Dewdrops On A Lotus Leaf
(A small sampling of)
Zen Poems of Ryokan
1.
Who says my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems
When you know that my poems are not poems,
Then we can speak of poetry!
2.
It"s piety, a gentleman in refined retirement composing poetry
He models his work on the classic verse of China,
And his poems are elegant, full of fine phrases.
But if you don't write of things deep inside your own heart,
What's the use of churning out so many words?
3.
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!
4.
Thinking back, I recall my days at Entsu-ji
And the solitary struggle to find the Way.
Carrying firewood reminded me of Layman Ho;
When I polished rice, the Sixth Patriarch came to mind.
I was first in line to receive the Master's teaching,
And never missed an hour of meditation.
Thirty years have flown by since
I left the green hills and blue sea of that lovely place.
what has become of all my fellow disciples?
And how can I forget the kindness of my beloved teacher?
The tears flow on and on, blending with the swirling mountain
stream.
5.
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.
6.
To My Teacher
An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill,
Overrun with rank weeds 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 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.
7.
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!
8.
If someone asks
My abode
I reply:
"The east edge of
The Milky Way."
Like a drifting cloud,
Bound by nothing:
I just let go
Giving myself up
To the whim of the wind.
9.
Torn and tattered, torn and tattered
Torn and tattered is this life.
Food? I collect it from the roadside.
The shrubs and bushes have long overrun my hut.
Often the moon and I sit together all night,
And more than once I lost myself among wildflowers, forgetting
to return home.
No wonder I finally left the community life:
How could such a crazy monk live in a temple?
10.
Two Poems for My Friend Bosai
Yes I am truly a dunce
Living among trees and plants.
Please don't question me about illusion and enlightenment--
This old fellow 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.
The gaudy beauty of this world has no attraction for me-
My closest friends are mountains and rivers,
Clouds swallow up my shadow as I walk along,
When I sit on cliffs, birds soar overhead
Wearing snowy straw sandals, I visit cold villages.
Go as deep as you can into life,
And you will be able to let go of even blossoms.
11.
A single path among ten thousand trees,
A misty valley hidden among a thousand peaks.
Not yet autumn but already leaves are falling,
Not much rain but still the rocks grow dark.
With my basket I hunt for mushrooms;
With my bucket I draw pure spring water.
Unless you got lost on purpose
You would never get this far.