Yasushi Ikeda

A portrait of an old poetess


She insists 

Time be the sun and the moon going in the dark

Clock be that fig tree fond of being mute 

Whatever is mechanically activated be just a toy.


She eats

Fifty-language-corn soup, satire-flavored ice cream,

Manuscripts full of abracadabra, romances out of date,

Bad tempered criticism, inspiration born in savage land.

ONAI Kotaro

The Sound Country


Under Shin-Hamamatsu station

There's the semicircular space

The piano sits there

February 2025

Poets gather in that semicircular space

Snow begins to fall in the afternoon

Snow never accumulate

Poetry readings begin

A Osaka poet sings Tagwa's national anthem while playing the ukulele

Mid-song, a female poet collapses

Her gaze becomes unfocused

Foam comes from her mouth

The anthem is interrupted

Tim Taylor

The Busker


He seems, at first, a sorry figure:

the hair that once leaped down his back 

in waterfalls of golden brown,

now just a thin white halo round his head.

Each year of fish and chips

washed down with Carlsberg Special in a Transit van

has left another ring of beer gut round his waist.

But watch the grin

that creases his red face as he plugs in.

Yuko Minamikawa Adams

Piano 


A grand piano is standing in my living room.

She is my grandmother.

She is a skeleton with no keys left.

In her youth, everything touched her:

fingers, breezes, petals.

She responded with cheerful music.

When she became Mother,

She started dropping her keys, one by one.

These are my mother, uncles, aunts

and then me.

Yasushi Ikeda

A portrait of an old poetess She insists  Time be the sun and the moon going in the dark Clock be that fig tree fond of being mute  Whatever...