Yuko Minamikawa Adams

Giacometti in a Fridge

 

10 a.m.

the door is opened.

I step into the gallery.

I feel the air of fridge –

immaculate, intact.

Figures are standing

in this clear atmosphere.

They are thin, almost

emaciated

but still solid

like trees.

I stare at these people,

wondering

how they could cope with this chill

and silence

after visitors disappeared

last evening

and how they could wait

until this morning

when our body temperature

reheats

their space.

Turfalko

Mists of dreams

Mists of dreams

or mists of heat

silence awakens us

through the shutters

mashrabiya

of shadows and light

on your skin

figures

of desire

glyphs

of our ardent wishes

carved into the body

a caress awakens our senses

a blackbird's song in the distance

and the wind in a soft whistling

carries to us the discreet delights

and the secret coolness of the palm grove

NIJO Cenka

Vacuum Voice

In the vacuum of space,

there is no need to read the air.

If each of us carries our own oxygen tank,

breathing is easier

than it is on Earth.

But in the vacuum,

sound does not carry.

No matter how much the vocal cords tremble,

if there is no atmosphere to transmit that vibration,

a voice is powerless.

If so-

how can I call out

to your distant back, carrying your own tank?

That’s it-

transmit a signal

converted from this trembling.

　*read the air : from Japanese “kuki o yomu” (空気を読む), meaning to sense unspoken social cues.

Tim Taylor

Breath

It is almost nothing:

invisible, except when frigid air

or cold, smooth glass

transforms its moisture into mist;

its sound too faint to hear

unless the body needs more of it

than the lungs can claim.

It has no taste, no smell:

whatever chance aromas it may wear

are not its own. We feel 

only a passing breeze across the lips,

a rhythmic swelling 

and contraction of the chest,

so gentle, so familiar we forget

that it is happening. How strange 

that our entire life depends

upon a thing so insubstantial

that we might suppose 

it wasn’t there at all. 

Yasushi Ikeda

Stage

The darkest shadow has an air of ghost

He believes he was a king

He claims he was assassinated

He wants his son to be a detective

His son has an air of ghost

He questions whether to be or to go

He acts as a detective 

He laughs at his girlfriend and kills her father

She has an air of ghost

She likes to sing in a river

She dreams of living in a convent 

He and she have an air of ghost

Whoever understands them has an air of ghost

This pale cool air is a funny fragile fragrance 

Of utterly immature actors on this cosmic stage.