Please click on the highlighted links to read my AP Stories, and to go to My AP Stories for 2020, and My AP Stories for 2019 and 2018:
My AP Story July 30, 2021 about the Tokyo Olympics collecting lots of spit in an effort to curb COVID.
A great “memory shot” by Kii Sato of where I did a video interview for The AP on the Olympic opening ceremony. It was just across the street but because of blocked off traffic I had to make a giant detour and was drenched in sweat when I finally got there. But Yes, I did the interview!
I interviewed the Blue Impulse pilot and the youngster who ran with the torch-runner for this AP Story July 30, 2021 about memories of the 1964 Tokyo Olympics.
My AP Story July 2, 2021 on the Americans accused in the escape of Carlos Ghosn. Michael Taylor, choking over tears, told the court: “I stand here today a man whose life has been destroyed because of this.”
My AP Photo and My AP Story March 5, 2021 and AP Interview with the chief defense lawyer for Greg Kelly on trial in Japan on charges related to Carlos Ghosn’s compensation.
My AP Story March 2, 2021 explaining what might be ahead for the American father and son being extradited to Japan on suspicion of helping Carlos Ghosn skip bail and escape to Lebanon.
My AP Story March 1, 2021 on the prime minister’s PR chief resigning after lavish meal tied to broadcaster.
My AP Story Feb. 26, 2021 on Japan partially ending the state of emergency, while keeping it for the Tokyo area.
I’m a contributor to this AP Story Feb. 12, 2021, the day Mori is expected to officially resign.
I’m a contributor to this AP Story Feb. 4, 2021 about a Japanese Olympic official facing calls for resignation after a remark apparently belittling women.
My AP Story Jan. 4, 2021, a co-byline with our AP Sports Writer, on pandemic worries looming as the countdown clock for the postponed Tokyo Olympics hits 200 days to go.
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
