Pathway to Japanese Literature

You who hastened death while young

Before Mother's spirit

I reverently offer this book

Alms Bowl

In February 1925 (Taisho 14), I finally received full monastic ordination and became keeper of Mitori Kannon Hall in a remote part of Higo Province—a life truly solitary among mountain forests, quiet if you called it quiet, lonely if you thought it lonely.

The pine trees all with drooping branches—Namu Kanzeon.

I struck the dawn and dusk bell through pine winds.
The hedge I swept after long neglect bore blooming flowers.

In April 1926 (Taisho 15), shouldering irresolvable turmoil, I set out on a wandering mendicant journey.

No matter how deep I went, no matter how deep I went—green mountains.
Soaked to the bone—this was the guidepost stone.
Under a blazing sky, I walked begging.

In Response to Hōsai Koji's Work

A crow caws—I too am alone

To clarify life and clarify death constitutes Buddhism's great matter of causation (*Shushōgi*)

Within life and death, snow falls ceaselessly

Leaves scatter—walking resolutely onward

In Showa 2 and 3 [1927-1928], I wandered aimlessly through San'yōdō at times, San'indō at others, sometimes Shikoku or Kyushu.

I parted through bush clover and silver grass.

This journey—an endless journey's tsukutsukuboushi.

I listlessly tasted water.

I watch the descending moon alone

Alone, bitten by mosquitoes.

Legs stretched out still sunlit.

From deep in the mountains he came bearing cocoons.

I walked with a dragonfly perched on my straw hat.

I keep walking; red spider lilies keep blooming.

Lonely on a straight road.
Silently putting on today's straw sandals.
Staggering drunk; leaves fall.
Drizzling rain—persisting in not dying.
Inside the repapered shoji—a solitary figure.
A traveler with reflection in water.
Snow keeps falling—as I watch the snow.
Drizzling rain—into the drizzling mountain I walk.

Having received just enough to eat—I turned into rain.

Tree buds, grass sprouts—walking without cease.

Scratching this body that somehow survives.

Through Showa years four and five [1929-1930], there remained no path but endless walking.
Through Kyushu's provinces I drifted—here then there.

Fully severed now—Tsukutsukuboushi.

The mountain I would never see again grew distant.

I am surrounded by nothing but cricket song.

Clear and pure, waterfowl huddled together.

A shrike cries—nowhere to cast off this body.

How hopelessly I walk.

I crossed the river dried to dust.

Two crow-dipper fruits hung.

Daikanhō

Nothing obstructs the silver grass's radiance.

When I parted through—the sound of water.
I slipped, fell—the mountain lay hushed.
Maimai-an
The rain’s camellias not scattering—
How incessantly the large leaves fell!
This morning too—a star of the fine day.
Completely dried and turned bean-like.
A dragonfly landed on tired legs.
The dry mountain holds water enough to drink.
Toward the weight of luggage I can’t abandon—behind.
Monk’s robe this tattered—grass seeds
I revised my travel notes.
Behind the rock—water unmistakably welled forth.
I was soaked by the rain that cloud let fall.

Here I shave off my white hair and depart.

I sit among autumn weeds.

Such delicious water overflows.

Growing old brings longing for home—tsukutsukuboushi cicada.

Rocks upon rocks bear thistles in bloom.

That’s fine—sweeping fallen leaves.

Together with the sound of water, I came down to the village.
I earnestly ate this meal that was nothing but rice.
Under a completely cloudless sky, I took off my hat.
Graves lined up, and waves surged up to there.

Drunk, I slept with a cricket.

Maimai-an

The camellias I've reunited with are blooming.
The sound of dripping rain has aged.
Thinking it a shabby shadow—tree leaves fall.

Ryokuhei-an: Two Verses

I want to meet it—the abandoned charcoal mountain comes into view.

A winter tree stretches out its branches.

The houses where I beg have vanished; clouds over the mountains.

Some days I stop begging and gaze at the mountain.

Personal Reflections

Has my hat begun to leak too?
A sleeping place must exist somewhere on this frosty night.

In Kumamoto

Cheap? Cheap? Cold? Cold? Snow—snow.

In Showa 6 (1931), I strove to settle in Kumamoto, but try as I might, I simply couldn't take root.
Once again, I could only continue journeying from journey to journey.

Self-Mockery

Is my retreating figure drizzling away?

Hail too falls into the alms bowl.

How long must I trim the nails grown from journeying?

Yobuko Port

Morning calm—leaving two islands behind.

Ōura Cathedral

Santamaria climbs the stone steps of winter rain.

A tooth that has come out softly.

Cold clouds rush.

Hometown distant, tree buds.

From the soothing bath to the serene moon, I emerged.

In the early-budding tree, it sings.

A camellia blossom drops onto my hat.

A quiet path beside dokudami sprouts

Bracken ferns are already being sold.

A long bridge spans toward the morning-long noise.

Here I settle; grass sprouts.
Having received enough, I set down my chopsticks alone.
Treading firmly on drizzled earth as I go.
I pick up a stone in the autumn wind.
Dandelions bloom along today's path.

One person among them

In the rainy hometown, I walk barefoot.

At Kuriyamade—alone in moonlight's reach.

Plume grass sways toward plume grass.

The season turns—red spider lilies blaze in sacred bloom.

Dawn rain falls—I'll sow daikon seeds.

Dew on grass seeds tries to settle.

From evening sky—one yuzu received.

Tea flowers scattered just as they fall.

Tea flowers bloomed unnoticed.

Winter arrives—trees splintered, bamboo shattered.

The moon rises without waiting for anything—
A solitary fire blazing ever fiercer—
New Year's crow—caw caw—
Fallen leaves—could these be narcissus sprouts?

There were various things to eat—a day of wind.

The water's sound had settled into truth.

The tea plants too opened hermitage-like and scattered.

Clouds gathered in a sky that seemed to await someone—loquat blossoms.

Falling leaves—deep within, I beheld the Buddha.

I plucked the last one from the snowy sky.

At Soku-chū-an, snow fell; as one person I tended the fire.

It was a warm day; still there were things to eat.

I returned to the heart of the moonlight.

Snow fell upon snow, abiding in stillness.

Snow fell; one by one they went.

Fallen leaves warmed; yabukōji.

Surrounded by tea trees was a life of indistinct contours.

To a Certain Friend

Moonlit night; was the offering rice?

Walk and butterbur sprouts

Camellias bloom where graves stand

Silence holds shepherd's purse in full flower

A single stem in the vase—one camellia

Morning-long sound—birds eating tree fruits?

Pull pull pull at weeds that cling

Dusk falls fire flares up

Someone came? Only loquat leaves falling

Today gather butterbur eat butterbur

Must manage this—grass leaves quiver still

Sparrows dart dandelions shed

Window opens at dawn-green leaves

My long hair graying

The rice cooked with sincere simplicity.

Butterflies fluttering from back to front.

After all, being alone is best—weeds.

Today again, the whole day—no one came, it seems.

A dragonfly tries to land on bare skin?

With a rustling sound, a silent insect arrives.

Alms-Begging En Route

Cool pine winds—people eat, horses eat.

Today again I walked all day through the wind.

What with one thing and another—everything blooming.
Walk—buttercups; sit—buttercups.
Vivid thistle—morning after rain.

Head bowed; nothing but stones.

Droplets from young leaves; droplets from hat.

Fireflies, come come—I’ve returned to my hometown.

The temple's bamboo shoots became bamboo.

Pine wind, pine shade—lay down.

Dawn broke; he sharpened the sickle.

Listening alone—a woodpecker.

The tilted moon becoming an owl.

Kawatana Onsen

Flowering rose; become one with the soil here.

Waiting, cherries ripen.
The mountain's embrace becomes bare.
The mountain path already brings bush clovers into bloom.
Here again flowering roses scatter.
I gathered from morning soil.
Stones enshrined where water wells up.

Should I hurry back? The cicadas drone—kanakanakana.

A day in the mountains: ants too keep walking.

Clouds hurry to perfect the moon.

Cool morning—myoga shoots.

Always alone—a red dragonfly.

Until the traveling monk’s robe dries—wind through weeds.

Departing Kawatana

Today, the farewell loofah dangles.
Buttercups that have soaked through and through.
Ah, moving—it was a bagworm!
In the shade of fig leaves, I hold a bento.
Across the water, the lights of Onagoya began to twinkle.
Hazy and overlapping—the mountains are my homeland.
A single potted seedling in the spring breeze
In the self-indulgent, wayward journey's rain I keep getting wet.

Return to the Hermitage

Returning after so long—good bamboo shoots upon good.

The horse, thoroughly soaked while tilling the paddies, was constantly being scolded.

Sunny spells and showers; the paddies greened.

Grass grew thick; there, they burned the dead.

Morning dew lies thick; I go where I want to go.

Cuckoo; tomorrow I'll cross that mountain and go.

I remove my hat; I get thoroughly drenched.

The autumn without a home only deepened.

The impermanence of this wandering mendicant’s existence and the desolation of self-righteous solitude.
I wandered without aim or destination, yet people are not ultimately solitary—the bed I had longed for was granted.

September 20, Showa 7 (1932), I found my Soku-chū-an hermitage on the outskirts of my hometown and was able to move in there.

Red spider lilies bloom; here is where I sleep.

I like sake and I also like water.
Until yesterday, I preferred sake over water.
Today, I like water to the extent that I like sake.
Tomorrow, I may come to like water more than sake.

"In 'Hachinoko', there were many sake-like poems (their refinement or lack thereof aside)."
In *Soku-chū Hitori* and *Gyōkotsu Tojō*, sake-like poems and water-like poems are jumbled together in a *chanpon*.
From now on, I keep praying there will be more water-like poems.
Insipid as water—that must be my life’s condition.

(October 15, Showa 8 [1933], at Soku-chū-an Hermitage — Santōka)

Mountain walking, water journeying

If there are mountains, I look at the mountains.

On rainy days, I listen to the rain.

Spring summer autumn winter

Tomorrow too is good.

Evening too is good.

The blazing sky hides nothing—water comes flowing.

In midday sun, the Jizo statue’s face beams.

Neither waiting nor not waiting—the weeds’ moonlight.

I walk gathering wind-fallen dead branches.

Sunflowers—in noon glare they’ve stopped the machinery.

To mosquito net—proper moonlight too; someone might come.

Loofah dangles down reaching ground.

I pluck eggplants evening showers washed clean.

Cricket—at least tomorrow’s rice remains.

True equinox comes—red spider lilies bloom.

A fig within reach swells ripe.

Memories flood in like tidewater—this hometown space of mine.

Swoosh-swoosh falling water I draw.

I'll pluck just one for my meal.

Suddenly—a shrike cries of children.

To mountains beyond I bid sun farewell and make rice.

Noon stillness—flies know the swatter's shadow.

This misery of soberness: no cricket song.

Naked struck by naked child.

How fine—evening shower's water sounds everywhere.

Finally the mail came, and then only ripe persimmons fell.

What falls are persimmon leaves; what blooms are tea flowers at their peak.

I gather fruits that ripen only to fall.

I saw someone off and returned alone through the mud.

Moonlit night, I washed what rice there was.

The depth of the sky is water where fallen leaves settle.

Where there are stones and grass—withering.

The Moon told Jizo-sama: "It's grown cold."

The sound of water never ceased; thorn berries.

I crossed the water casting its moon shadow from behind.

I sowed into the drizzling soil.

A certain young friend

Things like coming through fallen leaves to meet a lover.

With a snap, bamboo broke within itself.

The moon turns behind—thicket shadows.

The snow on the roof of this meager life melted and dripped down.

Ah, the parting moon that fades so easily—around the tenth day.

The town's Shiwasu greengrocers' onion shoots sprouted.

This year too turned to sleet tonight.

What a serene sky—two or three yuzu.

Here I was kept by this winter night.
I had gathered enough deadwood to burn; the mountain lay clear.

When I fell ill, flycatchers came right here.

Called out to, I turned—a deciduous forest.

Toward the snow, the footprints pressed on resolutely.

The mountain where I drank sake lay withered.

The snow fell somberly; small birds showed affection.

The distant mountain snow and those I'd parted with—

The brightness of snow filled the house with tranquility.

Even the coralberry—a lonely soul's berry glimmered alone.

Having withered completely, both bush clover and pampas grass were wet.

Camellias fell; water flowed.

Upon waking, snow fell—not that I felt lonely,

Snow sparsely falling—as if someone might come.

The owl as owl, myself as myself—we cannot sleep.

The train's rumble too felt like dawn—the rustling of oak leaves.

Even as the moon turned behind—tree shadows.

When the sun shone on the withered pampas grass—I felt someone might come.

Everything became warm as stew.

The bagworm too dripped dewdrops—spring had come, ah.

Ill and dazed, I returned to my hermitage from Shinano.

Grass and trees lived on, returned, and grew thickly.

Ill and alone, morning turned to evening through fresh green leaves.

Under the sky where persimmon’s young leaves glittered, I remained undying.

Bees at Chōchiyo; however much the grass might bloom,

This morning, even the sound of water seemed like good news.

A dog that's always tied up and can only bark.

Truly quiet grass grows and blooms.

Sprouting growing blooming happiness

Having closed the shoji of solitude, an insect comes to tap.

Shadows distinct against young leaves

Suddenly from a hole—a lizard!

No one comes to visit; I cook butterbur tsukudani.

Thousand-Person Bath

Cocks and cunts too—boiling over in bathwater

Joys and sorrows both—the grass thickens.

A solitary bamboo shoot becomes bamboo in silence.

A mountain peers out from mountains; rainy season break.

From morning I sit naked; a dragonfly alights.

There is food to eat and drink to get drunk—rain on weeds.

Under the endless blazing sky, an ant procession.

The spider spins its web; I affirm myself.

The weeds that could die at any moment bloom and bear fruit.

A single leaf falls at midday.

The sky clears; butterflies become two, then three.

The blue sky feels close in profound silence.

Here with me, a Tsukutsukuboushi cicada spends the day.

When lilies bloom, lilies appear at Jizo statues too.

Wind rises through grass; tofu must have cooled.

Wind blows cool through—bees and dragonflies—

Drink hometown water; bathe in hometown water.

I will make this my place to die; grass grows ever thicker.

To whom shall I give it? I collect loofah water.

Red spider lilies of the equinox festival before the Buddha.

Red spider lilies bloom; the hometown has nothing but graves.

In the autumn wind, a mantis seethes.

Calm settles; persimmons bear fruit.

Bearing a heavy load and being blind.

A tsukutsukuboushi too close—tsukutsukuboushi.

From beyond the persimmon tree, the moon comes to rest above the persimmon tree.

Sunlight reaches the bedding—persimmon leaves and pampas grass plumes.

There is something missing; leaves fall.

Postman.

He brings mail and eats a ripe persimmon before leaving.

The shrike cries out—its leaves scatter.

To Jumei

You came from behind, covered in grass seeds.

In any case, I am being kept alive among the weeds.

From journey to journey

The road I left behind lies straight.

The moon too—in the water’s depths lies a traveler’s sky.

Willows stand there—a cool Yanagiya breeze.

Everyone’s healthy, and pumpkin flowers too.

Sooner than the evening shower clears, mountain crabs come out to play.

From there comes the green rice fields’ ideal warmth.

Waking from a nap—mountains whichever way I look.

The journey slips into autumn-tinged mountains; even mist comes to rest.

At a good inn—mountains on both sides, a sake shop out front.

Sitting brings wind through autumn weeds.

I decide to sleep there—grass seeds spilling.

Bush clovers and pampas grasses line today’s road.

Hakusen Hut.

When there were four or five trees at the rear—Tsukutsukuboushi cicadas.

The road vanished; leaves strained to fall.

Tree leaves fluttered down even onto the begging bowl.

Willows shed their foliage; from that point I commenced my alms-seeking.

A proper path led to a proper structure—the cremation ground.

Nagato Gorge.

I now transcribe; autumn leaves scatter.

Walk and there's grass seeds; sit and there's grass seeds.

Spring arrived—the water's sound reaching where it could go.

Red pseudo-plum blossoms; cheerful Japanese White-eyes and Buntings.

In spring's lingering chill, a Nagoya woman came out bearing one sen.

Now then—the wind blows where it will.

There's only this road—spring snow falls.

Today I remove straw sandals here.

Ishikamo-sō

The grassy hill's familiarity—even the bush warbler sings.

Cherry blossoms bloom unnoticed—meetings become farewells.

Kyōhan-tei (Bridge-Side Pavilion)

Sensei's matters from those days—maple buds
A tree has fallen; I sit down on its trunk.

To the Tsushima Literary Circle

The farewell waterfowl dives and surfaces.

Swallows flitting between journeys—I fasten my straw sandals.

To the Nagoya Literary Circle

I'll likely never meet them again—the haze where tree buds sprout.

Begging as I walk—the water's sound persists endlessly.

Kiso Road: Three Verses

The water I wanted to drink was making its sound.

Deep in the mountains, butterbur flower stalks bloom.

Since the mountains were quiet, I removed my hat.

Falling ill in Iida: Two verses

Truly a mountain country—mountains all under the moon’s

Tomorrow I'll return; cherry blossoms keep falling.

Sangyōsuigyō may be read as Sankōsuikō or alternatively as Sangyōsuigyō.
For me, to journey was to practice ascetic discipline (shugyō), and to walk was none other than to engage in spiritual training (gyō).

Between last August and this October, I must have discarded close to two thousand verses.
From among these, what I picked up were over three hundred verses; what I further sorted and compiled are the one hundred forty-one verses presented above.
The poet’s joy lies in singing one’s own truth with all one’s might.
In this sense, I wish to rejoice in that joy without shame.

Walk and buttercups; sit and buttercups.

Walk and grass seeds; sit and grass seeds.

These two verses share identical form and rhythm.
Both were verses that sang my truth along the alms-begging path, but as my present self, I resolved to discard the former verse and preserve the latter.

At long last, I had returned to the "World of Existence," feeling what I might call the tranquility of homecoming. I had wandered for a long time. Not only had my body wandered, but my heart had wandered too. I had suffered from what should exist and been tormented by what cannot help but exist. And at long last, I was able to settle into what exists. There, I found myself.

Both what should exist and what cannot help but exist—all were stored within what exists. When I knew what exists, I knew everything. I was not trying to discard what should exist; I was not trying to escape from what cannot help but exist.

My mental preparation was to re-recognize the "World of Existence" and make a fresh start.

The poet's first principle had to be the very act of composing poetry itself.
I needed to express myself as poetry.
That became precisely my duty and simultaneously my deepest wish.

(Autumn 1934, at Soku-chū-an Hermitage — Santōka)

Weedscape

Persimmons turning red—as the house tree where living becomes dwelling.

Swollen and tottering—this cricket?

Sunlight before long becomes moonlight—the shadow of a tree.

The few remaining become ripe persimmons—the clouds drift.

Everyone working—the harvested fields spread wide.

Nobody comes—the chili peppers turn red.

When I fall ill—the redness of dried plums.

No matter how much I think—the same thing—walking on fallen leaves.

When I draw water through deep fallen leaves—the water’s clarity.

During Illness: Two Verses

Sleeping and waking; leaves fall.

Startling awake—I sense the moon above.

I draw moon-bright water to keep.

To Hakusen

Like fire awaiting you, burning.

A small teahouse stands—chrysanthemums arranged in an empty bottle.

Celebrating the Birth of Tagaji II

Peering at the sun—a peaceful sleeping face.
The sun shone on a regretful heart—did small birds come singing?
I stepped on fallen leaves—the tofu seller arrived, so I got tofu—
I sat in the beauty of withering grass.
Winter came again and teeth came loose again.
The taste I clenched between teeth ready to fall out
The bamboo’s goodness: the morning wind dripped dewdrops ceaselessly.
The sky cleared; New Year’s water brimmed full.
I moored here, lining up New Year’s prows.

On a withered tree—a crow; the New Year settles in too.

The melancholy of tree leaves scattering from nowhere.

While drizzle falls—beautiful grass surrounds me.

If I live quietly—a Japanese tit.

Dangling loose—a bagworm as snow falls.

Snow at dusk—smoke from factory districts never becoming snow.

When warmth comes—tree shadows and human shadows.

Having grown accustomed to dwelling here—bush camellias bloom endlessly.

Existing as it exists—sprouting buds as weeds.

Walking in warmth—camellias patter down.

Wind moderately spring-tinged—thicket and thicket.

Even the woven hat—butterbur sprouts from home.

Swaying—the treetops too seem to have begun swelling

From the mountain—white flowers on the desk.

Some days bring longing for others—tree buds, grass sprouts.
Voices approach—tree buds brightening.
Blooming rather than reaching upward.
When grass rustles—waiting somehow for someone.
Tilling alone—something sings.
Through blossom-hazed window—a single chimney.
Quietly blooming then scattering away.
Loquat dies—loquat sprouts—living alone.
Sunlit cries and clouded cries—one goat.
Young bamboo toward sky—no troubles.
All around me—grass everywhere blooming.
If I drop down—blue sky.

What do I seek—walking through the wind?
Letting the grass bloom, then letting the butterflies play—

Into the depths of fresh leaves—still a path persists, and a grave.

That too must be good—the grass blooms.

When the moon brightens unnoticed—a katydid.

Tree shade where wind resides—fellow travelers in solitude.

Sunlight dappled—shadows upon shadows.

Moonlight brightened front and back—a katydid.

To Jumei

The wind chime when you seem about to come
Under the blazing sun, uprooting barnyard grass
Butterflies tangling in shade and sunlight

The already withering grass leaves turn into rain.
A house crumbles; evening cicadas crumble secretly.

During Illness: Five Haiku

If I die—weeds in the falling rain.

Before death—a cool wind

Even the wind chimes' ringing—death steals closer.

There’s nothing to leave in memory—evening taro leaves flutter.
The wound heals—blowing as an autumn-tinged wind.
Autumn wind—polishing the stone where water sounds.
Bush clover reaching the path—people occasionally come.
Toward the moon—miscanthus plumes stretching out.
The journey—telegraph poles in dusk’s shadow, Tsukutsukuboushi cicadas.
When I reach the end—the autumn-tinged sea laps against me.

Titled *Weed Landscape*, this is the scenery of Soku-chū-an Hermitage—and also the landscape of Santōka himself.

The landscape must become wind and light.
As sound becomes voice, form becomes figure, scent becomes fragrance, color becomes light.

I am but a weed-like being, yet with that I am fully content.
Weeds exist as weeds—they grow, sprout, bloom, bear fruit, and once they wither away, that is all that is needed.

At times clear, at times murky.
Though I may clear and cloud, whether clear or clouded, each verse of mine remains undeniably a shedding of body and mind.

In this single year, I feel I've aged ten years (just as there were times when ten years aged me by only one). And I cannot help but feel that with age comes ever-deepening bewilderment. Looking back, I can only burn with shame at my heart's fragility and my verses' destitution.

(December 20, 1935: Tracing a distant journey—Santōka)

Persimmon leaves

December 6, 1935 (Showa 10): Unable to endure solitary sitting in the hermitage, he set out on a journey.

In water exists something that won't let even cloud shadows settle.

Ikunojima Mutsuboi

Warmly, the withered grass lies.

The journey—even the rustling of bamboo grass on the bamboo hill.

Moji Port

The spring tide's streamer tears—still they wave their hands.

Aboard the Bikaru Maru

My hometown—the snow shining on those mountain ranges.

To Takarazuka

A woman in falling spring snow is truly beautiful.

The weeds in my sleeves from this aimless journey have piled up so.

If I stand still—wind traverses the sky far and far.

Byodoin Temple in Uji: Three Haiku

The coming and going of clouds—water glimmers where glory once dwelled.

When spring wind parts the door—Namu Amida Butsu

I should strike this sunlit bell.

Ise Grand Shrine

Sacredness—a chicken of purest white

With Gyomindō-kun

Today I came here—a field of withered reeds.
Wheat ears—it’s not that I don’t have memories of them.

Lake Hamana
From some unseen quarter of the spring sea, rowing comes—
Kamakura: over stately pines, the moon rises.

Izu was warm, good for camping under stars—the sound of waves too.

Another layer stripped away—journey from journey.

With a sigh of relief, I came to Tokyo under the moon.

Flowers turn to leaves—farewell, Tokyo.

Kōshū-Shinano Border

Having walked until dark—how exquisite the water here!

I was leisurely urinating amid sprouting grasses.

Shinano Road

Walk and my form keeps pace; hurry and my form keeps pace.

Japanese larch needles fallen—if I doze, a dream of home.

To Kōhanrō

Facing Asama head-on, my bento on the grass.

In the Usui Mountains: Losing the Path

The depths of the mountains all sprout buds.

Kokujōzan

Pushing through fresh green leaves—even Reverend Ryōkan must have walked this path.

Japan Coast

Heart empty—the rough waves surged and receded.
Crouching in the dunes—today too Sado remained unseen.
Stretching his legs toward the rough sea—the journey’s past and future.
Clouds in the water’s depths—Michinoku’s early summer rain.

Meeting and parting—the early summer rain scatters.

The sound of water far and near—I walk myself onward.

Mōtsū-ji Temple

Lush grass—foundation stones here and there holding pooled water.

Hiraizumi

Having come this far, he drank water and left.

Eihei-ji: Three Verses

The ceaseless sound of water—the Buddha abides.

Butterflies fluttered over the ornamental roof tiles.

The lecture hall stood thrown open—dawn kept its distance.

Osaka Dōtonbori

Everyone has homes to return to in the evening's comings and goings.

As night deepens, a cool moon from between the buildings

Today's footsteps cross the bridge first thing, coming swiftly.

July 22: Returned to the hermitage

Again here the grass grew thick just as before

I alone make a sound.

Self-reproach

The hangover wind blew through sorrowfully.

Even though the crow cawed, no one came.

The goat looked sorrowful; the grass was green.

Tsukutsukuboushi sang—tsukutsukuboushi.

When rain fell, there was the sound of water in the thriving grass.

Sitting Alone in the Hermitage
When my mind calmed, water's sound remained
Fluttering butterflies couldn't sing
Wet butterflies—where did they go?
The sky stretched vast and clear; daikon sprouts' twin leaves
No particular thought—persimmon leaves kept falling
Hazy yuzu scent; distant mountain ridges
Lively persimmons being picked
Thousand-person bath
Naked bodies made talk grow animated
Nothing left clinging—vines withered dry
By the rice-washing ditchside—blooming unnoticed
Graveyard kept warm—butterflies stayed
In the mountain's fold—this year again linden flowers

This morning I eat cool porridge.

For the young one who hath married

Male herbs and female herbs ought to bloom together.

Simmering tsukudani, simmering the distant one I’m parted from.

Sharpening the sickle—a calm evening glow.

How long will I live—the red spider lilies have begun to bloom.

The daylong wind settles in the thicket—a crescent moon.

That I was born with myself deepens into autumn—I

I can only walk—gathering grass seeds, I can only return.

Warm white rice existed.

A shadow suddenly grazed past—the wind.

I traced the wind's play of light and shadow.

When I stopped, the path led toward the sound of water.

Blooming faintly, reflected in water.

The grass bloomed; dew spilled.

The autumn wind blew through as it would blow through.

Finally bloomed—a white flower it had been.

The wet shining fallen leaves—persimmon leaves.

The red spider lilies of remorse burned fiercely

From deep beneath hometown soil struck a temple bell

From the moon fluttered a persimmon leaf.

What awaited as day by day fallen leaves deepened.

The clarity of water drying up

As the grass withers, have you come, O Miso Earth?

When I think clear—persimmon leaves fall and fall.

The wind finds nothing lonelier than susuki plumes.

Did you die as you gave birth, O praying mantis?

Today, a postcard of the wintry wind.

The beauty of the grass is serene amidst the continuous drizzle.

When washed, the daikon grows whiter still.

Breaking up soil in winter showers, sowing again and again.

Self-mockery

My shadow too wispy—late at night I eat.

Winter trees in moonlight—I lie down to sleep.

By chance, a potato had fallen, so I make potato porridge.

Longing for the drizzle, I washed the grave and went.
Receiving autumn-deep water, I returned.
I built a solitary fire.
Living quiet winter crucian carp—I received them.
Grass is beautiful in its withering.
Straw stacks, straw stacks—and warmth.

To Jumei

Stepping on fallen leaves—I knew that footstep sound.
Still alone means loneliness—withered grass.
Fallen leaves deepening closeness—the neighbor’s light.

From within the wind—caw caw—a crow.
Leaves have fallen—no more leaves to fall—the sun.
A leafless tree where nothing happens—snow falls.
This year too ends as I blow the bamboo bellows.
New Year's comes—the bucket I've bought holds water to the brim.

January 1, Showa 12 (1937)

From today, the new calendar's Hinomaru.

Self-Portrait

In tattered robes，bundled up thickly，with an auspicious face.
Gathered together，I made a New Year’s bonfire.
Snow fell—there was food to eat—snow fell.
In a sizzling dawn，I stacked wood upon burning wood.
Mending a tear，I felt profoundly sustained.
The butterbur sprouts that always emerged were emerging.

To Elder Ryokuhei

Thus I exist—tree buds and grass sprouts.

When snow falls and I buy sake, its price rises.

Before blooming, already dripping—deep red camellia.

Butterflies fluttering—do they ascend to heaven?

Self-Admonition

If there's one, it's enough—I washed the rice in the pot.

Persimmon leaves are beautiful—the young leaves, the verdant leaves—and especially the fallen leaves are beautiful.
When I gazed upon persimmon leaves glistening wet, I was struck by creation's wonder.

Walk and grass seeds, sit and grass seeds.

If I walked, a cuckoo; if I hurried, a cuckoo.

One should probably discard either of those, but for me—there was something I found hard to relinquish in both.
Last year while traveling through Tohoku, I had been surprised by how many cuckoos there were and listened to their voices until my heart was full.
In Shinano's paths—for the first time in my life—I even saw their form.

After all, being alone is best—weeds.

After all, being alone is lonely—withered grass.

Though I myself grow endlessly weary of this self-indulgent sentimentality, I reasoned that a personal haiku collection might permit it nonetheless, and so deliberately included these pieces.
I trust others will come to understand this state of mind.

(Summer of Showa Tsuchinoto-Ushi [1937], at Soku-chū-an — Santōka)

Home Front

Heaven makes me create poetry without killing me.

I will live and compose poetry.

I—my own true poetry—

Street Observations

Under the midday sun—each stitch of the thousand-stitch belt were being sewn.

The brightness of the moon—where were they bombing now?

Autumn too grew deeper—the Hinomaru at frontier posts.

Treading firmly on soil vowed never to tread again—they marched on.

Drizzling—the clouds tore apart—I thought of China.

House of the War Dead

Silently, the Yatsude flowers bloomed.

The remains were received.

Six hundred and fifty pillars stood quietly in the ceaseless drizzle.

Billowing clouds hung low as rain fell before the white boxes.

At the warm foothills here, we laid them to rest.

In the winter wind, two people had put out two Hinomaru flags.

A winter peony—suddenly there came spirited news.

Snow falls onto snow—they say the battle is yet to come.

The earth that must be conquered begins sprouting all at once.

Receiving the Remains

White boxes both valiant and sorrowful

Has the town turned ceremonial, its honorable remains returned?

A father returning to his hometown holding the remains.

Pattering drops of sweat onto the white container.

The remains drift soundless over water.

That fragment becomes autumn soil of the homeland.

Everyone marches out—the mountains' blue deepening deeper still.

The horses too are conscripted—grandpa and grandma.

House of Honor

Sounds align and the Hinomaru beats.

Send-Off

This last Japanese meal they ate—sweat.

Eyes staring fixedly into eyes—eyes.

A scarecrow too stood rigidly waving the Hinomaru.

Wounded Soldiers

Feet and hands were left behind in China—returned once more to Japan.

Desolate Cold

A single bird played silently amidst the flowers.

In the spring breeze, the bagworm suddenly peeked out.

I peeked suddenly—the bagworm didn’t sing.

Having received and returned—the warm water spilled.

Clack-clack clack-clack—what did you weave in this radiant calm?

In the sunlit place—birds that sang joyfully and birds that made no hoofbeats.

Around me, wild grass bloomed as it pleased.

Oh the greenness of grass—I returned barefoot.

Grass bloomed as it will—butterflies.

From thicket to pot—a single bamboo shoot.

Lining up—bamboo shoots became bamboo.

Familiar at the window—bamboo shoots became bamboo day after day.

In the wind, I walked while reproaching myself.

The wind emerged and made me contemplate myself profoundly.

Awakening to nearby thunder, I sat rigidly upright.

There was nothing to do but clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter away.

For whom did I wait—this evening the bush clovers spilled profusely.

The voice is unmistakably that of people working under the moonlit night.

The harder the rain falls, the more abundantly the Fuki flowers bloom.

When sowing ends—the mountain’s hue becomes good rain.

Vaguely, all around, tree leaves fall as if—

Evening calm—mother spider and spiderlings

Grass unable to settle earnestly—parched and withered.

The rain patters down—I’ve managed to cook all the rice there is.

Crematory ground: a puddle mirrors clouds coldly

death front: four verses

death is a chilly sky—distant clouds moving

death clutches—chili peppers' deep red

the stillness of death is a leafless tree under clear skies

there I place the moon before death

unnoticed, dust on the desk grows wintery

grass seeds warm on sleeves and hems

Withered pampas grass completely withered—snow kept piling up.
Released into water—the cold crucian carp all swam.
One butterbur bud became two, became three.
Butterbur buds—this year too, here they were, butterbur buds.

Every day since we parted, snow fell.

Mother's 47th Memorial

Having offered udon, Mother, I too will partake.

Among them, one person remains ever alone—the grass sprouts.

Dead branches snap-snapping without contemplation

Slippery-peeled—the leek's whiteness.

When another flycatcher joins, it sings without cease.

He walked aimlessly between graves.
Secluded within myself—the camellia blooms only to fall.
The moment spring arrived，insects came swiftly.
Two or three spring crows cawed.
The cough wouldn’t stop；no hand to pat my back.
I opened the window—the window brimming with spring.

Tranquility—all the bamboo shoots have become bamboo.

Living alone—the grass turns a vivid green.

Morning glow evening glow nothing to eat

Self-Mockery

The wind chime rings as if announcing a first grandchild’s birth
Rain filled the bucket with beautiful water
A red frog leapt
In this present guise, my self bloomed furtively as a flower
Another day drew to a close as evening suffused the sky

Further Revisions (February 1940)

Sitting on the grass, I deeply contemplated this meal that was nothing but rice.

On the Begging Path (Revised Addition)

Sitting on the grass: a meal that’s nothing but rice

Traveler's Heart

Wind through reed plumes goes where it wants to go

Water flowed close at hand.

Clouds appeared from nowhere—autumn clouds.

The rice's deliciousness became the blue blue sky.

I flopped onto the grass—the loincloth had dried.

In Onagoya—night still clung to the row of leafed willows.

The autumn wind went as far as it could where it wanted to go.

From between the buildings appeared the mountain's blue—ah.

The morning rain fell enough to dampen the stone.

Travelers deceased from illness

Frost-white lay starkly dead.

With Old Vagrants

Spreading grass across the ground, sharing out obentō between us—eating while shifting right then left.

Scattering toward the morning light, I departed on my journey.
Someone let me cross lightly—the early spring ripples.
How nothing but delicious-looking things filled Shōwindō.

Uheii

Pour water on the stone—doing so on a spring night.

Fukuzawa-sensei's Former Residence

The earthen storehouse remains as it is—aoki berries.

Quietly, butterbur sprouts—I'll rest here.

Since I stopped meeting people—the mountain's butterflies.

Abruptly thoughts of home—sansho buds.

With this body that could die anywhere—the spring breeze.

Storing up until spring water overflowed.

Separated by water—the endless talk of men and women.

Traveler—I too will dig clams with you awhile.

A sunlit butterfly lay dead.

Cherry blossoms at peak bloom—a prison.

Visiting Tata Sakura at the hospital

The carelessly placed white peach buds—open steadily now.

At the Memorial of Mr. Tata Sakura

The peach has borne fruit and you are already gone.

Bathed in sunlight, slag heap upon slag heap.

Yuda's Famous Places

Ōhashi Kobashi flicker flicker of fireflies

This path I must follow—the grass so deep.

Sister's House

By chance I came visiting when that southern magnolia bloomed.
Deciding to stay overnight—the onion scapes of home.
The hometown—Chishiya momi taste delicious; here I am in the hometown.
The house where I was born left not a trace behind.
Within the Gentle Village: Ikoi Residence.
The silken-scaled goldfish lay dead and floating.

To a Friend at the Kazan Foothills

Finally found it—the chirr-chirr of bell crickets.

The term "solitary desolation"—I don't particularly favor it myself, yet here I wander within the boundaries it describes. I want to quickly escape from such a poetic state. Unless I penetrate this critical juncture, my haiku composition cannot become unobstructed and free.

(WORDS LIKE 'SOLITARY NOBILITY' ARE IN MANY CASES NOTHING MORE THAN SYNONYMS FOR YELANG-STYLE SELF-AGGRANDIZEMENT.)

My grandmother lived a very long life, but precisely because she lived so long, she ended up experiencing the sorrows of repeated downfall. Grandmother would always mutter, "Karma, oh karma." I too have come to think "Karma, oh karma" when composing poems (and embarrassingly, when drinking sake as well). Grandmother’s "karma, oh karma" was a sorrowful resignation, but my "karma, oh karma" is a lonely awareness. I willingly accept this karma. Rather, I take delight in this karma.

In the wintry wind, two hinomaru flags—two people had put them out.

Sounds lined up; the hinomaru flags snapped.

Both poems were works that sang of the same incident phenomenon (though their seasonal references differed); as expressions of impression—the former from eye to heart, the latter from ear to heart—I wanted to preserve them both.

I deeply savored a meal that was nothing but rice.

Sitting on grass—a meal that was nothing but rice.

At last I managed to complete the revision.
Both poems were separated by over ten years.
When I looked back on the course of my life during that interval, there was something that stirred profound emotion within me.

(October 1938, At Soku-chū-an Hermitage — Santōka)

Crow

At the water's goodness frogs croak.
I let moonlight into my bedding and lie down to sleep.
Sprouting at the cemetery, blooming so beautifully.
Muggy heat—living things within living things.
Water drips down from the mountain.
The water murmurs softly as it wells up and overflows...
In the corner, a three-leaf flower.
Maintaining half-polished rice as my regular diet,
I wash the rice's dark grains with care.
The navel pools sweat.
Rain threatens, and the neighbor sows daikon.
My daughter and mother come bearing lotus flowers.
Thunder rumbles—fragrantly, the flowers blaze white.

In the wind, I went to receive rice.

The sun sank into the mountain; from it rose the moon; persimmons hung heavy.

The bush clover bloomed—ah yes, there sat a mantis.

The katydid sang—lived on.

I make here my graveyard—red spider lilies blaze.

Day by day, the grasses I favor bloom around me.

Impoverished Farmer Life: Two Verses

Work and work and work—still nothing but pampas plumes.

Reaping, digging, sowing.

Dew vanishing too—dayflower blossoms’

Air raid alert wailing on—persimmons blaze red.

Under air raid control—a good child born: a boy.

Putting Affairs in Order

If I burn it all, the wind blows this much ash.

Old Pilgrim

Hands that cannot die tremble; I shake the bell.

Far away, nearby, somewhere deep within—it cries.

My Soku-chū-an too

The wall crumbles—from there, creeping plants.

That is the butterfly dance before death.

The moon remained unseen—water brimmed full with its light.

November: moved to Fūrai-an in Yuda.

A single bird comes and does not sing.
At autumn's end, I become a fly crawling about.
Evening water ripples slightly.

A fire blazing fiercer still, beautifully.

Reunion

Hands clenched with chapped hands.

Made a prisoner's grave—surreptitiously, grass sprouted.

The neighboring couple

They finally managed a household—a new bucket.

The China Incident

Tree buds and grass sprouts—all yet to come.
Amid continuing deficits, I somehow manage with butterbur shoots.
A single bloom on the desk slowly opens.

March: I departed east.

Before I knew it, tadpoles were swimming along the journey.

Pebbles tumbled down from spring mountains.

Crows cawed and flew, finding nowhere to settle.

The wind blew from the sea through onion scapes.

Cape Irago

Having come all this way to Iwa-bana—alone.

Atsumi Peninsula

At the bend—wind through sea-close pea fields

Pilgrimage to Hōraiji Temple

The sacred mountain ceaselessly drips—truth beyond illusion.

Aosei Kuya

Hazy with flowers—piano practice has begun.

Hamana Highway

The path through the water's middle runs straight.

Akiba Mountains

He sat on a stone—was it a grave?

When water pooled，a toad swam.

Ascending the Tenryū River

The sound of water—today too I journey alone.

The mountain’s stillness—white flowers

With Wakamizu-kun to Takatō Castle site—a verse for Ryokuhei-rō

Indeed, Shinano’s moon was shining.

Lunar eclipse

The journey’s moonlit night gradually waned.

In Ina Town

The sound of this water and that water becoming Tenryū

To Gonbee Tōge

The sound of currents converging here—mountain cherry blossoms.

Torii Tōge

This road—the great horse chestnut sprouts buds through how many years?

Kiso Lodging

Unable to settle—I sleep beneath the heavy futon.

Returned Home

Deeply, quietly settles—the desk’s dust.

Morning soil swelled up—a mole held firm.

Great drought

Dried and dried out—stones rolling about.

Rain prayer.

The blazing fire burns fiercer still, willing rain to fall.

Nowhere any water—the parched fields sweat through their labor.

Every day naked among butterflies and dragonflies.

Rails straight under blazing sky.

The water received and carried back spills—cool though it is.

O bell-striker! Striking the gong—where are you?

The moon's brightness—the journey's focal point in whispered murmurs.

A bird flapped steadily into the clouds—I watched it depart.

Today's heat—the tobacco shop had no tobacco.

The moon cleared completely above the prison.

September, to the Shikoku pilgrimage journey

A crow flies off; I will cross the water.

For the first time in three years, I organized my haiku manuscripts (July 1938–September 1939) and selected about seventy-two verses.

In the end, it comes down to knowing oneself.
I shall preserve my folly.

(February 1940, at a grass hut in the Miyuki Mountain foothills — Santōka)

(Showa 15 [1940] April publication)