A BROKEN FRAME a poem by Yuri Kageyama

THE BROKEN FRAME a poem by Yuri Kageyama

The ambulances are screaming. We look up and see a big tear in a steel fame right by our apartment building. We wonder but figure it’s not a murder because we don’t read about it, and there aren’t that many murders in Tokyo. Every time we see the broken frame, we wonder who it could have been. And what might have driven this individual, whom we don’t know and never will know, male or female, young or old, happy or unhappy, probably unhappy, literally over the ledge to a dark deep definitive leap of death. It does not make us feel very good. Every time we see that broken frame. A few weeks later, the frame gets fixed. And we stop wondering.  

FOR WOMEN ONLY

For Women Only _ A poem by Yuri Kageyama

For Women Only _ A Poem by Yuri Kageyama

perfume,

rubbing shoulders,

we rattle silently over the tracks

blouses, tucked bags, even powdered chins,

up too close to really see;

we sense only relief

we smell no greasy beards or sweaty suits or

beer breath of the morning after _

this morning commuter train

“josei senyo sha”

reserved

for women only,

introduced to protect the gentle sex

from those groping dark hands

preying prying fingers, stroking thigh,

poking panties,

pretending to be penises

right in public transport,

“josei senyo sha”

this is the kindness of Japanese society:

let chikan go unchecked,

forgiven for their mischief,

and give us, women, this special spot

farthest from the action

farthest from the ticket gates

the first car up front,

and the most dangerous

if we crash

ASYLUM A poem by Yuri Kageyama

ASYLUM

A poem by Yuri Kageyama Feb. 26, 2022

She barely remembers the rape

Monsters grow only in drugless sleep

She is well taken care of

Air raid on Tokyo

Baghdad

Dresden

Ukraine

— —

She no longer draws but

Cuts papers of color

Into ferns and flowers

— — —

Hunger in Biafra

A scream in Vietnam

Van Gogh’s ear

Haiku March 24, 2021 by Yuri Kageyama

Haiku March 24, 2021 by Yuri Kageyama

つえをつき

見上げる空に

初桜

Cane in his hand,

He looks up for a long time

First cherry blossoms

The world suddenly looks like a splendid and hopeful place when sakura starts to bloom, right about this time in Tokyo. It happens without fail every year. But it’s so dazzling it feels unexpected. This morning, an old man was gazing up at a tree, probably the first cherry blossom tree he saw on his walk. His eyes, behind the glasses, I knew had seen so much, and was seeing all of that, again, in the flowers.

The Blue Impulse May 29, 2020

My VIRUS DIARY published in KONCH

A journal of my poetry, music and other thoughts that I kept from April through May 2020 about living in a post-pandemic world has now been published in the special issue of Ishmael Reed’s KONCH online literary magazine. And what great company I am in.

MY TWO FILMS OFFICIAL SELECTIONS AT TOKYO LIFT-OFF FILM FESTIVAL

The Tokyo Lift-Off Film Festival has selected not just one but two of my films for the event in June 2020 _ NEWS FROM FUKUSHIMA and THE VERY SPECIAL DAY.

Thanks to the organizers for believing in my vision. And thanks to all the artists who put up with me and worked on the films. We are all so looking forward to taking part in the event.

Both films are screening (online as the event has moved because of the coronavirus outbreak) MON June 22 ~ SUN June 28, 2020.

THE VERY SPECIAL DAY is showcased in the “Newcomers Short” section for Short Films, while NEWS FROM FUKUSHIMA is in the “Trendsetters” section for Feature Documentaries at the Tokyo Lift-Off Film Festival.

RANDOM RENEGADE RENGA by TAYLOR MIGNON and YURI KAGEYAMA

Taylor Mignon _ photo by Joe Zanghi

RANDOM RENEGADE RENGA   

Written by Taylor Mignon and Yuri Kageyama

In Tokyo Spring 2020 as the World trembles in face of the Pandemic but Poets believe in the Power of the Word   

Santana muzak Oye Como Va

Make us yearn for Devo lounge

Digging Mi Ritmo in our Minyo village

Enya to tto Enya to tto Tito Puente

 —

 On the black sugar cane field a hurricane

 saved by voices: Ne Nezu & Yuricane

 —

 He came to her room, said little then went on

 To kill himself; jisatsu nante zurui (自殺なんてズルイ) So selfish so selfish

 —

彼は誰?何と言うてました?なんで自殺したんだろう。「質問祭り」

 —

The Poet with The Questions

 Taylor Mignon Taylor Mignon? Taylor Mignon!

Kageyama encapsulates tortoise mountain, Turtle Island & Yaponesia cornucopia

 —

Taylor is Razor Music entwined, David Bowie James Brown

Red Hot Chili Peppers George Clinton the Parliament-Funkadelic

Peter Tosh dangerous, yes to DB, P-Funk, JB —pass on Chili—am more Epic

Epic Poet Taylor screaming Eternal Tokyo  

Ephemeral this world this thought this poem

My Name Is Rio skips in this stuck lift, Duran Duran sand dance

The scream of poetry that pierces Tokyo

Hear him scream

(notes for Taylor reading: screams loud and long)

The funkqueen of poesie that grooves Tokyo

(Hear her riff, adlib or skat)

From funk fusion to depa-chika to Icarus galaxy to Joni Mitchell and back,

Taylor and Yuri are done but only for now    

Loving Younger Men _ a poem by Yuri Kageyama in collaboration with Yui Shikakura on shamisen and song

“Loving Younger Men,” a poem written by Yuri Kageyama, read by Yuri Kageyama with Yui Shikakura on shamisen and singing at Bar Gari Gari in Tokyo at a Drunk Poets See God gathering Dec. 22, 2017. Her song is traditional Japanese “kudoki,” in which a woman talks about being abandoned by her lover, a genre that is sad but also an erotic celebration.
“Loving Younger Men” was first published in BEYOND RICE, A BROADSIDE SERIES, Mango Publications and NOLO Press, 1979.
Loving Younger Men
a poem by Yuri Kageyama
Only the bodies of young men aroused her; the pure innocence in their wide dark eyes, the wild still animal strength in their muscles, the smoothness of their skin, so shiny, stretched out over their boy-like shoulders, flat stomachs, abdominals rippling gently, their thick thighs that could thrust forever into the night, their soft moist lips, where their tonges, so delicious, dwelt, which darted against, into her vagina, making her moan with joy, forgetting everything, which felt so strong against her own tongue at one moment, yet another, seemed to melt like caramel in the back of her throat, their dry fingers, that touched her in the most unexpected and expecting spots, their penises, half-covered by their black curls, seemed smaller, less developed, less threatening, yet as their shoulders strangely widened when they held her, their penises filled her, pointed against her deepest uterine insides, hurting her with a pleasurable pain, as though she could sense with her hand, their movements from outside her belly. Her father beat her as a girl. She ran from him, crying, please don’t hit me! please don’t hit me! No, rather she stood defiant, silent, silent tears drunk down her chest, till he, in anger or fear, slapped her again and again, once so hard she was swung across the room, once on her left ear so that she could not hear for three weeks. She frequented bars, searching for young men who desired her. She sat alone drinking. She preferred the pretty effeminate types _ perfectly featured, a Michelangelo creation, island faces with coral eyes, faces of unknown tribal child-princes. To escape her family, she eloped at sixteen, with an alchoholic. who tortured her every night, binding her with ropes, sticking his penis into her mouth until she choked, hitting her face into bruises, kicking her in the stomach, aborting her child, his child. The young boys’ heads, she would hold, after orgasm, rocking them in her arms. She would kiss the side of their tanned necks, breathe in the ocean scent of their hair, lick their ear lobes and inside their ears. When they fell asleep, sprawled like a puppy upon her sheets, their mouths open, she would lie awake watching, watching, watching, admiring their bodies, how so aesthetically formed, balanced, textured. What she enjoyed the most was their fondling her breasts, suckling, massaging the flesh, flicking the tongue against the nipple, biting, sucking till her nipples were red-hot for days. She could come just by this, without penetration. When she is alone, she cries. In the dark, she reaches upwards, into the air, grabbing nothing.

ISAKU KAGEYAMA AS A YOUNG DRUMMER

ISAKU KAGEYAMA as a young taiko drummer at Bon Odori in Tokyo and an Amanojaku children’s division performance doing among other pieces “Nidanuchi.”
Thanks to all his Bon Taiko students for expressing interest. Now that they’ve gotten us started, we are thinking of editing video of his omatsuri playing.