
HAIKU a poem by Yuri Kageyama March 18, 2022
鶯や
水辺羽ばたく
都市開発
the nightingale
fluttering by the waters
urban development
HAIKU a poem by Yuri Kageyama March 18, 2022
鶯や
水辺羽ばたく
都市開発
the nightingale
fluttering by the waters
urban development
THE AFTERLIFE
A poem by Yuri Kageyama Feb. 23, 2022
The mass of meat
In a heap like a grave,
Cold, still
Amid wafting incense,
The moans and chants of mourning,
Eyes closed, hands clasped
Frozen in motion,
I lose interest:
Those motions of burial and propriety,
Those greetings, sympathy, tears;
He is no longer there,
Not in that body,
Twitching twisting growling in incoherence,
More and more silent
Over the years,
He is no longer there:
At last,
He is gone
Haiku today Sept. 23, 2021
By Yuri Kageyama
リストカット
悲鳴をあげるは
彼岸花
wrist cutting syndrome
you can hear the screaming
higanbana
I usually don’t write poetry in Japanese, but I wrote this. And now, looking back, I realize I’ve written Japanese rap. I am going to make this part of the rap section of my song “Nothing Happens.”
Japanese Rap for George Floyd
_ A Poem by Yuri Kageyama
死ぬまえ
のこる生命で
えらんだ言葉
息ができない
彼のおもい
アメリカの差別
歴史のおもい
すべてが
あまりにも
すごくて
言葉がない
息ができない
息ができない
THE RIVER
_ a poem in the spirit of Hart Crane _ by Yuri Kageyama
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
GIFTS FROM THE DEAD
a poem by Yuri Kageyama
Graves are always There
for those Who are still
Alive to Forgive
Accept Reconcile.
They don’t Speak Back.
They don’t expect much
because
they are ready
to be Forgotten
if not
really already
Forgotten.
So when You
Go There, You
will Be Forgiven:
Grave are Gifts
from the Dead
for the Living.
At a temple in Toyokawa, Aichi Prefecture, Japan. Photo by Yuri Kageyama.
An excerpt from Story of Miu (a performance piece in the works)
By Yuri Kageyama
You are curled up tight, in fetal position, eyes still closed but seeing red blindness, throbbing flesh, still alive, deep inside our stomachs so entrenched within us but also disjointed and expanding like our pain and like all the solar systems in the universe.
I was already there in that moment. We shared in that secret of knowing you will someday be born, before anyone else knew, and then grow up and become man _ or woman _ with a yelping gasping flash-of-light wail, the newborn’s cry in that first breath, and recognizing from the very start that you will someday have this same joy and same pain, growing inside you and being born.
It doesn’t matter that you will make towers. You will make music. You will make computer programs. You will make money. You will make babies.
It doesn’t matter that you will be a pillar of society. You will be an outcast. You will win rewards. You will be abused as a stranger.
It doesn’t matter that you will witness a great northern earthquake, although it is a once-in-a-century disaster setting off a torrent of outraged water that turns farmland into mud, buildings and homes into rubble, and quiet untouched happy towns into ghost towns covered with radiation.
I was there, with you, before it all _ in that redness and blackness and all seeing blindness that was here and everywhere, bleeding and beating and breathing and being, inside my uterus, that spot near my navel that connects with your navel, before and even after your newborn cry.
This is the same cosmos inside the bodies of all mothers, where we fall in our slumber, snuggling against our blankets, the safe and eternal place we visit that are called dreams after we awaken.
This is the same cosmos in the resonance of the giant taiko drum, shaking and deafening, but we hear and understand every note like our mother’s heartbeat.
The otherworldly world that awaits behind the mirror in a Tadanori Yokoo painting, the crooked road not taken behind the church in a Vincent Van Gogh painting _ a world from this end we fear might be the Michelangelo hell of a nuclear meltdown with faces and arms peeled, stunted and melted by an erring god scientists will never admit was provoked by anything other than a mother’s mistake, or else it could smell like lotuses and incense and candles, sinking into a Claude Monet lake of sheer light and blindness that is canvas and museum walls no more but total artist’s vision.
This is the same cosmos where ghosts with long black hair reside, sometimes standing besides riverside willow trees weeping about their lovers’ betrayal, and at other times mysteriously saving children from car crashes as benevolent all-knowing ancestors.
After all these years, I finally know this is where I return when I die.
To be with you again, all the time, in that moment of eternity that is before birth, so perfectly connected we don’t need to speak or breathe or remember.
This is what death feels like
a poem by Yuri Kageyama
it is the end
you are gone
no more
it is only a dream so i
decide this must be what death is like
not your death, but my own
it is the end
you are gone
no more
my throat is hot with weeping
my eyes are blind from searching for you
my heart is bleeding with emptiness
it is the end
you are gone
no more
how can i keep on living
knowing only this waits ahead, i can’t,
this certain separation, this death
it is the end
you are gone
no more
but wait, this calm i own
when you are here now, close by,
or not so close, but somewhere
it is the end
you are gone
no more
this is what death feels like
i am always close to you, total, perfect
and it doesn’t matter
it is the end
you are gone
no more