ENDPAPER
Simple, radiant
BY PRADEEP SEBASTIAN
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Hundreds of years after they were first written, Ryokan's poems still have the power to enchant.
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Apart from being Japan's greatest Zen poet, he is also one of its most celebrated calligraphers.
Self-portrait: A hermit and poet.
RYOKAN was an 18th century hermit-poet who lived in poverty and simplicity, contemplating the Way. From his hermitage deep in the mountains, he begged for food in nearby villages. He spent his time listening to the rain and leaves falling, playing with children and animals and writing Zen poetry. One night, returning to his little hermitage after a day of begging for food, he found a robber had stolen even his meager possessions - a mat, a begging bowl and a washcloth. Immediately, he sat down and wrote this: "The thief left it there/on the windowsill/the shining moon."
I think I first came across this Zen poem in a collection years ago, and though I was very moved, I did not bother to learn who had written it. A few months ago I stumbled on a Ryokan anthology, One Robe, One Bowl: The Zen Poetry of Ryokan (translated beautifully and with radiant simplicity by John Stevens) and 10 pages or so into it, came upon the poem again. `So it is by Ryokan!' I thought excitedly because, by then, I had read a dozen poems from the anthology and had found them the most remarkable spiritual poetry I had read for years.
Life of a Zen monk
His poems record his joy and loneliness in living the life of a Soto Zen monk - doing zazen, knowing solitude, silence and deep stillness. There are two emotions that run through his poems: joy in having abandoned the world and the deep loneliness that accompanies it.
"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."
In another poem, he writes: "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." These same poems, touchingly, also record the loneliness and hardship of a hermit-monk's life. "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."
The last line, with its sudden confession of tears, moves me more that I can say. Ryokan's family was wealthy and cultured, steeped in literature and religion. At 18 he surprised his family by becoming a monk. After many years in the monastery, he travelled as a pilgrim, meeting different Zen masters. When he was 40, he dedicated himself to a life of seclusion deep in the mountains. He was often seen during spring and summer in the nearby villages, begging for food or playing with children. In winter, he was confined to his hut. He felt his loneliness most during those long winter nights. "Loneliness, and the night is only half over. There are no obstacles in my heart. But still I lack a true companion."
There are many stories, says Stevens in his Introduction, about the way Ryokan forgot the world and abandoned himself to the moment. A friend visiting Ryokan found him deep in zazen. He waited for hours before the hermit greeted him. They went in and talked late into the evening, at which time Ryokan felt they must drink and talk. He asked his friend to wait a few minutes while he fetched some sake from outside the hermitage. When the monk had not returned after hours, his friend went looking for him and found Ryokan just a hundred yards from the hermitage gazing at the full moon. The friend exclaimed that he had been waiting and waiting, thinking something terrible had happened to him. To which Ryokan answered: "You have come just in time! Isn't the moon splendid?" But what about the sake? "The sake? Oh, the sake? Please forgive me, I forgot all about it."
Apart from being Japan's greatest Zen poet, he is also one of its most celebrated calligraphers. A sketch of his self-portrait is widely celebrated. Ryokan, Stevens tells us, never preached, never judged. He gave away whatever he had, was kind to trees and flowers and was tender even to objects. "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."
Last years
When he was 69 and ill, he met Teishin, a 29-year-old Buddhist nun, who would go on to become his most famous and best disciple. "They seem to have fallen in love almost immediately," records John Stevens, "they delighted in each other's company, composing poems and talking about literature and religion for hours. She was with him when he died on January 6, 1831. Four years later, in 1835, Tesihin published a collection of Ryokan's poems titled Hasu no tsuyu (Dewdrops on a lotus leaf). Teishin devoted herself to Ryokan's memory until her death in 1872."
The poems that repeatedly draw me to One Robe, One Bowl are the poems that speak of Ryokan's joy in forgetting himself and being enlightened by all things around him. "My bowl is fragrant from the rice of a thousand homes; My heart has renounced the sovereignty of riches and worldly fame. Quietly cherishing the memory of ancient Buddhas, I walk to the village for another day of begging." Hundreds of years since they were first written, Ryokan's poems still feel immediate, speaking to us in the gentlest of voices of the radiant beauty of knowing simplicity, emptiness and joy along the Way.
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