ABOUT THE BOOK
The hermit-monk Ryokan, long beloved in Japan bothfor his poetry and for his character, belongs in the
tradition of the great Zen eccentrics of China andJapan. His reclusive life and celebration of nature andthe natural life also bring to mind his younger
American contemporary, Thoreau. Ryōkan’s poetry isthat of the mature Zen master, its deceptive simplicity
revealing an art that surpasses artiﬁce. Although
Ryokan was born in eighteenth-century Japan, his
extraordinary poems, capturing in a few luminous
phrases both the beauty and the pathos of human life,
reach far beyond time and place to touch the springs ofhumanity.
JOHN STEVENS is Professor of Buddhist Studies and
Aikido instructor at Tohoku Fukushi University in
Sendai, Japan. He is the author or translator of overtwenty books on Buddhism, Zen, Aikido, and Asian
culture. He has practiced and taught Aikido all over theworld.

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ONE ROBE, ONE BOWL
The Zen Poetry of Ryōkan
translated and introduced by John Stevens

Weatherhill
Boston • London
2014

WEATHERHILL
An imprint of Shambhala Publications, Inc.
Horticultural Hall
300 Massachusetts Avenue
Boston, Massachusetts 02115
www.shambhala.com
Protected by copyright under the terms of the International CopyrightUnion.
The cover design incorporates calligraphy by Ryōkan reading “Mind,
Moon, Circle,” carved on the cedar lid of a rice pot. Courtesy of the
Kera family, Niigata Prefecture.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any formor by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUES THE PREVIOUS EDITION
OF THIS BOOK AS FOLLOWS: Ryōkan, 1758–1831. / One robe, onebowl. / Includes bibliographical references and index. / I. Title. /PL797.6.A281977 / 895.6’1’3 / 77-2405/eISBN 978-0-8348-2496-6/
ISBN 978-0-8348-0570-5 (pbk.) / ISBN 978-0-8348-0125-7/ISBN 978-08348- 0126-4 (pbk.)

FOR JOYCE

Ryōkan has said:“Who says my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems.
After you know my poems are not poems,
Then we can begin to discuss poetry!”
And, in autograph lines on a self-portrait sketch (seeprevious page):“It is not that I do not wish to associate with men,
But living alone I have the better Way.”CONTENTS
Introduction
Ryōkan’s Life and Character • Ryōkan and Zen •Ryōkan’s Poems • A Note on the Translations •Acknowledgments

CHINESE POEMSWAKA AND HAIKU
Spring • Summer • Autumn • Winter • Miscellaneous
Bibliographical Note
Index of Titles and First Lines
E-mail Sign-Up

INTRODUCTION
What will remain as my legacy?
Flowers in the spring,
The hototogisu in summer,
And the crimson leaves of autumn.
In his Nobel Prize acceptance speech in 1968, the late
Yasunari Kawabata1 quoted the above poem of Ryōkan’s
and added that Ryōkan transmitted the essence andemotions of old Japan. Daisetz T. Suzuki wrote in his Zen
and Japanese Culture, “When we know one Ryōkan, weknow hundreds of thousands of Ryōkans in Japanesehearts.”2 Both Kawabata and Suzuki felt that Ryōkan
represents something very special in the Japanesecharacter and that therefore all who wish truly tounderstand Japan should study the life and poetry of thiseighteenth-century
hermit-monk.
Fromareligious
standpoint also, Ryōkan is exceptional, exemplifying as hedoes the Zen Buddhist idea of attaining enlightenment andthen returning to the world with “a serene face and gentle
words.” In his life he was indeed Daigu, the “Great Fool”(the literary name he gave himself), one who had gone
beyond the limitations of all artiﬁcial, man-made restraints.
RYŌKAN’S LIFE AND CHARACTERRyōkan was born some time around 1758 (the exact date ofhis birth is unknown) in the village of Izumozaki in Echigo
province on the west coast of Japan. This area, now known
as Niigata Prefecture, is rather remote even today, farremoved from the commercial and cultural centers ofTokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto. It is “snow country” and bitterly
cold in winter. Ryōkan’s family was well established in thearea, and his father, Tachibana Inan,3 was the village
headman, the local Shinto priest, and a prosperous
merchant.
Ryōkan’s father was a complex person with a sensitiveand passionate nature. He was a haiku poet of some note,with a certain following, but also an ardent imperial
supporter and opponent of the bakufu, the military
government in Edo. The reason for his unhappiness withthe government is not clear (perhaps in his duties as village
headman he had some clashes with bakufu oﬃcials), butwhen his son Yoshiyuki succeeded him (Ryōkan was theoldest son but turned his inheritance over to his brothers
and sisters when he became a monk), Inan left home andspent many years wandering around Japan before settlingin Kyoto. He again declared his support of the emperor and,evidently feeling intolerably oppressed by the bakufu,
committed suicide in 1795 by throwing himself into the
Katsura River in Kyoto as a protest; he was sixty years ofage. Little is known of Ryōkan’s mother, but it is clear fromhis poems concerning her that she was a very gentle andloving person. She died in 1783, and Inan left the village
forever three years later.
Ryōkan’s childhood name was Eizō. He was a quiet andstudious boy who often spent long hours reading theAnalects of Confucius. His family was well oﬀ, and theatmosphere in his home was a literary and religious one—
two brothers and one sister also entered the Buddhist
priesthood. His youth was calm and sheltered, and passed
uneventfully until his eighteenth year.

Ryōkan was to succeed his father as village headman
when he turned eighteen. While training for the post, hefound it especially trying. He was honest and conciliatory
by nature and hated contention or discord of any kind, but
was forced to deal with many conﬂicts and troublesome
cases. In addition to those burdensome duties, he seems tohave been undergoing some inner, spiritual crisis.
Previously he had been a fun-loving young man, generous
with his money and the center of attention at the local
geisha parties, but he started to become withdrawn andsilent in the midst of festivities.
Clearly something was troubling him, and he decided to
become a Buddhist monk. In 1777 he shaved his head andentered Kōshō-ji, the local Zen temple, where he took thename Ryōkan (ryō means good; kan signiﬁes generosity andlargeheartedness). After he had trained there for aboutfour years, a famous Zen priest known as Kokusen came todeliver a lecture. Kokusen was the abbot of Entsū-ji temple
at Tamashima in Bitchū province (present-day Okayama
Prefecture). Ryōkan was greatly impressed with Kokusen
and decided to become his disciple and return with him to
Entsū-ji. Ryōkan was then twenty-two.
He trained under Kokusen at Entsū-ji for almost twelve
years. During this time he continued his studies of waka;
Chinese poetry; linked verse, or renga; and calligraphy,
becoming skilled in all of them. He was appointed
Kokusen’s chief disciple and was given a document
certifying his enlightenment in 1790. The following year
Kokusen died and Ryōkan left Entsū-ji to begin a series ofpilgrimages that would last almost ﬁve years. After learningof his father’s suicide in 1795, Ryōkan went to Kyoto andheld a memorial service for him. He then decided to return
to his native village.
After searching for a time, he found an empty hermitage
halfway up Mount Kugami, about six miles from hisancestral home. He named it Gogō-an. Gogō is half a shō,the amount of rice necessary to sustain a man for one day;an is hermitage. It is this period of Ryōkan’s life—extending
from his establishment of Gogō-an at the age of forty to his
death thirty-four years later—that is the most remarkable.
While his hermitage was deep in the mountains, he often
visited the neighboring villages to play with the children,
drink sakè with the farmers, or visit his friends. He slept
when he wanted to, drank freely, and frequently joined thedancing parties held in summer. He acquired his simple
needs by mendicancy, and if he had anything extra he gave
it away. He never preached or exhorted, but his liferadiated purity and joy; he was a living sermon.
He respected everyone and bowed whenever he met
anyone who labored, especially farmers. His love forchildren and ﬂowers is proverbial among the Japanese.
Often he spent the entire day playing with the children or
picking ﬂowers, completely forgetting his begging for thatday. If anyone asked him to play the board game go orrecite some of his poems, he would always comply. He wascontinually smiling, and everyone he visited felt as if“spring had come on a dark winter’s day.”
When he was sixty he moved to a small hermitage next toOtogo Shrine, and at sixty-nine, due to ill health, he went tolive with his disciple Kimura Motoemon. It was in the
Kimura residence in Shimazaki that he ﬁrst met his famous
disciple, the nun Teishin.
Teishin was forty years Ryōkan’s junior. She had beenmarried to a physician when seventeen or eighteen, but hedied several years later and she became a nun at the age oftwenty-three. She was twenty-nine when she met Ryōkan,and they seem to have fallen in love almost immediately.
They delighted in each other’s company, composing poems
and talking about literature and religion for hours. She waswith him when he died on January 6, 1831. One of his lastverses reads:

Life is like a dewdrop,
Empty and ﬂeeting;
My years are gone
And now, quivering and frail,
I must fade away.
Four years later, in 1835, Teishin published a collection of
Ryōkan’s poems entitled Hasu no tsuyu (Dewdrops on alotus leaf). Teishin devoted herself to Ryōkan’s memory
until her death in 1872.
There are many stories and anecdotes concerning Ryōkan’s
eccentric behavior. Following are a few of the most famous.
Kameda Hōsai, a famous scholar who lived in Edo (nowTokyo), once went to visit Ryōkan. He found the way to
Ryōkan’s hermitage, but when he reached it Ryōkan was
sitting in zazen on the veranda. Hōsai, not wishing to
disturb him, waited until he ﬁnished almost three hours
later. Ryōkan was very glad to meet Hōsai, and they talkedof poetry, philosophy, and literature for the rest of the day.
Evening approached, and Ryōkan wanted to get some sakè
so they could continue talking. He asked Hōsai to wait a
few minutes and hurried out.
Hōsai waited and waited, but Ryōkan did not return.
When he could stand it no longer, he went out to try to ﬁnd
Ryōkan. To his astonishment, he saw Ryōkan about ahundred yards from the hermitage, sitting under a pine,
gazing dreamily at the full moon. “Ryōkan! Where have you
been? I’ve been waiting for you for more than three hours!
I thought something terrible had happened to you!” Hōsai
shouted.
“Hōsai-san! You have come just in time. Isn’t the moon
splendid?”“Yes, yes, it’s wonderful. But where is the sakè?”“The sakè? Oh, yes, the sakè. I’m so sorry, please excuse
me. I forgot all about it. Forgive me. I’ll go get some rightaway!” Ryōkan sprang up and bounded down the path,leaving Hōsai standing in amazement.
One spring afternoon, Ryōkan noticed three bamboo
shoots growing under his veranda. Bamboo grows rapidly,
and soon the shoots were pressing against the bottom of
the veranda. Ryōkan was quite anxious, for he did not likeanything to suﬀer, even plants. He cut three holes in the
ﬂoor and then told the bamboo shoots not to worry; hewould cut a hole in the roof if necessary. He was happy
once again.
Ryōkan never preached to or reprimanded anyone. Once
his brother asked Ryōkan to visit his house and speak to his
delinquent son. Ryōkan came but did not say a word ofadmonition to the boy. He stayed overnight and prepared toleave the next morning. As the wayward nephew was lacing
Ryōkan’s straw sandals, he felt a warm drop of water.
Glancing up, he saw Ryōkan looking down at him, his eyes
full of tears. Ryōkan then returned home, and the nephew
changed for the better.
Ryōkan loved to play hide-and-seek with the children.
One day he ran to hide in the outhouse. The children knew
where he was but decided to play a joke and run away
without telling him. The next morning someone came into
the outhouse and saw Ryōkan crouching in the corner.
“What are you doing here, Ryōkan?” she said. “Shh, be
quiet, please,” he whispered, “or else the children will ﬁndme.”Once when he was walking near the village he heard asmall voice cry, “Help! Help me, please!” A little boy wasstuck in the topmost branches of a persimmon tree. Ryōkan
helped the lad down and said he would pick some fruit forhim. Ryōkan climbed the tree and picked one of thepersimmons. He decided to taste it ﬁrst, since unripe
persimmons can be very astringent and he did not want togive one to the boy. No, it was very sweet. He picked
another and it too was sweet. One after another, he stuﬀedthe persimmons into his mouth, exclaiming, “Oh, how
sweet!” He had completely forgotten about the little boy
waiting hungrily below until the boy yelled, “Ryōkan!
Please give me some persimmons!” Ryōkan came to his
senses, laughed, and passed the delicious fruit to his small
friend.
Someone told Ryōkan that if you ﬁnd money on the roadyou will be very happy. One day, after he had received somecoins during a begging trip, he decided to try it. He
scattered the coins along the road and then picked themup. He did this several times but did not feel particularly
happy, and he wondered what his friend had meant. He
tried it a few more times and in the process lost all themoney in the grass. After searching for a long time heﬁnally found all the money he had lost. He was very happy.
“Now I understand,” he thought; “to ﬁnd money on theroad is indeed a joy.”
Ryōkan’s tomb is located in Shimazaki, and his hermitage
still stands on Mount Kugami. There is a small temple on
the cliﬀ overlooking the Japan Sea where Ryōkan’s boyhood
home once stood, and an art museum and memorial hall
dedicated to him have been erected near Izumozaki. Many
people come each year to visit these sites associated with
Ryōkan, one of Japan’s most beloved poets.
RYŌKAN AND ZEN
Ryōkan was a monk of the Sōtō Zen sect, which was
brought to Japan from China by Dōgen (1200–1253), thefounder of Eihei-ji monastery in Fukui Prefecture, thelargest and most famous monastery in Japan. Dōgen’s
teaching emphasized two main points: (1) shikantaza,
themeless sitting in zazen—that is, abandoning all thoughtsof good or bad, enlightenment or illusion, and just sitting;and (2) shushō ichigyō, “practice and enlightenment are
one.”
There
is
no
suddenenlightenment,
andenlightenment cannot be separated from one’s practice.
For these reasons, Sōtō Zen is usually contrasted with
Rinzai Zen, with its use of kōans during zazen and its
striving for kenshō, an instantaneous, profound insight into
reality. Generally speaking, Rinzai Zen tends to be
somewhat violent and severe, while Sōtō Zen is usuallymore restrained and quiet.
As a Sōtō Zen monk, Ryōkan ﬁrst followed the traditional
pattern of communal life in the monastery, then a period as
an unsui, a pilgrim monk drifting from place to place like“clouds and water” (unsui) visiting other masters. Ryōkan
could have become the head of a temple or taken someother position in a large monastery, but he was notinterested. His severe training had made him not austereor remote but more open and kind. Therefore, he “returnedto the marketplace with bliss-bestowing hands,” the state
depicted in the last of the well-known Zen series of the ten
oxherding pictures, and the culmination of all Buddhist
practice.
Ryōkan’s life at Gogō-an represents that highest stage ofZen spirituality very well. He mingled with all types ofpeople, living Zen without preaching about it. He was
detached from his detachment, free of any sort of physicalor spiritual materialism; in love with nature, he wassensitive to all the myriad forms of human feeling.
With no-mind, blossoms invite the butterﬂy;With no-mind, the butterﬂy visits the blossoms.
When the ﬂower blooms, the butterﬂy comes;
When the butterﬂy comes, the ﬂower blooms.
I do not “know” others,
Others do not “know” me.
Not-knowing each other we naturally follow the Way.

In this famous poem “no-mind” is mushin, the mind thatabides nowhere, the mind free of contrivance. No-mind has
no obstructions or inhibitions and therefore is synonymouswith Zen. “Know” here means to categorize or analyze
oneself and others. Throughout Ryōkan’s poems we ﬁnd
this theme: “Don’t cling! Don’t strive! Abandon yourself!
Look beneath your feet!”
The other Buddhist element strongly felt in Ryōkan’s
poems is mujō, impermanence. This world is a dream,passing away like dew.
Long ago, I often drank sakè at this house;
now only the earth
Covered with plum blossoms.
Ryōkan’s Zen is replete with mushin, the mind without
calculation or pretense, and mujō, the sense of theimpermanence of all things.
RYŌKAN’S POEMS
Ryōkan wrote in many diﬀerent styles of poetry—classicalChinese, haiku, waka, folk songs, and Man’yō-style poems.
The Chinese poems, or kanshi, generally contain ﬁve
Chinese characters per line, although some lines haveseven characters, with a minimum of four lines. Most of thepoems are untitled. There are about four hundred of these
Chinese poems. In both his life style and his Chinese poems
Ryōkan is often compared to the famous eighth-century
Chinese poet Han-shan (Kanzan), the eccentric hermit ofCold Mountain. Ryōkan often read Han-shan’s poems, andthe work of both men has a fresh, “country” feeling withlittle ornamentation.
Ryōkan frequently ignored rules of literary composition inwriting his Japanese-style poems; consequently, many of hishaiku (three lines of ﬁve, seven, and ﬁve syllables,
respectively) and waka (ﬁve lines of ﬁve, seven, ﬁve, seven,and seven syllables, respectively) do not conform to theclassical pattern. Actually, the number of haiku is quite
small, the majority of his Japanese poems being free-stylewaka. He also composed a few folk songs and a number ofMan’yō-style poems (the style used in the Man’yōshū, aneighth-century collection of ancient Japanese poetry) withmany syllables. He wrote about one thousand Japanesestyle poems altogether.
Most of the poems are concerned with Ryōkan’s daily life
—begging for his food, playing with the children, visiting
the local farmers, walking through the ﬁelds and hills. He
also wrote love poems to Teishin and poems on Buddhist
themes.
Far from being highly crafted and reﬁned, Ryōkan’s
poems are spontaneous and direct; simple and pure on thesurface, they contain a profound inner feeling of mushin
and mujō. His poems are very beautiful when chanted andare popular among devotees of shigin, classical poetry
recitation. Ryōkan is also known as one of Japan’s great
calligraphers, and originals of his poems are highly valued.
We see, then, that Ryōkan is esteemed both for his
unconventional life and for the lyrics, content, andcalligraphic form of his poetry.
A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATIONSThis selection of Ryōkan’s poetry includes 100 Chinese
poems and 103 Japanese poems (101 waka and 2 haiku).
The Chinese poems are arranged in no particular order orsequence; all Ryōkan’s poems were collected from various
sources after his death, and few of the poems can be
accurately dated or chronologically arranged. As alreadymentioned, most of the poems were untitled; consequently,
only those poems given titles by Ryōkan himself are titledin this book. There are also a few examples of poems linked
under a single title. Following the Japanese custom, thewaka and haiku have been grouped into ﬁve sections:spring, summer, autumn, winter, and miscellaneous.
I have deliberately avoided all reﬁned or “poetic”
expressions in rendering Ryōkan’s poetry into colloquial
English. His verses are fresh and direct, withoutornamentation or ostentation, and I have attempted toreproduce this in my translations. The poems are generally
free of abstruse literary or historical allusions, so I haveadded few notes. The translations of the Chinese-style
poems are quite literal and follow the originals closely; thewaka present more of a problem due to their brevity, but I
have kept the number of extra words and phrases to aminimum.
When Teishin published the ﬁrst collection of Ryōkan’s
poems, she stated that her purpose was not so much topresent the art of Ryōkan’s poetry as to make known his
spirit and way of life. This is also my purpose. Ryōkan lived
his poetry more than any other poet. In contrast with thegreat majority of Chinese bureaucratic and Japanese court
poets, whose “huts” were more like villas and who spent
more time involved in petty intrigue than looking at themoon, Ryōkan’s poverty and simplicity were real and
unaﬀected. Ryōkan’s life and poetry were inseparable; thischarm and beauty are what I hope the reader will ﬁnd in
my translations.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to express my gratitude to Joyce Stevens forhelping me translate many of these poems, typing themanuscript, and making many useful suggestions. Special
thanks go to Mr. Kōsen Nishiyama of the Tōhoku College ofSocial Welfare for his advice and general encouragement,
and to Ms. Suzanne Trumbull of Weatherhill, who was amost considerate and helpful editor. I would also like tothank Mr. Meredith Weatherby of Weatherhill for taking aninterest in Ryōkan and supporting the publication of thisbook.
Finally, I wish to thank the Ryōkan Kinen-kan (Ryōkan
Memorial Collection) in Izumozaki, Niigata Prefecture, for
permission to reproduce Ryōkan’s self-portrait andcalligraphy.

1. Names of modern (post-1868) Japanese are given in the Westernorder, as here, while the names of pre-1868 Japanese are given in the
traditional Japanese order, with family name ﬁrst, e.g., Tachibana Inan.
2. Daisetz T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, p. 364.
3. There is some confusion even among Japanese scholars concerning
the correct name of Ryōkan’s father. His family name was Araki, butwhen he married he was adopted into his wife’s family, Yamamoto. His
formal name became Yamamoto Iori, but he always referred to himself
as Tachibana Inan, his literary name. The memorial stone in front of hisancestral home reads, “Birthplace of Tachibana Inan.”

CHINESE POEMSONE NARROW path surrounded by a dense forest;
On all sides, mountains lie in darkness.
The autumn leaves have already fallen.
No rain, but still the rocks are dark with moss.
Returning to my hermitage along a way known to few,
Carrying a basket of fresh mushrooms
And a jar of pure water from the temple well.

THE RAIN has stopped, the clouds have drifted away, and theweather is clear again.
If your heart is pure, then all things in your world are pure.
Abandon this ﬂeeting world, abandon yourself,
Then the moon and ﬂowers will guide you along the Way.

I SIT quietly, listening to the falling leaves—
A lonely hut, a life of renunciation.
The past has faded, things are no longer remembered.
My sleeve is wet with tears.

STONE steps, a mound of lustrous green moss;
The wind carries the scent of cedar and pine.
The rain has stopped and it is beginning to clear.
I call to the children as I walk to get some village sakè.
After drinking too much, I happily write these verses.

POEM OF EARLY FALL
After a night of rain, water covers the village path.
This morning the thick grass by my hut is cool.
In the window, distant mountains the color of blue-green
jade.

Outside, a river ﬂows like shimmering silk.
Under a cliﬀ near my hut, I wash out my sore ear with purespring water.
In the trees, cicadas recite their fall verse.
I had prepared my robe and staﬀ for a walk,
But the quiet beauty keeps me here.

FRESH morning snow in front of the shrine.
The trees! Are they white with peach blossoms
Or white with snow?
The children and I joyfully throw snowballs.

SPRING—slowly the peaceful soundOf a priest’s staﬀ drifts from the village.
In the garden, green willows;
Water plants ﬂoat serenely in the pond.
My bowl is fragrant from the rice of a thousand homes;
My heart has renounced the sovereignty of riches andworldly fame.
Quietly cherishing the memory of the ancient Buddhas,
I walk to the village for another day of begging.

WALKING beside a clear running river, I come to a
farmhouse.
The evening chill has given way to the warmth of themorning sun.
Sparrows gather in a bamboo grove, voices ﬂuttering here
and there.
I meet the old farmer returning to his home;
He greets me like a long-lost friend.
At his cottage, the farmer’s wife heats sakè
While we eat freshly picked vegetables and chat.

Together, gloriously drunk, we no longer know
The meaning of unhappiness.

YESTERDAY I went to town begging food from east to west.
My shoulders are getting thinner and I cannot recall thelast time I had a heavy rice sack.
The thick frost is a continual reminder of my thin robe.
My old friends, where have they gone?
Even new faces are few.
As I walk toward the deserted summer pavilion,
Nothing but the wind of late autumn blowing through thepines and oaks.

AUTUMN night—unable to sleep, I leave my tiny cottage.
Fall insects cry under the rocks, andThe cold branches are sparsely covered.
Far away, from deep in the valley, the sound of water.
The moon rises slowly over the highest peak;I stand there quietly for a long time andMy robe becomes moist with dew.

RETURNING to my hermitage after ﬁlling my rice bowl,
Now only the gentle glow of twilight.
Surrounded by mountain peaks and thinly scattered leaves;
In the forest a winter crow ﬂies.

MY LIFE may appear melancholy,
But traveling through this world
I have entrusted myself to Heaven.
In my sack, three shō of rice;
By the hearth, a bundle of ﬁrewood.

If someone asks what is the mark of enlightenment or
illusion,
I cannot say—wealth and honor are nothing but dust.
As the evening rain falls I sit in my hermitage
And stretch out both feet in answer.
One shō is about two quarts.

SHAGGY hair past the ears,
A worn-out robe resembling white clouds and dark smoke.
Half drunk, half sober, I return home,Children all around, guiding me along the Way.

GOGŌ-ANThe wind blows through my tiny hermitage,
Not one thing is in the room.
Outside, a thousand cedars;
On the wall, several poems are written.
Now the kettle is covered with dust,
And no smoke rises from the rice steamer.
Who is pounding at my moonlit gate?
Only an old man from East Village.

AN OLD and useless body,I have seen many generations of ﬂowers in this lonely,
borrowed hermitage.
When spring comes, and if I am still alive,
Surely I will come to see you again—
Listen for the sound of my staﬀ.

A LONELY winter’s day, clear then cloudy.
I want to go out but do not, spending some time inindecision.
Unexpectedly, an old friend comes and urges me to drinkwith him.
Joyful now, I take out the brush and ink and much paper.

IF THERE is beauty, there must be ugliness;
If there is right, there must be wrong.
Wisdom and ignorance are complementary,
And illusion and enlightenment cannot be separated.
This is an old truth, don’t think it was discovered recently.
“I want this, I want that”
Is nothing but foolishness.
I’ll tell you a secret—“All things are impermanent!”
The last line of this poem quotes the customary formulation of the basic
doctrine of Buddhism, the most elementary and yet the most profound.

THE LONG WINTER NIGHT: THREE POEMS
The long winter night! The long winter night seems
endless;
When will it be day?
No ﬂame in the lamp nor charcoal in the ﬁreplace;
Lying in bed, listening to the sound of freezing rain.
To an old man, dreams come easy;
I let my thoughts drift.
The room is empty and both the sakè and the oil are usedup—
The long winter night.

When I was a boy studying in an empty hall,Over and over I had to ﬁll the lamp with oil.
Even now, that task is disagreeable—
The long winter night.

GREEN mountains front and back,White clouds east and west.
Even if I met a fellow traveler,
No news could I give him.

DEEP IN the mountains at night, alone in my hermitage,
I listen to the plaintive sound of rain and snow.
A monkey cries on top of a mountain;
The sound of the valley river has faded away.
A light ﬂickers in front of the window;
On the desk, the water in the inkstone has dried.
Unable to sleep all night,
I prepare ink and brush, and write this poem.

WINTER—in the eleventh month
Snow falls thick and fast.
A thousand mountains, one color.
Men of the world passing this way are few.
Dense grass conceals the door.
All night in silence, a few woodchips burn slowly
As I read the poems of the ancients.

LONELINESS: spring has already passed.
Silence: I close the gate.
From heaven, darkness; the wisteria arbor is no longer
visible.

The stairway is overgrown with herbs
And the rice bag hangs from the fence.
Deep stillness, long isolated from the world.
All night the hototogisu cries.
The hototogisu is the so-called Japanese cuckoo.

ANOTHER year lingers to an end;
Heaven sends a bitter frost.
Fallen leaves cover the mountains
And there are no travelers to cast shadows on the path.
Endless night: dried leaves burn slowly in the hearth.
Occasionally, the sound of freezing rain.
Dizzy, I try to recall the past—
Nothing here but dreams.

LIGHT sleep, the bane of old age:
Dozing oﬀ, evening dreams, waking again.
The ﬁre in the hearth ﬂickers; all night a steady rain
Pours oﬀ the banana tree.
Now is the time I wish to share my feelings—
But there is no one.

WE THROW a little woolen ball back and forth.
I don’t want to boast of my skill, but . . .
If someone asks me the secret of my art, I tell him,
One, two, three, four, ﬁve, six, seven!

ALONE, wandering through the mountains,
I come across an abandoned hermitage.

The walls have crumbled, and there is only a path for foxes
and rabbits.
The well, next to an ancient bamboo grove, is dry.
Spider webs cover a forgotten book of poems that lies
beneath a window.
Dust is piled on the ﬂoor,
The stairway is completely hidden by the wild fall grasses.
Crickets, disturbed by my unexpected visit, shriek.
Looking up, I see the setting sun—unbearable loneliness.

THE VICISSITUDES of this world are like the movements of theclouds.
Fifty years of life are nothing but one long dream.
Sparse rain: in my desolate hermitage at night,
Quietly I clutch my robe and lean against the empty
window.

DAY AFTER day after day,
The children play peacefully with this old monk.
Always two or three balls kept in my sleeves.
I have had too much to drink—spring tranquillity!

ZEN MASTER Ryōkan!
Like a fool, like a dunce,
Body and mind completely dropped oﬀ!
This poem has only three lines. “Body and mind completely droppedoﬀ” refers to Dōgen’s enlightenment experience. When Dōgen waspracticing in China, the monk next to him fell asleep. Dōgen’s master,Tendō Nyojō (T’ien-tung Ju-ching, 1163–1228), said in a loud voice,“Zazen is to drop oﬀ body and mind! Why are you sleeping?” When heheard this, Dōgen was enlightened. The expression “drop (or cast) oﬀ
body and mind” occurs frequently in Sōtō Zen literature.

HOTOTOGISU
Spring has passed; the mountains and valleys are
Completely hidden in rain and mist.
In the evening the voice of the hototogisu faded,
But now, late at night, again its cry drifts from the bamboo
grove.

THE NIGHT is fresh and cool—Staﬀ in hand, I walk through the gate.
Wisteria and ivy grow together along the winding mountainpath;
Birds sing quietly in their nests and a monkey howls
nearby.
As I reach a high peak a village appears in the distance.
The old pines are full of poems;
I bend down for a drink of pure spring water.
There is a gentle breeze, and the round moon hangs
overhead.
Standing by a deserted building,
I pretend to be a crane softly ﬂoating among the clouds.

BEGGING
Today’s begging is ﬁnished; at the crossroads
I wander by the side of Hachiman Shrine
Talking with some children.
Last year, a foolish monk;
This year, no change!

WRITTEN IN MY HERMITAGE ON A SNOWY EVENING
For more than seventy years, I have been making
Myself dizzy observing men.
I have abandoned trying to penetrate men’s good and badactions.
Coming and going is a sign of weakness.
Heavy snow in the dead of night—
Under the weather-beaten window, one incense stick.

LIGHT rain—the mountain forest is wrapped in mist.
Slowly the fog changes to clouds and haze.
Along the boundless river bank, many crows.
I walk to a hill overlooking the valley to sit in zazen.

AFTER spending the day begging in town,
I now sit peacefully under a cliﬀ in the evening cool.
Alone, with one robe and one bowl—
The life of a Zen monk is truly the best!

GRASS WAR
Once again the children and I are ﬁghting a battle using
spring grasses.
Now advancing, now retreating, each time with more
reﬁnement.
Twilight—everyone has returned home;
The bright, round moon helps me endure the loneliness.

LISTENING to the evening rain in my hermitage.

The Great Way? I braid spring ﬂowers into a ball.
The future? If a visitor brings these questions
I have only the tranquillity of the hermitage to oﬀer.

A THOUSAND peaks covered with frozen snow,
Ten thousand mountain paths, yet no sign of human beings.
Every day, only zazen;
Sometimes the sound of snow blowing against the window.

SUMMER NIGHT
Late at night, the faint sound of someone pounding rice.
Dew drips from the bamboo onto the ﬁrewood pile
And the plants along the garden are also moist.
Frogs croak in the distance but then seem very close.
Fireﬂies light low, then high.
Wide awake; sleep is far oﬀ.
Smoothing out the pillow, I let my thoughts drift.

RESTING AT MATSUNO-O
The ninth month has just begun; as we walk to Matsuno-o
A solitary goose ﬂies overhead
And the chrysanthemums are in full bloom.
The children and I have come to this pine forest.
We have only walked a short distance
But the world is hundreds of miles away.

STANDING alone beneath a solitary pine;
Quickly the time passes.

Overhead the endless sky—
Who can I call to join me on this path?

TWILIGHT—smoke rises from the village,
A winter goose cries overhead,Wind blows through the mountain pines.
Alone, carrying an empty rice bowl,
I return along the path.

IN THE empty doorway many petals are scattered;As they fall they blend with the song of the birds.
Slowly, the bright spring sun appears in the window
And a thin line of smoke drifts from the incense burner.

SOARING birds disappear over the distant mountains,
Leaves fall continually in the quiet garden.
Lonely autumn breezes.
An old monk in his black robe, I stand alone.

LYING ill in my hermitage; all day not a single visitor.
My rice bowl has been hanging on the wall undisturbed fora long time,
And the wisteria has completely faded.
Dreams come, and drift over the ﬁelds and mountains.
My spirit returns to the village,
Where the children wait every day for me to come and play.

THE FIREPLACE is cold, covered with thick ashes.
Again the single light has gone out.
Loneliness, and the night is only half over.

Silence—all I can hear is the voice of a distant mountainstream.

THE SKY above, the mountains below;
Weak tea and thin soup are all I serve.
All year not one wise man,
Only an occasional woodgatherer.

RETURNING home after a day of begging;
Sage has covered my door.
Now a bunch of green leaves burns together with theﬁrewood.
Silently I read the poems of Kanzan,
Accompanied by the autumn wind blowing a light rain thatrustles through the reeds.
I stretch out both feet and lie down.
What is there to think about? What is there to doubt?
Kanzan (Han-shan) was a famous Chinese hermit-poet who lived aroundA.D. 750. His life and poetry are highly esteemed by Zen Buddhists.

DAWN
I have returned to my native village after twenty years;
No sign of old friends or relatives—they have all died orgone away.
My dreams are shattered by the sound of the temple bell
struck at sunrise.
An empty ﬂoor, no shadows; the light has long been
extinguished.

WHO SAYS my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems.
After you know my poems are not poems,
Then we can begin to discuss poetry!

INTERMITTENT rain—in my hermitage
A solitary light ﬂickers as dreams return.
Outside, the sound of falling raindrops.
My black, gnarled staﬀ leans against the wall.
The ﬁreplace is cold, no charcoal awaits my imagined
visitors.
I reach for a volume of poems.
Tonight, in solitude, deep emotion.
How can I explain it the following day?

IN FRONT of my window there is a towering banana tree,
So high it seems to sweep away the clouds.
Its shade keeps my hut cool.
As I read waka, write poems, andSit quietly, the day passes serenely.

ILLUSION and enlightenment? Two sides of a coin.
Universals and particulars? No diﬀerence.
All day I read the wordless sutra;
All night not a thought of Zen practice.
An uguisu sings in the willows along the river bank,
Dogs in the village bay at the moon.
There are no obstacles in my heart,
But still I lack a true companion.
The uguisu is the so-called Japanese nightingale.

MY GATE has been unbolted for many days,
Yet no sign of anyone entering the peaceful garden.
The rainy season is over, green moss is all around;
Slowly the oak leaves ﬂoat to earth.

STAFF in hand, I walk along the river bank toward thevillage.
Snow lingers on the fence, but the east wind brings theﬁrst news of spring.
The voice of an uguisu drifts from tree to tree;
The grass has begun to show a touch of dark green.
Unexpectedly, I meet an old friend.
We converse together sitting on a hill overlooking the rivervalley.
Later, at his cottage we open many books and drink tea.
Tonight I am translating the evening scene into verse—
Plum blossoms and poetry, how wonderful together!

LYING ill again, for the third spring in a row.
How I would like just one poem left by a visitor.
Last year I played with the children all day at Hachiman
Shrine.
Will they be waiting for me this year?

A LONELY four-mat hut—
All day no one in sight.
Alone, sitting beneath the window,
Only the continual sound of falling leaves.

FIRST days of spring—blue sky, bright sun.
Everything is gradually becoming fresh and green.

Carrying my bowl, I walk slowly to the village.
The children, surprised to see me,
Joyfully crowd about, bringing
My begging trip to an end at the temple gate.
I place my bowl on top of a white rock andHang my sack from the branch of a tree.
Here we play with the wild grasses and throw a ball.
For a time, I play catch while the children sing;
Then it is my turn.
Playing like this, here and there, I have forgotten the time.
Passers-by point and laugh at me, asking,“What is the reason for such foolishness?”
No answer I give, only a deep bow;
Even if I replied, they would not understand.
Look around! There is nothing besides this.

ON THE way to visit a famous villa several ri distant,I unexpectedly meet a woodgatherer.
Together we walk along the narrow path hemmed in bygreen pines.
The fragrance of plum blossoms drifts from the ﬁeld
opposite the valley.
Seeking a quiet place, I have come here.
Large carp frolic in the ancient pond,
Sunlight ﬁlls the calm forest.
What is this room?
Nothing but several volumes of poetry lying on the ﬂoor.
Feeling at home, I loosen my robe
And gather a few verses from the books.
Later, at twilight, I walk along the eastern corridor as
spring birds soar overhead.

AS A boy I studied the Chinese classics but soon grew wearyof their content.
As a young man I learned Zen but failed to transmit it.
Now living next door to a shrine,
Half Shinto priest, half Buddhist monk.

MY HUT lies in the middle of a dense forest;
Every year the green ivy grows longer.
No news of the aﬀairs of men,
Only the occasional song of a woodcutter.
The sun shines and I mend my robe;
When the moon comes out I read Buddhist poems.
I have nothing to report, my friends.
If you want to ﬁnd the meaning, stop chasing after so manythings.

A COLD night—sitting alone in my empty room
Filled only with incense smoke.
Outside, a bamboo grove of a hundred trees;
On the bed, several volumes of poetry.
The moon shines through the top of the window,
And the entire neighborhood is still except for the cry of
insects.
Looking at this scene, limitless emotion,
But not one word.

I HAVE returned to Itoigawa, my former village.
Falling ill, I rest at an inn
And listen to the sound of rain.
One robe, one bowl, are all I have.
Becoming a little stronger, I lift my weak body,Burn some incense, and sit in zazen.

All night rain falls sadly, andI dream of my pilgrimage these past ten years.

THE INN AT TAMAGAWA STATION
Midautumn—the wind and rain are now at their mostmelancholy.
A wanderer, my spirit is inseparable from this diﬃcult road.
During the long night, dreams ﬂoat from the pillow—
Awake suddenly, I have mistaken the sound of the river forthe voice of the rain.

CARRYING ﬁrewood on my shoulder
I walk in the green mountains along the bumpy path.
I stop to rest under a tall pine;
Sitting quietly, I listen to the spring song of the birds.

EARLY summer—ﬂoating down a clear running river in awooden boat,
A lovely girl gently plays with a crimson lotus ﬂower held in
her white hands.
The day becomes more and more brilliant.
Young men play along the shore
And a horse runs by the willows.
Watching quietly, speaking to no one,The beautiful girl does not show that her heart is broken.

SINCE I came to this hermitage
How many years have passed?
If I am tired I stretch out my feet;
If I feel ﬁne I go for a stroll in the mountains.

The ridicule or praise of worldly people means nothing.
Following my destiny, for this body I have received from myparents
I have only thanks.

NEAR a Kannon temple, I have a temporary hermitage;
Alone, yet the intimate friend of a thousand green poems
written on the surrounding foliage.
Sometimes in the morning I put on my priest’s mantle
And go down to the village to beg food for this old body.
Kannon (Avalokitesvara) is the bodhisattva of compassion.

AT NIGHT, deep in the mountains I sit in zazen.
The aﬀairs of men never reach here.
In the stillness I sit on a cushion across from the empty
window.
The incense has been swallowed up by the endless night;
My robe has become a garment of white dew.
Unable to sleep, I walk into the garden;
Suddenly, above the highest peak, the round moon appears.

DAY AND night the cold wind blows through my robe.
In the forest, only fallen leaves;Wild chrysanthemums can no longer be seen.
Next to my hermitage there is an ancient bamboo grove;
Never changing, it awaits my return.

ONCE AGAIN, many greedy people appear
No diﬀerent from silkworms wrapped in cocoons.
Wealth and riches are all they love,Never giving their minds or bodies a moment’s rest.
Every year their natures deteriorate
While their vanity increases.
One morning death comes before
They can use even half their money.
Others happily receive the estate,
And the deceased’s name is soon lost in darkness.
For such people there can only be great pity.

MY HUT, located in a distant village, is little more than fourbare walls.
Once I was a mendicant monk, wandering here and there,
staying nowhere long.
Recalling the ﬁrst day of my pilgrimage, years ago—
How high my spirits were!

THE AUTUMN nights have lengthened
And the cold has begun to penetrate my mattress.
My sixtieth year is near,Yet there is no one to take pity on this weak old body.
The rain has ﬁnally stopped; now just a thin stream trickles
from the roof.
All night the incessant cry of insects:
Wide awake, unable to sleep,
Leaning on my pillow, I watch the pure bright rays ofsunrise.

KEEPING OUT OF THE RAIN
Today, while begging food, a sudden downpour.
I waited out the storm in a small shrine.
Laughing—one jug for water, one bowl for rice.

My life is like an old run-down hermitage—poor, simple,
quiet.

IN THE entire ten quarters of the Buddha land
There is only one vehicle.
When we see clearly, there is no diﬀerence in all theteachings.
What is there to lose? What is there to gain?
If we gain something, it was there from the beginning.
If we lose anything, it is hidden nearby.
Look at the ball in the sleeve of my robe.
Surely it has great value.
The ﬁrst sentence of this poem quotes a famous line from the Lotus
Sutra.

TRULY, I love this life of seclusion.
Carrying my staﬀ, I walk toward a friend’s cottage.
The trees in his garden, soaked by the evening rain,
Reﬂect the cool, clear autumnal sky.
The owner’s dog comes to greet me;
Chrysanthemums bloom along the fence.
These people have the same spirit as the ancients;
An earthen wall marks their separation from the world.
In the house volumes of poetry are piled on the ﬂoor.
Abandoning worldliness, I often come to this tranquil place—
The spirit here is the spirit of Zen.

LODGING at an old temple:
The night has ended, the room is empty.
The bitter cold has kept me from dreaming;
Sitting quietly, I wait for the temple bell to strike.

ALWAYS, when I was a boy,
I would play here and there.
I used to put on my favorite vest
And ride a chestnut horse with a white nose.
Today I spent the morning in town
And the evening drinking amid the peach blossoms by theriver.
Returning home, I have lost my way. Where am I?
Laughing, I ﬁnd myself next to the brothel.

AT THE main crossroads, playing Hotei,
Coming and going with my bowl. How many years havepassed?
Pretending again I do not know where I am going;
A fresh wind blows and the bright moon covers the autumnsky.
Hotei (Pu-tai) was a famous Chinese sage who had an enormous belly
and traveled throughout the land carrying a large sack ﬁlled with gifts.

SITTING quietly on a rough stone,
I watch clouds gather in all directions.
A golden pagoda gleams in the sun.
Below, Ryūō Spring, where one can wash both body andspirit.
Above, thousand-year-old pines.
A fresh breeze brings the day to an end.
I long to walk with another who has left the world far
behind—but no one comes.

AFTER walking for a time, I reach the pavilion;

The sun sets behind the western mountains.
Willow leaves cover the little garden;
The pond is cold and the lotuses have faded.
Persimmon and chestnut trees, ripe with fruit, shade thepath.
Along the bamboo fence, crickets cry incessantly;
Light ﬁlters easily through the pines and oaks—
Summer slowly changes its face.

EVEN IF a man lives a hundred years
His life is like a ﬂoating weed, drifting with the waves
East and west continually, no time for rest.
Shakyamuni renounced nobility and devoted his life toPreventing others from falling into ruin.
On the earth eighty years,
Proclaiming the Dharma for ﬁfty,
Bestowing the sutras as an eternal legacy;
Today, still a bridge to cross over to the other shore.

IF YOU speak delusions, everything becomes a delusion;
If you speak the truth, everything becomes the truth.
Outside the truth there is no delusion,
But outside delusion there is no special truth.
Followers of Buddha’s Way!
Why do you so earnestly seek the truth in distant places?
Look for delusion and truth in the bottom of your own
heartsAN EVENING dream—everything must have been an illusion;
I cannot explain clearly even one part of what I saw.
Yet in the dream it seemed as if the truth were in front of
my eyes.

This morning, awake, is it not the same dream?

WALKING along a narrow path at the foot of a mountain
I come to an ancient cemetery ﬁlled with countless
tombstones
And thousand-year-old oaks and pines.
The day is ending with a lonely, plaintive wind.
The names on the tombs are completely faded,And even the relatives have forgotten who they were.
Choked with tears, unable to speak,
I take my staﬀ and return home.

PEACH blossoms cover both sides of the river bank like mist.
In spring, the deep blue river appears to be the stream of
Heaven.
Wandering here and there gazing at the peach blossoms as
I follow the ﬂow of the river—
What is this? An old friend’s house!

POEM FOR A DISTANT FRIEND
Spring—late at night I go for a walk.
A trace of snow lingers on the pines and cedars.
The bright moon hangs over the mountains.
I think of you, many rivers and mountains away;
Countless thoughts, but the brush does not move.

THE LONG summer days at Entsū-ji temple!
Everything is fresh and pure, andWorldly emotions never come here.
I sit in the cool shade, reading poems.

Beauty all around: I endure the heat, listening to
The sound of the water wheel.

SILVER-WHITE snow envelops the mountains.
Far from the village, my gate is hidden by thick weeds.
Midnight: a piece of wood burns slowly in the hearth.
An old man with a long, white, twisted beard—
My thoughts keep returning to the days of my youth.

EMPTY BOWL: TWO POEMSIn the blue sky a winter goose cries.
The mountains are bare; nothing but falling leaves.
Twilight: returning along the lonely village path
Alone, carrying an empty bowl.
Foolish and stubborn—what day can I rest?
Lonely and poor, this life.
Twilight: I return from the village
Again carrying an empty bowl.

TO A FRIEND
The bright moon emerges over the eastern mountains.
Walking by your former house—
You are gone, yet I think of you always.
Now no one brings the koto and sakè.
The koto is a thirteen-stringed
resembling a zither.

musicalinstrument

somewhat

WINTER NIGHT
Concealed in a dense forest, my hermitage lies far beyond
the village river.
A thousand peaks, ten thousand mountain streams, yet nosign of anyone.
A long, cold winter’s night—slowly a piece of wood burns inthe ﬁreplace.
Nothing can be heard except the sound of snow striking thewindow.

WHO CAN sympathize with my life?
My hut lies near the top of a mountain,
And the path leading here is covered with weeds.
On the fence, a single gourd.
From across the river, the sound of logging.
Ill, I lie on the pillow and watch the sunrise.
A bird cries in the distance—
My only consolation.

THE NUMBER of days since I left the world andEntrusted myself to Heaven is long forgotten.
Yesterday, sitting peacefully in the green mountains;
This morning, playing with the village children.
My robe is full of patches andI cannot remember how long I have had the same bowl for
begging.
On clear nights I walk with my staﬀ and chant poems;
During the day I spread out a straw mat and nap.
Who says many cannot lead such a life?
Just follow my example.

FINISHING a day of begging,
I return home through the green mountains.
The setting sun is hidden behind the western cliﬀs
And the moon shines weakly on the stream below.
I stop by a rock and wash my feet.
Lighting some incense, I sit peacefully in zazen.
Again a one-man brotherhood of monks;
Ah . . . how quickly the stream of time sweeps by.

THE ROBBER
A thief has stolen my zafu and futon.
Why did he break into my hermitage? The door is neverlocked.
The night is ending, and I sit alone by the window—
A sparse rain falls gently against the bamboo grove.
A zafu is a small round cushion used for zazen; a futon is a quilt.

BUDDHA is your mind
And the Way goes nowhere.
Don’t look for anything but this.
If you point your cart north
When you want to go south,
How will you arrive?

WAKA AND HAIKUSPRINGTHEY SAY spring has comeand the sky is ﬁlled with mist,
Yet on the mountains, no ﬂowers, only snow.

AWAKENED by the cold—a light snow falls;
the sound of wild geese.
They also are returning home with hardship and suﬀering.

STANDING on a cliﬀ, among the pines and oaks;
spring has come
Clothed in mist.

EARLY spring—picking vegetables;
a pheasant cries—
Old memories return.

SPRING ﬂows gently—
the plum trees have bloomed.
Now the petals fall, mingling with the song of an uguisu.

ONLY TWO in the garden:plum blossoms at their peak
And an old man full of years.

COUNTING days is like snapping
one’s ﬁngers—
Even May passes like a dream.

AT YAHIKO Mountainyou can see
Both ﬂowers and children bloom.

PICKING violets by the side of the road,
I forgot my begging bowl.
How sad you must be, my poor little bowl!

I FORGOT my bowl again!
Please, nobody pick it up,
My lonely little bowl.

SPRING has begun!
Jewels and precious gold everywhere!
Please come visit me!

THE SPRING birds have all returned
and their song drifts from every tree—
Let’s have another cup of sakè.

TONIGHT the plum trees reﬂect the silver moon;both are in full bloom.
Entranced, I did not return home till evening.

EVERYWHERE you look
the mountains are covered
With mist and blooming cherry trees.

HOW CAN we ever lose interest in life?
Spring has come again
And cherry trees bloom in the mountains.

GOING out to beg this spring day
I stopped to pick violets—
Oh! The day is over!

GAILY the warm spring days pass;playing with the children
In the forest below the shrine.

I HAVE entrusted myself to sakè and ﬂowers:
today sakè-sakè,
Tomorrow sakè-sakè.
In Japanese, sakè means both rice wine.

PLAYING ball with the village children

and blooming ﬂowers

this warm, misty spring day;No one wants it to end.

I CAME to this village to see the peach blossoms
but spent the day instead
Looking at the ﬂowers along the river bank.

IN MY bowl
violets and dandelions are mixed
Together with the Buddhas of the three worlds.

THIRSTY, I’ve ﬁlled myself with sakè;
lying beneath the cherry blossoms—
Splendid dreams.

SPRING has come, the trees are in bloom,
last autumn’s leaves have disappeared—
I must hurry to meet the children.

BENEATH the willows, singing and laughingwith my friends; this ﬁne spring day
Is truly full of joy.

I EXPECTED to see only pink blossoms,
but a gentle spring snow has fallen
and the cherry trees are wearing a white coat.

HAND IN hand, the children and I
pick spring vegetables—
What can be more wonderful?

PLAYING in a garden, among the cherry trees;
my sleeves are covered with blossoms
As the ﬂowers fall.

THE CHILDREN run to greet me
for the ﬁrst time this spring—
How they have grown!

SUMMERIN THE distancefrogs croak in the mountain rice ﬁelds,
The evening’s single song.

SUMMER evening—the voice of a hototogisu
rises from the mountains
As I dream of the ancient poets.

NOW THE farmers are planting rice;in my hermitage
I ask Buddha to bless them.

THE RAINY season is over—it’s now clear.
I go out;
Green ﬁelds and cool breezes everywhere.

UNABLE to sleep,
I hear the voice of a young deer
Rising from a mountain ridge.

THE BRANCHES that will be used for thisautumn’s ﬁrewood are still blooming.
Please gather some summer grasses, wet with dew,

and come visit me.

NOT MUCH to oﬀer you—just a lotus ﬂower ﬂoating
In a small jar of water.

TRAVELING to a distant country
accompanied by a hototogisu
And thoughts of the sadness in this world.

THE CLOUDS have drifted away,
a hototogisu cries in the brush.
Why haven’t you come?

I STRETCH out for a nap in my little hut.
In the ﬁelds, frogs chant their songs
And the birds in the bamboo grove sing along.

IN THE pond near my hut
the lotus ﬂowers, covered with dew,
Bloom in a row.

WORKING with their hands, the young girls chanta plaintive song as they
Plant rice in the mountain ﬁelds.

THE BAMBOO grove in front of my hut!

Every day I see it a thousand times
Yet never tire of it.

BACK AND forth, back and forth,
all day the bent old man
Carries water for the parched rice seedlings.

I SEEM to hear your voice in thesong of the hototogisu.
In the mountains, another day passes.

THE WILLOWS are in full bloom!
I want to pile up the blossoms
Like mountain snow.

MY HERMITAGE lies in a forest;
all around me
Everything is thick and green.

AUTUMN
LONELY, I leave my hermitage;
the rice, heavy with ripe grains,
Flutters in the autumn wind.

PLEASE wait for the light of the moon—
the mountain path
Is covered with fallen chestnuts.

THE WIND has brought
enough fallen leaves
To make a ﬁre.
This poem is a haiku.

A COLD autumn night—
I clutch my white robe;
The bright, clear moon covers the sky.

THE WIND is fresh, the moon bright.
Let us spend the evening dancing
As a farewell to old age.

WHILE I gather ﬁrewood and wild grasses on this hill,
the Buddhas of the three worlds

Are also celebrating.

DURING a lull in the autumn rains,
I walk with the children along the mountain path.
The bottom of my robe becomes soaked with dew.

ALONG the cedar-lined path of an old shrine
I gather leaves
As the sun sets.

WHEN IT is evening, please come to my hut
to listen to the insects sing;
I will also introduce you to the autumn ﬁelds.

TWILIGHT—crossing Kugami Mountain,
shivering;
Fallen leaves all around.

FROM TODAY the nights turn colder—I sew my tattered robe,
The autumn insects cry.

BRIGHT moon—I walk through the rice ﬁelds
near my hermitage;
In the distance, mountains clothed in mist.

MORNING—cutting ﬁrewood, ﬁlling my jug

with pure water, gathering wild grasses
While a cool autumn rain gently falls.

IF YOUR hermitage is deep in the mountains
surely the moon, ﬂowers, and momiji
Will become your friends.
The momiji is the Japanese maple, with small leaves that turn a brilliant
crimson in autumn.

NOW THAT autumn has formed its
ﬁrst frost on my shabby robe,
It’s certain no visitors will come.

I’VE LEFT the world far behind,
my robe is covered with moss;
A small bundle of ﬁrewood burns, brightening the night.

MIDAUTUMN—the mountains are crimson
and the sakè and ink are ready,But still no visitors.

THE VILLAGE has disappeared in the evening mist
and the path is hard to follow.
I return to my lonely hut, walking through the pines.

WINTERDRINKING sweet sakè with the farmers
until our eyebrows
Are white with snow.

RETURNING to my hermitage after a journey
to distant mountain villages;
Along the fence, the last chrysanthemums linger.

LATE AT night, listening to the winter rain,recalling my youth—Was it only a dream? Was I really young once?

THE HOUR grows late, but the sound of hail
striking the bamboo
Keeps me from sleep.

ANOTHER blizzard—the mountains arecovered with deep snow.
From now on, news from town must wait till spring.

I LIVE in a hut in the mountains of Echigo,
white peaks all around.
Ice, snow, and clouds blend together.

IN EVEN a light snow, we can see
the three thousand worlds.
Again a light snow falls.

WIND AND snow, then snow and rain:
tonight, awakened by the cry of a wild goose
In the dark, endless winter sky.

LYING in my freezing hut, unable to sleep;
only the quiet roar
Of water pouring over a cliﬀ.

I WENT to see the pine at Iwamura.
All day I stood in the rice ﬁeld
Getting drenched by freezing rain.

I LIE down near the hearthand stretch out my feet to the ﬁre,But still the cold pierces my belly.

NO BEGGING in the town
again today.
The snow falls and falls.

LATE AT night, the snow
is piling higher and higher,
Muﬄing the sound of the waterfall.

THE FREEZING morning rain has let up.
What should I do?
Fetch water? Chop ﬁrewood? Gather winter greens?

IN THE shadow of the mountains
the ﬁrewood burns, brightening
My cold little grass hut.

WINTER will soon be over;please, please come visit
My grass hut.

MY HEART beats faster and fasterand I cannot sleep.
Tomorrow will be the ﬁrst day of spring!

MISCELLANEOUS
THE CLOUDS are gone, the sky is clear.
To beg food with a pure heart
Is indeed a blessing from Heaven.

SINGING waka, reciting poems, playing ball
together in the ﬁelds—
Two people, one heart.

LYING on my grass pillow,
dreaming about this dream world again—
Lonely, ﬁtful sleep.

AS I WATCH the children happily playing,
without realizing it,
My eyes ﬁll with tears.

THINKING about the people in this ﬂoating world
far into the night—
My sleeve is wet with tears.

THE THIEF left it behind—the moon
At the window.

This is another haiku, Ryōkan’s most famous one.

WHO IS there to take pity on this old body?
The sun sets as I return to get the staﬀ
I left behind.

PRIEST Ryōkan must fadelike this morning’s ﬂowers,
But his heart will remain behind.

WAITING for a visitor, I drank four or ﬁvecups of this splendid sakè.
Already completely drunk, I’ve forgotten who is coming.
Next time be more careful!

O, THAT my priest’s robe were wide enoughto gather up all the suﬀering people
In this ﬂoating world.

HAVE YOU forgotten the way to my hut?
Every evening I wait for the sound of your footsteps,
But you do not appear.

IN THE vast sky the sun is setting;the path home is far
And the bag is already heavy.

FORM, color, name, design—even these are things of this ﬂoating world
And should be abandoned.

WHEN I think about the sadness of the people
in this world,
Their sadness becomes mine.

TWILIGHT—the only conversationon this hillIs the wind blowing through the pines.

THE ISLAND of Sado—
morning and evening I often see it in my dreams,
Together with the gentle face of my mother.

OUR LIVES are like the plants
ﬂoating along the water’s edge
Illumined by the moon.
WHAT IS the heart of this old monk like?
A gentle wind
Beneath the vast sky.

OUR BODIES will rot and fade away,
but the fruit of the Buddhist Law
Cannot be discarded.

WE SEE only a straw hat and raincoat,but still the scarecrow
Does his job.

TO FIND the Buddhist Law,drift east and west, come and go,
Entrusting yourself to the waves.

THE SEAWEED from Nozomi near Kotoshi!
Day and night
I dream of its wonderful taste.

MONTHS pass, days pile up,
like one intoxicated dream—
An old man sighs.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
Following are the major sources I used in preparing thetranslations:
Ryōkan kashū [The complete Japanese poems of Ryōkan]and Ryōkan shishū [The complete Chinese poems of
Ryōkan], ed. Toyoharu Tōgō. Osaka: Sōgensha, 1973.
Other Japanese works consulted include:
Karaki, Junzō. Ryōkan. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1971.
Matsuoka, Shin’ya. Ryōkan o motomete [Searching for
Ryōkan]. Tokyo: Asahi Sonorama, 1975.
Sōma, Gyofū. Daigu Ryōkan [Great Fool Ryōkan]. Tokyo:
Shun’yōdō, 1918.
Tōgō, Toyoharu. Ryōkan. Tokyo: Tokyo Sōgensha, 1973.
Yoshino, Hideo. Ryōkan-oshō no hito to uta [Priest
Ryōkan, the man and his poems]. Tokyo: Yayoi Shobō,
1973.
For useful references in English, see:
Fischer, Jakob. Dew-drops on a Lotus Leaf. Tokyo: 1954.
Kawabata, Yasunari. Japan the Beautiful and Myself.
Trans. Edward G. Seidensticker. Tokyo, New York, and
San Francisco: Kodansha International, 1968.

Suzuki, Daisetz T. Zen and Japanese Culture. Bollingen
Series, vol. 64. 2nd ed. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton
University Press, 1965.

INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES
Poem titles are given below in small capitals and ﬁrst lines
in upper and lower case.
A cold autumn night
A cold night—sitting alone in my empty room
After a night of rain, water covers the village path
After spending the day begging in town
After walking for a time, I reach the pavilion
A lonely four-mat hut
A lonely winter’s day, clear then cloudy
Alone, wandering through the mountains
Along the cedar-lined path of an old shrine
Always, when I was a boy
An evening dream—everything must have been an illusion
An old and useless body
Another blizzard—the mountains are
Another year lingers to an end
As I watch the the children happily playing
A thief has stolen my zafu and futon
A thousand peaks covered with frozen snow
At night, deep in the mountains I sit in zazen
At the main crossroads, playing Hotei
At Yahiko Mountain
Autumn night—unable to sleep, I leave my tiny cottage

Awakened by the cold—a light snow falls
Back and forth, back and forth
BEGGING

Beneath the willows, singing and laughing
Bright moon—I walk through the rice ﬁelds
Buddha is your mind
Carrying ﬁrewood on my shoulder
Concealed in a dense forest, my hermitage lies far beyond
the village riverCounting days is like snapping
DAWN

Day after day after day
Day and night the cold wind blows through my robe
Deep in the mountains at night, alone in my hermitage
Drinking sweet sakè with the farmers
During a lull in the autumn rains
Early spring—picking vegetables
Early summer—ﬂoating down a clear running river in awooden boat
EMPTY BOWL: TWO POEMS

Even if a man lives a hundred years
Everywhere you look
Finishing a day of begging
First days of spring—blue sky, bright sun
Foolish and stubborn—what day can I rest
Form, color, name, design
For more than seventy years, I have been making
Forty years ago, on the day of my ﬁrst pilgrimage
Fresh morning snow in front of the shrine
From today the nights turn colder
Gaily the warm spring days passGOGŌ-ANGoing out to beg this spring day
GRASS WAR

Green mountains front and backHand in hand, the children and I
Have you forgotten the way to my hut
HOTOTOGISU

How can we ever lose interest in life
I came to this village to see the peach blossoms
I expected to see only pink blossoms
I forgot my bowl again
If there is beauty, there must be uglinessIf your hermitage is deep in the mountains
If you speak delusions, everything becomes a delusion
I have entrusted myself to sakè and ﬂowers
I have returned to Itoigawa, my former village
I have returned to my native village after twenty years
I lie down near the hearth
I live in a hut in the mountains of Echigo
Illusion and enlightenment? Two sides of a coin
In even a light snow, we can see
In front of my window there is a towering banana tree
In my bowl
INN AT TAMAGAWA STATION, THE

Intermittent rain—in my hermitage
In the blue sky a winter goose cries
In the distanceIn the empty doorway many petals are scattered
In the entire ten quarters of the Buddha land
In the pond near my hut
In the shadow of the mountains
In the vast sky the sun is setting
I seem to hear your voice in theI sit quietly, listening to the falling leaves
I stretch out for a nap in my little hut
I’ve left the world far behindI went to see the pine at Iwamura
KEEPING OUT OF THE RAIN

Late at night, listening to the winter rain
Late at night, the faint sound of someone pounding rice
Late at night, the snow
Light rain—the mountain forest is wrapped in mist
Light sleep, the bane of old age
Listening to the evening rain in my hermitage
Lodging at an old temple
Loneliness: spring has already passed
Lonely, I leave my hermitage
LONG WINTER NIGHT, THE: THREE POEMS

Lying ill again, for the third spring in a row
Lying ill in my hermitage; all day not a single visitor
Lying in my freezing hut, unable to sleep
Midautumn—the mountains are crimson
Midautumn—the wind and rain are now at their mostmelancholyMonths pass, days pile up
Morning—cutting ﬁrewood, ﬁlling my jug
My gate has been unbolted for many days
My heart beats faster and fasterMy hermitage lies in a forest
My hut lies in the middle of a dense forest
My hut, located in a distant village, is little more than fourbare walls
My life may appear melancholy
Near a Kannon temple, I have a temporary hermitage
No begging in the town
Not much to oﬀer you
Now that autumn has formed its
Now the farmers are planting riceOnce again, many greedy people appear
Once again, the children and I are ﬁghting a battle using
spring grasses
One narrow path surrounded by a dense forest
Only two in the garden
On the way to visit a famous villa several ri distantO, that my priest’s robe were wide enoughOur bodies will rot and fade away
Our lives are like the plants
Peach blossoms cover both sides of the river bank like mist
Picking violets by the side of the road
Playing ball with the village children
Playing in a garden, among the cherry trees
Please wait for the light of the moon
POEM FOR A DISTANT FRIEND
POEM OF EARLY FALL

Priest Ryōkan must fade
RESTING AT MATSUNO-O

Returning home after a day of begging
Returning to my hermitage after a journey
Returning to my hermitage after ﬁlling my rice bowl
ROBBER, THE

Shaggy hair past the ears
Silver-white snow envelops the mountains
Since I came to this hermitage
Singing waka, reciting poems, playing ball
Sitting quietly on a rough stone
Soaring birds disappear over the distant mountains
Spring ﬂows gently
Spring has begun
Spring has come, the trees are in bloom
Spring has passed; the mountains and valleys are
Spring—late at night I go for a walk
Spring—slowly the peaceful soundStaﬀ in hand, I walk along the river bank toward the village
Standing alone beneath a solitary pineStanding on a cliﬀ, among the pines and oaks
Stone steps, a mound of lustrous green moss
Summer evening—the voice of a hototogisu
SUMMER NIGHT

The autumn nights have lengthened
The bamboo grove in front of my hut
The branches that will be used for thisThe bright moon emerges over the eastern mountains
The children run to greet me
The clouds are gone, the sky is clear
The clouds have drifted away
The ﬁreplace is cold, covered with thick ashes
The freezing morning rain has let up
The hour grows late, but the sound of hail
The island of Sado
The long summer days at Entsū-ji temple
The long winter night! The long winter night seems endless
The night is fresh and cool
The ninth month has just begun; as we walk to Matsuno-o
The number of days since I left the world and
The rain has stopped, the clouds have drifted away, and theweather is clear again
The rainy season is over—it’s now clear
The seaweed from Nozomi near Kotoshi
The sky above, the mountains below
The spring birds have all returned
The thief left it behind
The vicissitudes of this world are like the movements of thecloudsThe village has disappeared in the evening mist
The willows are in full bloom
The wind blows through my tiny hermitage
The wind has brought

The wind is fresh, the moon bright
They say spring has comeThinking about the people in this ﬂoating world
Thirsty, I’ve ﬁlled myself with sakè
TO A FRIEND

To an old man, dreams come easy
Today’s begging is ﬁnished; at the crossroads
Today, while begging food, a sudden downpour
To ﬁnd the Buddhist Law
Tonight the plum trees reﬂect the silver moon
Traveling to a distant country
Truly, I love this life of seclusion
Twilight—crossing Kugami Mountain
Twilight—smoke rises from the village
Twilight—the only conversation
Unable to sleep
Waiting for a visitor, I drank four or ﬁve
Walking along a narrow path at the foot of a mountain
Walking beside a clear running river, I come to a farmhouse
We see only a straw hat and raincoat
We throw a little woolen ball back and forth
What is the heart of this old monk like
When I think about the sadness of the people
When it is evening, please come to my hut
When I was a boy studying in an empty hall
While I gather ﬁrewood and wild grasses on this hill
Who can sympathize with my life
Who is there to take pity on this old bodyWho says my poems are poems
Wind and snow, then snow and rain
Winter—in this eleventh month
WINTER NIGHT

Winter will soon be overWorking with their hands, the young girls chant
WRITTEN IN MY HERMITAGE ON A SNOWY EVENING

Yesterday I went to town begging food from east to west
Zen Master Ryōkan

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