A voice from the East

For many years — though in a very unsystematic and broad–brush way — I have been interested in the philosophical and religious outlook(s) of the Far East (insofar as these radically non–western thought–processes are accessible in translation). One of my favourite exemplars is the hermit–monk Ryokan (c1758–1831). This Zen master and poet lived a life of almost complete solitude in a hermitage half way up Mount Kugami in Japan — his only company being the farmers he occasionally met, the villagers from whom he begged food — an accepted practice — and the children that he delighted in playing with. Ryokan’s poetry is so elemental that there is almost nothing in it that is archaic or that needs contextual placing. Here is a poem combining his delight in nature and in children:

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.

It’s typical of Chinese and Japanese poetry — and Ryokan wrote in both languages — simply to state things (as in the example above), rather than describe them, and to leave such characteristics as colour, shape, texture or sound to the reader’s imagination. The following poem (this one by Basho) is a perfect illustration:

An old pond—

The frog jumps in.

The sound of the water.

But what of Ryokan’s solitary existence? What form do his poems show this as taking? Well, he describes his life in a very unsentimental and straightforward way. He tells both of the joys of his life and of his sorrows — which include at times an acute loneliness. Here are two poems about evening and night at his hermitage:

WINTER—in the eleventh month

Snow falls thick and fast.

A thousand mountains, one colour.

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.

⋞⋟

RETURNING home after a day of begging;

Sage has covered my door.

Now a bunch of green leaves burn together with the firewood.

Silently I read the poems of Kanzan,

Accompanied by the autumn wind blowing a light rain that

            rustles through the reeds.

I stretch out both my feet and lie down.

What is there to think about? What is there to doubt?

It’s hard to imagine how anyone could cope — or would want to cope — with such solitude. To be so far removed from company seems uncharacteristic of man as a social animal, yet it seems best simply to accept that that was how he chose to live, and to enjoy the poetry which came out of it. And, paradoxically, Ryokan took much pleasure in company, as in the following lines:

…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.

Ryokan also had a good sense of fun, and seems never to have taken himself over–seriously:

Today’s begging is finished; at the crossroads

I wander by the side of the Hachiman Shrine

Talking with some children.

Last year, a foolish monk;

This year, no change!

⋞⋟

WHO SAYS that my poems are poems?

My poems are not poems.

After you know that my poems are not poems

Then we can begin to discuss poetry!

Philosophically, Ryokan has some interesting things to say:

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 the Buddha’s Way!

Why do you so earnestly seek the truth in distant places?

Look for delusion and truth in the bottom of your hearts.

Ryokan’s most famous haiku is:

THE THIEF left it behind—

     the moon

At the window.

If much of Ryokan’s poetry is tinged with sadness:

THINKING about the people in this floating world

       far into the night—

My sleeve is wet with tears.

Yet there was a very happy ending to his life. At sixty–nine, and in ill–health, Ryokan went to live with his disciple Kimura Motoemon, and it was here that he met the nun Teishin — forty years Ryokan’s junior: ‘She was twenty–nine when she met Ryokan, 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

…Teishin devoted herself to Ryokan’s memory until her death in 1872.’*

ZEN MASTER Ryokan!

Like a fool, like a dunce,

Body and mind completely dropped off!

—————

* Quoted from One Robe, One Bowl: The Zen Poetry of Ryokan, translated and introduced by John Stevens. Weatherhill, New York and Tokyo — from which all of the above translations are taken.