Ryokan

[Guest guest]

When I was a lad,

I sauntered about town as a gay blade,

Sporting a cloak of the softest down,

And mounted on a splendid chestnut-colored horse.

During the day, I galloped to the city;

At night, I got drunk on peach blossoms by the river.

I never cared about returning home,

Usually ending up, with a big smile on my face, at a pleasure

pavilion!

 

 

 

Returning to my native village after many years' absence:

Ill, I put up at a country inn and listen to the rain.

One robe, one bowl is all I have.

I light incense and strain to sit in meditation;

All night a steady drizzle outside the dark window --

Inside, poignant memories of these long years of pilgrimage.

 

 

 

 

To My Teacher:

 

An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill,

Overrun with rank weeks growing unchecked year after year;

There is no one left to tend the tomb,

And only an occasional woodcutter passes by.

Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair,

Learning deeply from him by the Narrow River.

One morning I set off on my solitary journey

And the years passed between us in silence.

Now I have returned to find him at rest here;

How can I honor his departed spirit?

I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone

And offer a silent prayer.

The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill

And I'm enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines.

I try to pull myself away but cannot;

A flood of tears soaks my sleeves.

 

 

 

 

In my youth I put aside my studies

And I aspired to be a saint.

Living austerely as a mendicant monk,

I wandered here and there for many springs.

Finally I returned home to settle under a craggy peak.

I live peacefully in a grass hut,

Listening to the birds for music.

Clouds are my best neighbors.

Below a pure spring where I refresh body and mind;

Above, towering pines and oaks that provide shade and brushwood.

Free, so free, day after day --

I never want to leave!

 

 

 

 

Yes, I'm truly a dunce

Living among trees and plants.

Please don't question me about illusion and enlightenment --

This old fellow just likes to smile to himself.

I wade across streams with bony legs,

And carry a bag about in fine spring weather.

That's my life,

And the world owes me nothing.

 

 

 

 

When all thoughts

Are exhausted

I slip into the woods

And gather

A pile of shepherd's purse.

 

 

 

 

Like the little stream

Making its way

Through the mossy crevices

I, too, quietly

Turn clear and transparent.

 

 

 

 

At dusk

I often climb

To the peak of Kugami.

Deer bellow,

Their voices

Soaked up by

Piles of maple leaves

Lying undisturbed at

The foot of the mountain.

 

 

 

 

 

Blending with the wind,

Snow falls;

Blending with the snow,

The wind blows.

By the hearth

I stretch out my legs,

Idling my time away

Confined in this hut.

Counting the days,

I find that February, too,

Has come and gone

Like a dream.

 

 

 

 

No luck today on my mendicant rounds;

From village to village I dragged myself.

At sunset I find myself with miles of mountains between me and my

hut.

The wind tears at my frail body,

And my little bowl looks so forlorn --

Yes this is my chosen path that guides me

Through disappointment and pain, cold and hunger.

 

 

 

 

My Cracked Wooden Bowl

 

This treasure was discovered in a bamboo thicket --

I washed the bowl in a spring and then mended it.

After morning meditation, I take my gruel in it;

At night, it serves me soup or rice.

Cracked, worn, weather-beaten, and misshapen

But still of noble stock!

 

 

 

 

Midsummer --

I walk about with my staff.

Old farmers spot me

And call me over for a drink.

We sit in the fields

using leaves for plates.

Pleasantly drunk and so happy

I drift off peacefully

Sprawled out on a paddy bank.

 

 

 

 

How can I possibly sleep

This moonlit evening?

Come, my friends,

Let's sing and dance

All night long.

 

 

 

 

Stretched out,

Tipsy,

Under the vast sky:

Splendid dreams

Beneath the cherry blossoms.

 

 

 

 

Wild roses,

Plucked from fields

Full of croaking frogs:

Float them in your wine

And enjoy every minute!

 

 

 

 

For Children Killed in a Smallpox Epidemic

 

When spring arrives

From every tree tip

Flowers will bloom,

But those children

Who fell with last autumn's leaves

Will never return.

 

 

 

 

I watch people in the world

Throw away their lives lusting after things,

Never able to satisfy their desires,

Falling into deeper despair

And torturing themselves.

Even if they get what they want

How long will they be able to enjoy it?

For one heavenly pleasure

They suffer ten torments of hell,

Binding themselves more firmly to the grindstone.

Such people are like monkeys

Frantically grasping for the moon in the water

And then falling into a whirlpool.

How endlessly those caught up in the floating world suffer.

Despite myself, I fret over them all night

And cannot staunch my flow of tears.

 

 

 

 

The wind has settled, the blossoms have fallen;

Birds sing, the mountains grow dark --

This is the wondrous power of Buddhism.

 

 

 

 

In a dilapidated three-room hut

I've grown old and tired;

This winter cold is the

Worst I've ever suffered through.

I sip thin gruel, waiting for the

Freezing night to pass.

Can I last until spring finally arrives?

Unable to beg for rice,

How will I survive the chill?

Even meditation helps no longer;

Nothing left to do but compose poems

In memory of deceased friends.

 

 

 

 

" When, when? " I sighed.

The one I longed for

Has finally come;

With her now,

I have all that I need.

 

(Written to the nun Teishin, his young mistress.)

 

 

 

 

My legacy --

What will it be?

Flowers in spring,

The cuckoo in summer,

And the crimson maples

Of autumn...

 

 

 

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