Katsushika Oi – a poem about
Hokusai’s daughter, herself an artist.
He went to brothels
to conduct his art business.
I rode on his back.
I liked courtesans.
In the tea-houses we laughed,
before their pimps came.
I didn’t need you,
Minimizawa Tomei:
so I divorced you.
I laughed at your work.
To me it looked like spilt oil.
Go back to your shop!
I was third daughter.
When both his wives had left him,
he called to me, Oi!
Loyal to Iitsu:
I changed my name to this, but
some called me Tipsy.
I liked alcohol.
I posed for his shunga
and drank a little.
He drew Strong Oei
Pouring Sake as tribute
to my assistance.
I painted beauties
and ghosted his work, dipping
my brush in moonlight.
When my musicians
played their instruments, their wrists
curved like The Great Wave.
Though struck by lightning,
the old man did not die then.
He rose from the flames
like a phoenix. He
instructed me in shadows,
before light was spent.
At last he bowed out
of his studio; Xian-like,
I disappeared too.
‘Old Man Mad On Art’…
Hokusai – my kind of guy.
I was mad on you.
Candia Comes Clean 