Pathway to Japanese Literature

A Note to Inscribe at the Beginning of the Priest Reigon Poetry Collection.

First: As August seventeenth of this year marked the thirteenth memorial of my father’s passing, I had consulted my elder brothers beforehand about printing a volume of Father’s poetry collection as a commemoration to offer to those connected with him. When I proposed this, they all agreed.

Now then, since my elder brothers ordered that “Hiroshi should compile these poems,” I requested Father’s manuscripts from his youth through middle age from elder brother Daien in Kyoto and his later-year draft poems from elder brother Shōdō in Suō Province. As I read through them, the number of poems—mixing long and short forms—approached thirty thousand.

These were merely the draft poems that chanced to survive. Beyond these, many others had likely been composed and abandoned during travels or discarded as wastepaper and lost.

Works from when he was around twenty years old, journeying to Edo and making pilgrimages through various provinces; works from about a decade before the Restoration, when he was occupied with state affairs; works from when he later preached between Satsuma and Ōsumi—it is profoundly regrettable that nearly all of these have not been preserved.

First: Though I managed to read through the entirety once, my time did not permit repeatedly sifting through such a vast number of poems two or three times to make selections. Thus, I focused solely on rereading the draft poems from his later years, taking those chosen from among them as the foundation while adding a modest number from his prime years. Here I compiled six hundred thirty poems and named this work *Priest Reigon Poetry Collection*. That we should burden this modest single volume—merely a fragment of Father’s lifetime of poetry—with such a grand title as *Priest Reigon Poetry Collection* is something we siblings find unbearable to endure. Yet with no means to print a complete collection for the time being, what else could we do?

First: Father lived to the advanced age of seventy-six, so even during his lifetime few friends from his youth had remained—let alone now, thirteen years after his passing—when scarcely anyone survived who had known him in his younger days. As for those who had shared poetic exchanges with him in his later years and become his disciples in verse, I imagined most now bore a strand of frost upon their temples.
Ah, though it is called the way of the world to change thus, how bitterly sorrowful it was that things of old were forgotten one after another.
Though we were unwise, as children who through the years had thought how could we not seek to honor our parents’ name, even this modest volume might naturally become the means to present some fragment of Father’s poetry to the world.
Furthermore, might it also become a supportive karmic tie for those people—Father’s friends and disciples from his later years who still lived robustly in this world—to memorialize those who had passed away.

First: Hiroshi had secretly wondered—how was it that Father’s poems had remained unheard in the world until today? This likely stemmed from Father’s character—though in the early years of his old age he had remained a man of new ideas, imbued with progressive spirit, he thereafter turned instead to dwelling alone beyond worldly affairs, finding pleasure in the tranquil refinement of Buddhist invocations and poetic arts while avoiding all activities of his life that might attract public attention. However, if one peered into the introspective works composed in his later years, a voice that naturally resounded with resentment toward the world and lamentation of self—plaintive as a cricket in a frost-laden night—clashed discordantly [with his Buddhist ideals]. Though his body had aged and stooped—rinsing in the clear waters at Mount Hiei’s base, using Song-no-Nakayama’s pine winds as his pillow—he could not fully become a man of cold rocks and withered trees; perhaps that single ember of fervor, though he tried to cloak it, had proved impossible to suppress. “When met in season, what flower could be disliked? It is only when untimely that they appear inferior”; “Sorrows—pile yet more upon this body! Even aged as I am, let this heart that knows no satiation with the world be known”—how could these be songs of a recluse who delighted in non-action and emptiness? Hiroshi recognized there his father’s human spark and felt a singular sorrow encroaching upon his own being. Father had been a scholar of the *Kojiki*, *Man’yōshū*, and *Kokinshu*; though not uninfluenced by classical techniques in craftsmanship, he strived to make timely and unadorned emotions the core of both lyrical and descriptive works—particularly in introspective poems where he laid bare the unsightly self marked by undulations of earthly desires—and thus might be said to stand apart from modern poets clinging to timeworn tropes of blossoms and moonlight. However, that a serene quality pervaded his life’s work stemmed both from Father’s inherent disposition and from how, since childhood, he had been influenced by his parents and inclined his heart toward Buddhist scriptures. Born as his grandparents’ second son and deeply cherished, he first showed his aspiration to renounce worldly attachments at age thirteen in winter—when his parents were nearing completion of their new residence after dividing their household—insistently begging them until he was ordained. In later years, though he accumulated countless hardships for the Meiji Restoration, his Buddhist sect, and social welfare, even his humble attitude of yielding all credit to others likely stemmed from this serene aspect of his disposition.

First: A separate volume containing Father’s detailed biography has been compiled by Hiroshi.
Here I intend to present an outline of it.
Father was born on the thirteenth day of the ninth month of Bunsei 6 (1823), in Kayayama Village, Yosa District, Tango Province, as the second son of the Hosomi family, who served as village headmen.
At thirteen, he was adopted into Jōfukuji Temple in Kayayama Village and became the second son of head priest Reidō.
In April of Kōka 2 (1845), he went up to Kyoto and enrolled at West Honganji Temple’s academic seminary; in May of the same year, he received ordination at West Honganji Temple.
After studying in Kyoto for several years, he heard that Master Yagi Taterai—a National Studies scholar from Edo—had come and taken up residence at Tada no Shō in Settsu Province. He went to become his disciple and received instruction in national texts, poetry, and prose.
Master Yagi was the second son of a shogunate retainer and had studied under Motoori Haruniwa.
His wife Toshiko Toji was also skilled in poetry and calligraphy.
The following year, he accompanied Master Yagi and his wife back to Tango Province, temporarily keeping them in Kiyotaki Village, Yosa District, where he attended their lectures.
He then proceeded to Kyoto, roamed the Kinai region, paid homage at Ise Grand Shrine, traveled along the Tōkaidō highway, and emerged in Edo.
Through this journey he greatly broadened his knowledge while developing deep concerns about shifting political tides, resolving to devote his modest efforts to sovereign and country.
After returning to Tango Province through intermediaries’ arrangements, he was adopted into Sennōji Temple in Takahama, Ōi District, Wakasa Province, assuming its head priesthood.
There he invited Master Yagi Taterai and his wife to hold lectures which he attended.
He resided there for two years before leaving due to unspecified circumstances, moving to Kyoto to become a duty priest at Honganji Temple while preaching throughout Kinai.
On May 15, Ansei 4 (1857), he entered Ganjōji Temple in Okazaki Village, Atago District, Yamashiro Province, formally assuming its head priesthood on August 6.
That year he married Hatsue—eldest daughter of Yamazaki Sōbee from Kyoto’s Shin-Kurumaya-chō below Nijō.
At that time—amidst fervent anti-shogunate debates and imperial loyalist activism—Father secretly strategized with activists while samurai flooded Kyoto daily under shogunate surveillance. Through Satsuma Domain poets like Yata Tomonori and Takasaki Masakaze, he connected with figures including Komatsu Tatewaki and Saigō Takamori, frequently visiting Satsuma’s Kyoto residence to report on regional developments while engineering logistical solutions for them.
For instance: negotiating Shōkoku-ji’s use as a Satsuma military encampment; securing thirty thousand ryō overnight during the Fushimi-Toba conflict—such instances defy enumeration.
Father’s intent lay in channeling modest efforts toward imperial service through Satsuma Domain.
Moreover—via Satsuma—he submitted various proposals to court; three articles presented through them to the Council of State on January 4th, Meiji 1 (1868) saw implementation within two days.

The first stated:
"In the event of an emergency where military strength proves insufficient, as an expedient measure, should [they] order West Honganji to summon monk-soldiers from nearby provincial temples, between 1,500 and 2,000 men could be gathered."
"May they be assigned to guard the Imperial Palace."
When this matter was promptly implemented, Head Priest Kōi Shōnin of West Honganji himself led monk-soldiers—wearing swords over their robes—who chanted the *Shōshinge* hymn while patrolling all sides of the Imperial Palace.
People of that time called them the Kimyo Muryoju-tai.
The second stated:
"In present circumstances, military funds are most urgently required."
"As one measure to alleviate immediate shortages: there exist four families called Hōnai—townspeople who guard the Imperial Palace gates."
"Order these four families to arrange government loans from wealthy townspeople, particularly kimono merchants."
The third stated:
"In Kyoto there are over one hundred temples known as vermilion-seal temples."
"Ordering them to contribute donations would also serve as another strategy."
As these proposals too were immediately accepted by the Council of State, on the following fifth day Father first visited West Honganji, consulted with temple officials Shimada Sahee and Matsui Nakatsukasa, and secured an immediate contribution of 5,000 ryō. He then persuaded West Honganji devotees including Homuda-ya and Kashiwa-ya to pay an additional 30,000 ryō within three days.
Furthermore, as those Hōnai persuaded townspeople and the vermilion-seal temples received court orders, donors competing to erect contribution placards in plain wooden boxes streamed ceaselessly into the Council of State through the fifteenth and sixteenth days of that month.
Father had long considered that directing West Honganji’s efforts toward imperial service would repay Buddha’s grace. Believing reconciliation with Satsuma Domain—with whom [the temple] had clashed since Toyotomi times—and fostering ties with Chōshū Domain would best support both domains in serving the court, he had already mediated a peace pact between them and West Honganji the previous year.
Through frequent audiences with Head Priest Kōtaku Shōnin where he expounded on national affairs and stressed imperial devotion’s necessity, Reigon ensured West Honganji maintained unwavering loyalty—unlike East Honganji’s shogunate leanings.
After Father’s subsequent proposals were accepted, on January 19th the Council of State ordered West Honganji Temple to dispatch seven monk envoys accompanying Imperial Envoys Takakura Sanmi and Shijō Dainagon to pacify Hokurikudō.
Accordingly, Father selected six monk envoys and—under special orders from both Council and Head Priest—led their departure from Kyoto on the twenty-third.
When they reached Obama in Wakasa Province, an imperial envoy’s order arrived:
"The situation across Hokurikudō provinces remains unstable, with public sentiment still turbulent."

Moreover, the rebel forces in Hokuetsu grew ever more rampant day by day.
As the Hokurikudō region contained many West Honganji Temple believers, the monk envoys would always advance first to gather the temples and shrines magistrate along with temples of other sects, expound on the imperial intent behind the Meiji Restoration and the shogunate’s crimes, proclaim the Grand Council’s official decrees, and then have these matters disseminated to the populace.
They were also to investigate and report on local conditions at each destination while soliciting military fund contributions.
Thus across various regions, they lectured day and night on the aforementioned imperial intent while meeting with senior retainers of various domains—both preventing misinterpretations of court decrees and urging devotion to imperial affairs—until by their arrival at Daishō-ji in Kaga Province, military funds contributed from temples and households had reached thirty thousand ryō.
When they reached Takaoka in Etchū Province only to find their path blocked by enemy forces, the imperial envoy’s party departed for Edo while Father’s group embarked on April 19th to return to the capital and report to the Grand Council.
Upon returning to Kyoto, a request arrived via West Honganji’s branch temple Hontoku-ji from Harima Province’s Himeji Domain; he then conferred with Councilors Saigō and Ōkubo to clear that domain of pro-shogunate suspicions.
In June of that year, he visited Lord Iwakura’s residence to present a proposal:
“The continued vigor of enemy forces in Hokuetsu stems partly from farmers misconstruing the Grand Council’s promulgated policy of distinguishing Shinto and Buddhism—mistakenly promoting Shinto while engaging in anti-Buddhist iconoclasm.
By reconciling this misunderstanding and severing peasant support, we may reasonably expect rebel forces to lose their foothold.
To resolve the farmers’ confusion—given this region’s many Shin sect adherents—the optimal approach would be granting West Honganji Temple an imperial decree authorizing its branch monks to instruct them regarding official policy.”
Within days, an imperial decree was granted to West Honganji Temple. Once again serving as its envoy bearing this decree, Father departed Kyoto in mid-July to gather Shinto priests and Buddhist monks throughout Hokuetsu, lecturing on clarifying Shinto-Buddhist distinctions, the Meiji Restoration’s grand vision, and unifying public sentiment.
Following Nagaoka Castle’s fall and the Civil Affairs Bureau’s establishment in Sanjō, Echigo Province, Father received orders to serve at that bureau where—alongside West Honganji’s directives—he dedicated efforts to aiding the impoverished until returning to report in November Meiji 2.
In February the following year, Mr. Ijichi Masaharu sent correspondence from Tokyo suggesting Father’s nomination as Great Councilor for either Hokurikudō or Tōsandō Prefecture.
When confronted with national upheaval, Father—unable to restrain his dual loyalties to throne and temple—had merely contributed modestly to state affairs; declaring his monastic status precluded official posts, he declined.
At this juncture Father conceived that realizing the Meiji Restoration’s success required both developing intellectual capacity and fostering industry.
Moreover, pacifying public sentiment and enabling secure livelihoods demanded providing new vocations for the destitute while ensuring ample medical supplies to alleviate health anxieties.
Following Nara-period precedents like the Shugei-in (Cultivation Arts Institute), Shuchi-in (Wisdom Institute), Hiden-in (Charity Hospital), and Seiryo-in (Free Clinic), he resolved to trial new initiatives first through Kyoto Prefecture—consulting Great Councilor Uemura Masanao along with Abbots Ito Kanshu of Kinkaku-ji and Sasama Ungan of Ginkaku-ji to secure their support.
Thereupon Father toured municipal wards and counties lecturing on elementary schools’ necessity—witnessing their rapid establishment—until accepting Shiga Prefecture Great Councilor Matsuda’s invitation to campaign throughout that region, founding Ōtsu Elementary School among others.
Earlier he had concluded intellectual development must transcend ancient traditions by disseminating Western knowledge—pioneering Western attire himself while studying chemistry with Kobe Settlement foreigners, collaborating with Mr. Akashi Hirotaka to establish Kyoto Prefecture’s Chemistry Bureau as consultant analyzing ores across prefectural mines.
He also directed his fourth son Iwa to study Western languages under Dr. Fulbetski and learn dyeing techniques from a Kobe-based foreigner.

He also had the impoverished roll hand-rolled cigarettes and practice the knot-dyeing technique, while traveling through various counties to promote sericulture and tea production.
As it was Father’s nature to personally test all such matters himself, he cleared two chōbu of land at our Ganjōji Temple to cultivate mulberry trees and tea, and together with Mother, supervised hired men and women in sericulture and tea production.
Moreover, whenever they had free time, Mother and my elder brothers would roll tobacco, practice knot-dyeing, or engage in manufacturing Kyoto dolls—scenes that remain in my memories from around age six or seven.
Father also undertook the establishment of a hospital from Meiji 4 onward. Together with Ito Kanshu, Inaba Chika, Sasama Ungan, and others, he persuaded temples of various sects across Kyoto Prefecture to invest funds. On November 1, Meiji 6, he conducted an opening ceremony with a British physician appointed as director.
This is none other than the prefectural hospital that still exists today.
It is said that the name of the hospital was also determined by Father.
In spring of Meiji 4 (1871), when Himeji Domain issued an edict mandating Shinto-style funerals, tens of thousands of believers from both Honganji temples rose up in revolt and caused disturbances. At the domain government's request, Father was dispatched as West Honganji's envoy monk. From April through July, he lectured throughout various regions to pacify public sentiment while negotiating with domain authorities to postpone the funeral reforms.
In January 1872, while entering Tanba via Yamashiro Province to solicit investments for a hospital, [Reigon] encountered eta communities—newly registered as commoners—who had grown arrogant and frequently behaved violently toward upstanding citizens. At the prefectural office’s request, he gathered them to instruct [them] on the vastness of the imperial grace that had granted their commoner status, urging [them] to begin repaying this benevolence by flattening three dangerous roads across the province. They complied willingly, immediately mobilizing 3,000 people to repair [the roads].
Furthermore, Father—with support from Nagayo Senkai and Mr. Ōi Bokushin of Osaka, as well as Mr. Beaudoin’s temple in Kobe—established a shop in Kyoto City that primarily sold Western medicines alongside petroleum and Western liquors, while also manufacturing and selling what was called “Pon Water”—now known as “Ramune.”
He also persuaded Governor Uemura and other interested parties to hold an exhibition at the Sento Imperial Palace and, through Mr. Beaudoin’s design, opened a mineral spring facility in Maruyama to contribute to public health.
The aforementioned Chemistry Bureau, elementary schools, hospitals, exhibitions, and mineral spring facilities were initiatives that Kyoto Prefecture spearheaded nationwide, while the encouragement of sericulture and tea production within Kyoto Prefecture as well as the sale of Western medicines and petroleum were indeed endeavors that originated with Father.
And yet, not a single one of these endeavors yielded favorable results with ease.
[He] was singularly quick to perceive opportunities, yet the tides of time had not yet turned; there were always those conservative and opportunistic elements who, relying on their numbers, would envy and obstruct.
Moreover, there were those incompetents who made slander and ridicule their business, frequently labeling Father and his comrades as speculator types.
How immense must have been the hardships he endured while navigating these circumstances.
The temple, despite its high ecclesiastical rank, being an ancient shrine without parishioners, possessed no substantial assets; Father—a man of integrity free from greed who single-mindedly pursued public welfare—had incurred tens of thousands in debts as a radical idealist, and in Meiji 12 [1879], all temple buildings and grounds were put up for auction.
His long-term endeavors also generally ended in failure.
Only the Maruyama mineral spring facility still retains its former appearance; however, having long since passed into others’ hands, its substance differs greatly from when Father first operated it.
Yet even after Father severed ties with public projects in Kyoto, as influential figures of new thought emerged one after another and our nation’s new initiatives continued to be spearheaded by Kyoto’s citizens, one might say that with the arrival of changing times, Father’s aspirations were ultimately realized through others.
In Meiji 13 (1880), he once again donned priestly robes and became an official monk of West Honganji Temple; in April of the same year, he was dispatched as an advisor to the Kagoshima Honganji Branch Office and engaged in missionary work throughout the prefecture.

The following year, he collaborated with Governor Watanabe Chiaki to provide new industries to samurai impoverished after the war, securing thirty thousand yen from West Honganji Temple as a fund. By Meiji 16 (1883), this culminated in establishing Kagoshima Kōgyōkan—an institution that remains operational today.

From Meiji 14 onward, he concurrently headed the Kajiki Preaching Center in Ōsumi Province. Alongside missionary work, he promoted mining, sericulture, and the cultivation of Western grapes and paper mulberry trees. For the latter two crops, he obtained saplings from Tokyo, transplanted them on temple grounds, and distributed them freely to applicants.

He further lectured samurai youth on Confucian classics and chemistry while establishing mutual-aid societies to fund village infrastructure projects—initiatives too numerous to count here.

In summer of Meiji 17 (1884), a physician’s dosage error left him gravely ill. When his son Daien arrived from Kyoto urging him to return eastward, he resigned his post upon partial recovery and journeyed back to the capital.

The following year [1885], he withdrew to Yōgen-ji Temple—a Honganji branch temple in Ichijōji Village, Atago District—abandoning worldly affairs henceforth. His days passed in Buddhist invocations and poetic composition, interrupted only by occasional lectures on classical texts for younger scholars.

In Meiji 27 [1894], having grown weary of overseeing temple affairs, he took up residence in Takano Village, Atago District; in winter of Meiji 29 [1896], admiring the secluded tranquility of Seikanji Temple at Uta-no-Nakayama in eastern Kyoto, he relocated there.
In the winter of Meiji 30 [1897], he visited his son Shōdō in Suō-Tokuyama; falling ill from June of Meiji 31 [1898] onward, he passed away at three o'clock in the morning on August 17th.
He died at the age of seventy-six.
The ashes were interred together with those of his wife Hatsue in her grave at Nishi-Ōtani, Kyoto.

1. Father’s childhood name remains unclear.
His Buddhist name was Reigon.
He had the artistic names Shōkei and Shōkadō.
By nature, he possessed an indomitable spirit within—his principles steadfast and upright—while outwardly maintaining a gentle and refined demeanor.
He was fond of reading in his daily life; whenever he had a moment of leisure, he would not set aside his books.
His scholarship spanned Buddhism, Confucianism, Laozi, Zhuangzi, and national classics, but he particularly excelled in Yogācāra philosophy, the Six National Histories, the Man'yōshū, the Kokinshū, and the Inkyō rime dictionary.
He was skilled at preaching and particularly excelled in oratory for political campaigning.
When persuading others, he would gradually introduce various collateral issues to first let the interlocutor voice their initial impressions; through several rounds of deliberation, he would naturally reach the point where the very principal opinion he wished to express would instead be articulated by the interlocutor himself. Because he maintained from start to finish a position of endorsing this opinion, he could achieve their willing compliance without causing the slightest discomfort to others—so it is said.
Father’s achievements surrounding the Meiji Restoration might this be due to his innate nature—indifferent to personal desires yet passionate about public affairs—combined with the virtue of his gentle countenance and eloquence?
Yet when faced with a frivolous world, there must have been times when bitter indignation proved difficult to suppress; seeing how numerous are the poems in this collection admonishing his own wrath, one discerns that Father was a man who cultivated self-mastery and bore such trials inwardly with forbearance.
Moreover, that Father—who so patiently endured others—would at times direct fierce anger toward us children must have been his discerning intent to correct our wayward dispositions; reflecting on this, I feel ever more profoundly grateful.

1. When Father was adopted into Sennō-ji Temple in Takahama, Wakasa Province, he had a son named Kyōten, who succeeded the Ōtoshiro clan.
2. After coming to Kyoto and marrying into the Yamazaki family, he fathered five sons—Daien, Shōdō, Iwa, Hiroshi, and Osamu—and one daughter, Shizuko.
3. Daien assumed the Wada name, Shōdō assumed the Akamatsu name, and Hiroshi inherited the household.

1. In this collection, I have included a photograph of Father and, as a memorial, one of Mother as well.
Mother, named Hatsue, was born on February 21, Tenpō 10 (1840), to the merchant Yamazaki family of Kyoto, and passed away on September 2, Meiji 29 (1896), at the age of fifty-eight.
By nature, she was elegant and broad-minded, never dwelling on trivial worries; even amidst poverty, she played the koto, composed poems about Ōtsu-e paintings, and her witty jests never failed to bring smiles to people’s faces.

1. Furthermore, the first of Father’s calligraphic works included in this collection comprises draft poems from his middle age; the next consists of draft poems from his later years along with tanzaku (poem cards).

July 15, Meiji 43 (1910),

In Tokyo Surugadai,

Compiled by Yosano Hiroshi.

Priest Reigon Poetry Collection

Admonishing my wrathful heart.

When I consider this body as but a temporary construct of earth, water, fire, and wind—why should there be wrath?

With this wrathful heart that bears poison—I am the venomous insect harming all in this world.

Blossoms scattering in wind, leaves too—when calmly contemplated through non-anger, this becomes my Dharma.

When viewed through right perception, sun and moon, wind and rain—all become friends in this world free of wrath.

Clouds drift, waters flow—yet my dark-hearted wrath remains untouched.

The hues and scents of spring blossoms and autumn leaves console this body, for there is no wrath.

If I do not harbor wrath, nothing will shield me—across seas and mountains under heaven.

Direct your wrath toward bygone days—it vanishes without trace.

Even in beasts—horns grow, hooves form, fangs and teeth exist—these are said to be remnants of wrath from ages past.

Though later waves know not they’re kin to those before—linked by karma they rise anew.

Should one rage at anything, destruction follows—they say the Way forms where harmonious spirits meet.

When one pursues any path without dispute in concord, it becomes for the world’s sake.

From time to time, lamenting old age, he composed poems.

Though I say no, it seizes and clings—wrinkles emerge, and there’s no escaping old age, that wretch.

Though not a rugged shore where pines take root, ceaselessly approach the tides of age.

This grass hut I built in passing thought—when did its roof become frost-withered at the crown?

Overlooked by others as I aged, I remain alive beyond this fleeting world.

From what sins of past lives has retribution come to leave this aged form so withered?

Did I ever imagine growing old to be cast aside by the world? Alas, even sixty years prove but a fleeting dream.

I indeed am the crane of Urashima—desolate and forlorn, not mingling with the world, this body grown old.

Helpless in old age's pathos—waking from sleep weeping, drenching this hemp-cloth pillow.

Uselessly have I aged, counted among none—ah, am I but a rice sack in this fleeting world?

This forgetfulness in old age must be retribution for gathering shells at Suminoe's shore.

Grasses and trees may fade while flowers alone glow—oh for a world unchanging as evergreen's show!

As I wither to bone with aging's decay, ashamed of this form—I'll ne'er again face where people stay.

Past sixty years flowed—a dream in this transient sphere;

Growing old—even the waning moon makes clear how brief this lonely self appears.

The mandarin ducks floating on Ōmuku Pond—how vainly their precious days have passed.

How futile am I—spent like the ebbing tide. What trace could remain in this world?

I alone have tasted this harsh world—the end of my body shall lie exposed on roadsides where smartweed grows.

Would that my sorrows surpassed the lament of aging—ah, let them merge with that very grief!

When I count—seventy-three years have I aged completely—yet in this world, no deeds remain.

Even trees that do not speak bloom and bear fruit—born human, I prove inferior to these silent boughs.

How long must old age endure? The world’s bitterness too—until this body becomes earth!

There’s no worth in living like others—at Mount Shirase on Wakasa Road, I await the afterlife.

Protected by this foolish heart, I end my days in naught but complaints!

In the midst of flower songs.

When spring comes, flowers are first to be cherished—even casting aside attachments, this world persists!

Sweeping away dust from the straw mat—even that carries fragrance. Beneath flowers blooming thick enough to bury it lies this mountain hermitage.

When viewing flowers while keeping one’s heart attached to the human world, indeed the time of their full bloom is brief.

In the winter of Meiji 29, he moved to Seikanji Temple at Uta-no-Nakayama in eastern Kyoto and composed these poems the following spring.

Heaven and earth may not speak—yet through the bush warbler’s song did they announce spring to the mountains.

Though the bush warbler came but rarely to sing, snow kept falling on this hermitage where bamboo pillars bent.

Through the thatched roof of the mountain temple, snow-laden plum blossoms had bloomed—could spring have arrived?

In the deep mountains, unaware of days or months, with snow piled deep—though unknowing of spring’s coming, still the bush warbler sang.

The snow of my old age piled mountain-high—though years passed, it would not melt away.

In the heart awaiting flowers, how delightful was the pouring spring rain.

In the dim glow of valley flowers on my mountain, under the rainy night moon, a flying squirrel cried.

Through spring rain's mist-clouded buds, even the capital's direction could not be seen from this window.

In the liminal space between dream and waking, I listened to the falling rain during a delightful spring nap.

At the mountain temple where spring light hazed tranquilly over purified moss paths, I beheld the flowers—ah.

This aged self could not rely on tomorrow—yet flowers alone, though spring departs, would they not bloom again at their roots?

When I opened the window beneath flowering branches at dawn, under the lingering moon, a bush warbler sang.

Gazing upon them—cherished until world's end—the flowers thought themselves bonds meant for my sake.

Though I gaze upon spring past seventy years, the flowers do not age but bloom youthfully.

The day hazed as the sun set; in the mountain's shadow, only flowers remained white—this spring evening.

Having aged and been cast aside by the world, this body's sole joy lay in viewing flowers in mountains devoid of people—ah.

Dwelling with the speechless Buddha, even mute flowers became precious—this Uta-no-Nakayama.

How might I console these thoughts piled upon my body? Let flowers fragrant with eternity bloom at last!

Cast aside by the transient world, when entering mountains—before me flowers indeed were fragrant.

O hue of flowers—hide even this old age! Were you young, in shadow might a thousand springs pass unseen.

When breezes blew, how the fragrance intensified—though fleeting, this wind beneath pines that even flowers never awaited.

How sadly they scatter while drenched—cherry blossoms—in this spring rain they scatter while drenched.

When mountain winds swept through, piling ever higher—this hermitage where flowers never ceased upon the plank veranda.

The mountain gate where none visited but the wind—even unswept flower dust remained fragrant.

All the flowers had scattered in last night’s light rain; the morning cleared brightly over Uta-no-Nakayama.

Softly through mist-veiled air, a pheasant called—its tranquil cry amid blossoms’ midday glow.

It was reported to the noble’s residence that someone had occasionally visited the Haniue flowers in the deep mountains.

Ah—enough to forget even sorrow—cherry blossoms purified the mountain temple’s garden as they scattered.

Once the house cherry blossoms had all fallen away, even bush warblers must have thought their perch grown wild.

The spring sunlight sinking westward lay lower than my dwelling hermitage at Uta-no-Nakayama.

Although he had many children, since they were all in distant lands, in the loneliness of old age he often voiced lamentations when occasions arose.

On hot days I think of my children; having grown old, as my body chills, all the more do I endure.

To the ears of a parent longing for children—even in these mountains—the bird's cry echoes with kindred yearning.

Whom can I rely on? When even my own children and kin grow distant—how aged I have become!

In this world where many parents and children dwell together, we live only to part and be sundered far apart.

How enviable—those celestial siblings in distant heavens, living united as they guard their parents.

O cuckoo, tell even my children dwelling afar: In this body's solitude, their father weeps.

When I speak of my children—in old age even their names grow dear—yet being parted by distant lands pierces my heart.

Though I have children, for their sake too I vow: I shall not leave behind a tarnished name.

At times when my heart darkens toward my children—precisely then, through my own doing, does the darkness of this parent who once wandered become known.

Foot-massaging mallet, hand-soothing mallet—since even gods bear sacred names in their titles, how cherished must children have been since antiquity!

In a world that mourns even blossoms scattered by wind—ah, here dwell I, separated from my children.

Though children exist, they reside in distant lands; in ordinary times they are present, but in sickness' painful hour—how I long.

When speaking of children—if only at life's final moment—I resolve to die with their knees as my pillow.

What transgression from past lives has borne fruit, that I must have children estranged from me?

After I depart this world and am no more, remember: this parent died alone in sorrow.

Though the bond between parent and child in this world grows thin as pampas grass, it is only after they are gone that one truly understands—ah.

At times—do they speak even of their parent’s plight? Each time I think of my children, I weep and choke back tears.

The heart that longs for children must be so dark—ah, this parent who cannot see even the path’s hidden turns.

In the mountain's shadow, between patches of snow, a mountain crow searches; were it not for your voice, no sound would reach me.

Rapeseed Flowers: Three Poems.

When gazing west from the capital into the haze, the fields bloom yellow with rapeseed flowers.

Confined solely to home—how stifling—yet when rapeseed flowers bloom in spring fields, my heart quivers.

In this world, even an unknown lodging—where rapeseed flowers’ fragrance is sought—is where butterflies must flutter.

He visited Kamo Shrine with others.

When they adorned [the shrine] with hollyhocks still wet with dew, the cuckoo sang nostalgically in Kamiyama.

Cicadas: Two Poems.

As the sky tries to clear—the main room brightening in the evening shower—cicadas’ intermittent cries fall like passing rains, ah.

Having overslept, their cries cool—the dew on the lodging tree—or has the cicada’s dream chilled?

Irises: Five Poems.

Mishimae—transferring the lingering rain’s dewy fragrance to sleeves as irises are plucked.

For fodder grass—mow as you will—but leave the irises in hidden marshes to weave into pillows.

Perfumed by irises’ dew on my trailing sleeve—if only the marsh’s sunset breeze wouldn’t dry them away.

Irises thatch the eaves—in evening wind / Scattered, they exude fragrance: passing shower’s dew.

When the time comes to thatch the roof, even the wind fragrant with irises grows dear—ah.

The summer when he lived at Song-no-Nakayama.

In the sunset’s radiant glow, dazzlingly bright—my mountain azaleas have bloomed.

The garden where orange trees wither—I shall view it amidst wind, amidst rain, amidst dust.

When I wake from dreams and hear cicadas in the pure sacred mountain—ah—this sensation of a world transformed.

Though evening showers grace the foothills, from the high peaks storms sweep through Uda-no-Nakayama.

Numerous poems composed in humble gratitude for the Buddha’s mercy whenever moved by occasion.

Before the Buddha, I shall offer a single branch of flowers—burning fragrant wood in requital.

Through what vow from past lives was this self bound, that it encounters such radiance?

Had I been born outside Buddha’s grace—a cow would I have become, or perhaps a horse.

Meeting clustered Dharma-flowers—their fragrance, when heard intently, has truly permeated this body.

Unknowing, I deemed Buddha distant—yet here dwell I within his luminous realm.

Not born even as dog or cat—in this human world was I brought forth to hear the sacred Dharma.

Though I forget—Buddha will not loose his hold—this hearing self spills tears unbidden.

Perhaps in my rush toward the capital road of my homeland departed long ago—did the years age me?

This sin-laden body dwells among the virtuous—ah, the lotus’s vow—

When this insignificant self contemplated the Buddha’s mercy—the heart became Buddha itself, I heard.

Though the shadow dwelling in water could not be grasped by hand, there was no doubting where the moon resided.

Even the sound of wind rustling through trees became the sacred Dharma—now I reached that joyous land.

If only my heart were not warped—since I was one counted among those called the Buddha’s children.

As long as breath flowed through this world, I would chant—the Buddha’s sacred name itself had been life.

How many lifetimes did they wait for me who floats and sinks? Those of enduring compassion are Amida and Shakyamuni.

My ears and eyes no longer obey my will—I have aged; perhaps the Buddha’s land draws near.

When I went east, then west—not knowing that both moon and sun guide—I wandered lost.

Precisely because I bear sins unavoidable in this world—now am I captured alive by Buddha.

In the summer of Meiji 16, he returned from Satsuma to Kyoto, and the following year withdrew from the world to Ichijōji village at the foot of Mount Hiei.

In place of worldly clamor, this self that hears mountain pines—here lies true peace.

The kingfisher too, having fled a world it disdained, settled at my mountain well.

When I cast off thoughts of worldly sorrows—the escaped birdcage-world now seems vast indeed.

At Mount Hiei's pine roots where clouds dwell—this withered old corpse shall lie exposed.

Because fallen leaves shun this transient world's dust, pure rises smoke beneath the pine-thatched hut.

The autumn when he lived in the same village.

O sinking moon in crimson land—were you human, I would detain you even briefly.

In lonely gloom sings the rainy-night cricket—how I yearn for the dimly lit moon!

While I lamented, the moon had already sunk west—O autumn mountain wind, blow it back!

The paulownia I relied on for summer shade scattered its leaves—dawn broke with the autumn storm’s startling roar.

Each autumn I’ve seen the moon that never ages—yet when did this frost settle upon my head?

Though I avoided it—is this too the floating world? From beyond my pillow and behind me—the insects’ voices at least cry.

Autumn deepens—a slight chill—from the moon’s shadow forms midnight’s first frost.

Even when reflecting on the world through the moon—having escaped completely—I pass the night in autumn’s sacred mountain, ah.

Must one not love? Ah—the moon of this fresh night has made me sit upon the veranda.

Softly blooming kudzu flowers have opened; in the undersides of leaves turned by the autumn wind, I see coolness.

Though I have avoided the fleeting world to the far edges of the fields, it is only the moon that I do not shun.

Opening the dim window, I view the moon at the mountain's edge alongside my shadow, as two.

May the world veil its barrenness; before this moon that lays bare even my heart—how could I hide?

The lotus forms seeds in the pure channel water; alone, the moon grows clear in the mountain temple's garden.

What sounds so lonely—the passing shower strikes the undersides of withered lotus leaves as it moves on.

In mountain mist, the moon became clouded; the sound of lotus seeds scattering chilled the mountain temple garden.

Unlike the world, how splendid its fragrance—my mountain’s maples too seem not to flatter humankind.

Beneath the mountain temple’s trellis bridge, the channeled water flows unseen; maple leaves spill forth in such profusion.

During his travels.

Even my solitary shadow grows faint; as the evening sun fades at day's end, a passing shower falls—ah
Fallen leaves.

Caught in a spider's thread and yellowed—a single oak leaf, autumn's keepsake.

Butterfly.

Fluttering elatedly among flowering trees to rest—this butterfly: whose mountain-treading dream path does it walk?

The time when he lived along the banks of the Takano River.

A spring night - even this lodging full of gaps suffices, for through wind entering my chamber comes the scent of plum blossoms.

Exactly as witnessed.

At the hill's edge—a hole where earth was taken, one side crumbled; white plum flowers bloom upside-down.

Kerria.

The collapsed hermitage at the field's edge—even travelers catch glimpses of kerria flowers as they pass by.

Bush Warbler: Three Poems.

Is this the dream path? Still untraceable—the dawn’s bush warbler’s voice at flowers’ roost.

In spring rain’s fragrant droplets, wings drenched—a bush warbler sings beneath flowering boughs.

Were that which stains my sleeves made thus—the bush warbler’s voice might become the capital’s bud.

Having gone to Yosa in Tango Province, where he was born.

Circling around Wano’s cape—along Hashidate’s pine grove, a bush warbler sings.

Swallow.

In their nest, chicks with yellow beaks chirp fivefold; growing thin, the parent swallow comes and goes—ah, pitiful.

Among spring songs.

The fields cold—breaking withered plum branches to burn, the old field guardian must await noon.

When he visited Hanyama Kyōen at Nishiyama Betsuin and stayed there.

If I lodge at Katsura Temple where leaves fall—the evening crows too return home, ah.

Around the time his hearing grew distant.

Since I cannot hear, there is no joy; having aged, even to bush warblers my ears grow distant.

Snow: Three Poems.

Morning clears—the snowscape lies tranquil; in the pine’s sunlit shadow, drops spill.

Branches where morning sun shines turn to droplets; though piled - fresh snow upon the pine.

In dawn's first light where mountain winds blow down - a cluster darkens: pine snow ah.

Winter moon.

Midnight plovers cry piercingly; the frost on Kamo River's white sandbar was there beneath the moon.

The winter when he lived in the village of Ichijō-ji.

The wood to burn—letting the wind break it—in mountain shadows, this winter seclusion truly brought no hardships.

When showers fell, my mountain well grew turbid; just as I thought to draw water for the evening meal...

The evening sun at the mountain window faded; Hiei’s downdraft wind blew white at its tips—ah, this passing shower.

The sheltered oak leaves had scattered completely; only the passing shower still pattered on.

At the hearth, unable to raise smoke—in this despair, I spent winter with but a single brazier, ah.

Though the moonlight had cleared momentarily, in the vast sky’s winds lingered and fell a passing shower—ah.

In the depths of winter, Inagi's bamboo blown into flutes—their ringing chills; night's storm-wind rages.

Frost blanketing all and dawn-moon's glow—mutually whitening before my hermitage.

At times, he would compose verses longing for his parents.

The flower-scents and parental warnings I once received—now pierce deeper into this aged frame.

Both poverty and old age's sorrows must be retribution for my having burdened two parents.

Countless times repenting delusions, I beg forgiveness—absolve my sins, O parents on death's path.

Had I but considered these matters while my parents yet walked this world...

The child’s heart not swayed by parental teachings must be retribution for my own having turned away.

To parents I will never meet again in this same world—why have I served so distantly?
Without deceit or marking time's passage, I make this offering to my parents who nurtured me.
With body clinging close—father is here; having nurtured me—mother is here, I humbly offer.

Untitled.

Ah, how poignant—horned oxen longing for mates among young grass; no different are people.

Celebrating the Auspicious Meiji Reign.

In this new age where all things transform rapidly—having grown old, indeed how rarely I encounter such times.

No sound from waves in all directions—the sea god too serves: ah, this august reign!

The sacred cypress trees of Kaminabi Forest—all their majesty revealed, protecting this august reign!

May the flow of Mitarashi stay clear—and may this world too remain unchanged, free from calamity.

With the Way existing to bless this world—may we live without defying heaven and earth.

At the time when young people inquired about poetry.

"Do not make poetry a mere pastime for yourself—compose the true heart of all matters before your very eyes."

"Do not contrive circumstances to compose poems—simply sing of things in this world as their essence reflects upon your heart."

Do not craft poetic words—songs that reflect heaven and earth's true form are most venerable.

The great masters of verse, both ancient and modern, teach that not straying from it constitutes virtue.

Words unaccounted in worldly measures—how truly pleasant they are when contemplated alone.

At times, by gazing upon fields and mountains while singing can one unravel the knotted sorrows of this transient world.

I cannot even imitate others’ ways—straying and wandering from Shikishima’s path.

He looked at the bramble flowers.

How lovely—the beautiful flower’s color and fragrance make one not consider it a thorny tree.

Though there are thorns, the bramble blooms beautifully; I, colorless, age and wither.

He liked to boil green peas and mix them into his rice to eat.

Broad beans and peas bloom at the same time—ah, the taste of beans bearing fruit on vines!

Painting Inscription.

How tenderly—iris and deutzia blooms adorned the quiver! Who now bears it and draws the bow?

_The Nembutsu Invocation._

Rising at dawn to chant "Namu"—this heart's ease; the first words from lips yet unopened.

Three Poems on Plum Blossoms.

When plum blossoms scatter onto young reed leaves by the riverbank, even the surrounding grasses become fragrant with their scent—ah.

When I consider how the fragrance intensifies at night, the first plum blossoms resemble a heart yearning for people.

When the moon shines upon the window eaves where plum blossoms grow fragrant, indeed I stayed awake without rest until dawn.

In Kajiki, Ōsumi Province.

If I lodge near the shore on my journey, all night long they seem to haul nets—the sound of oars persists.

Clothing.

Hanging a fine garment upon the incense rack, may I dye it with the scent of ethereal burning—how I long to wear it thus.

Since I often changed dwelling places, my home remained unsettled.

To the jellyfish adrift in harsh tidal paths of this world—how well I resemble them, having no dwelling place.

I resemble even the silkworm’s twofold cocoon—having no dwelling but others’ homes.

When he lectured on the Kojiki:

"Even the thousand-league gods, having committed acts of desolation, were made to serve a thousand households."

"Such is this world—Uda no Ukashi had brothers: the elder would not submit, while the younger served."

Mourning the passing into nirvana of Gesshin Daiajari at Saikamo Shinkō-in Temple, whom he had long associated with.

Not knowing they were but fleeting clouds that hid you—how I lamented the moon now veiled!

Nun Ōtagaki Rengetsu, who had dwelled in seclusion at the same temple’s tea house to withdraw from worldly affairs, had been his companion in Buddhist invocations and poetic refinement—their souls having resonated as one since ancient times—yet in November of Meiji 8 (1875), she passed away at eighty-six years of age.

Parting from you who were called the white lotus moon—even my heart feels as though it ceases to be.

There came times when he lamented the world.

Human hearts flatter with hidden spite; they steal and pilfer things—such is the world's constant state.

Though flowing downstream grows turbid, by nature clear remains water's heart.

At the Nirvana ceremony.

I know not where my body goes—yet westward enters the moon to guide me.

How I lament—'Should you hide westward, all would vanish'—that moon on the night of the second month’s fullness.

During the summer when he traveled to Echizen Province, at a gathering at Ide Akemiran’s house.

In the lingering cool after an evening shower, I descend to the river shoal’s darkness and wait for the moon—ah.

When I behold the cool night moon’s glow, my robes grow damp—autumn draws near.

Setting aside the world’s endless faults, nothing compares to listening to the cuckoo.

Sweet flags and standing flowers emit their faint fragrance—ah, the cuckoo sings its timely call.

Dew-laden blooming lilies—in their coolness, gazing along the fence on a summer morning—ah.

Through wheat stalks taller than their backs, children chase fireflies on a summer evening.

Layered waters surge; rocky waves rise high—the May rains fall until they wash clean the river willows' roots.

Through rainy night grass pierces dim moonlight—could what I took for fireflies be dewdrops instead?

Midday grass-dew feels cool—or so it seemed—as wind through windows brought the sound of a silent loom.

Through miscanthus eaves dripped ceaseless droplets' beat—coolness came with summer night rain.

In the first year of Kaei, when my father passed away.

Father who blessed me through lifetimes since sharing your very flesh—how sorrow seeps into these parting bones.

That we become parents and are born as children must be the Buddha’s mercy guiding us to his Pure Land.

My body exists nowhere outside my parents—since they ate flesh and became human.

In the same year (Kaei 6), foreign warships came to Uraga in Sagami Province, at a time when the world was in turmoil.

Though startled by an unfamiliar land—even that America shares the same sun’s origin.

When he was young and traveled through Yamato.

At Watsu Field, abandoning my horse as the verdant Nara Road drew near, I proceeded on foot.

In my hometown, willows bud as well—those kemari fields of pristine Kiyomihara must have been from noble antiquity.

Three Poems on Dreams.

Are the sea and mountains I see in dreams
And the I who sees them one—or not?

What exists vanishes; what doesn't becomes visible—
All fascinating things to left and right exist only in dreams.

What can one call reality? Even while not sleeping at all, people have dreams.

He traveled through Satsuma and Ōsumi during a time of vexing matters.

If one smiles, others smile; if angered, even shadows rage—such is this world, akin to a mirror’s reflection.

If one has bones, they resist the world—how I envy even the jellyfish that dwell in the sea!

Scarecrow.

From winter’s edge spring too dons a hat and stands enduring—may someone protect the Sotoho flowers in Yamada’s mountain fields!

Three Poems on Spring Breeze.

When plum blossoms bloom on Fushimi Mountain, the Kamo River’s current grows fragrant as winds surge upstream.

Swarming butterflies adore—could this wind carrying plum scent become a flowing stream?

Some winds scatter blossoms heartlessly; others leave lingering traces upon bamboo blinds.

In my youth, I lived in a rented dwelling in Kurodani, eastern Kyoto.

In a hermitage with five knee-space tatami mats and two round windows, I listened to the bush warbler.

I wandered aimlessly.

Black-dyed robes and tattered clothes—on the river shoal, the sparrows all rely on the same Kamo breeze.

The wind blowing upstream along Kamo Embankment is pleasing; the moonlit night permeating the pines is also delightful.

The hemp robe dampens, cool—lingering wind from the evening shower blows still wet, perhaps.

The summer when I lived near Takano River.

Though I don’t cut the summer grass nor thatch, my hut becomes buried in sweet flags and mugwort.

Though the house lies in ruins, untended—from the bamboo fence’s rotted gaps bloom pinks.

Dwelling hidden among summer grasses—how the log-built palaces of old come to mind!

Planting lotus.

The white lotuses transplanted at the mountain temple—may their purity and fragrance emanate even into the next world.

On nights when lotus flowers perfume the irrigation channel, my pillow drifts—how I cannot sleep!

On various occasions, admonishing himself and also showing others—these assorted poems.

At times I admonish this unmoved self—while parents and siblings too gaze upon the vanished world.

Since neither my accustomed body nor crafted heart are known, I must take my own biased view as truth.

The moon and sun ceaselessly shine—how sorrowful it is to see this world as darkness.

From the heart’s core, mistaking shadows for truth—thus did the path of delusion first open its way.

Having strayed into this name called “I”—how pitiable this self that cannot escape the hemp thread of existence and non-existence!

To mistake the nonexistent world as real is mere shadows—look upon the white dew where ceaseless winds blow!

In a world where not even one soul abides unchanged, how could I not grieve for this life that ages?
Were I not to trust in the Buddha's beckoning ship, the waves of this transient world would surely overturn me.

Even this drawn breath must be exchanged anew; in this mortal world, there remains nothing of mine to retain within my body.

When will my soul part from this transient flesh? To what realm does it journey? I cannot know.

Let this corpse lie exposed to wilderness dew - does that leave me any less ignorant of where my spirit wanders?

Behold enlightenment! Why should my heart anguish? If only I might cease clinging to this illusion of an existing self.

The dream of preaching "There is Buddha, there is Dharma" awakened; returning to emptiness—this was the truth!

Though called the sleep of a long night, when I awakened, it proved but a brief dream within time’s span.

Though nightmares tormented me with suffering, when I awoke—how joyous this world where that dream never returns!

When someone asked, "How should one cultivate the mind to attain goodness?"

Joy, sorrow, pain—all in this world stem from where one places their heart.

Those who know the Way make others' hearts their own; I put on no airs—such a person is the noble one.

If even a dullard does not feign wisdom, then noble one—do not take pride in nobility and scorn others.

Should one perform deeds without opposing their inherent nature as it is, there will be no concealment.

At a certain time.

The charm of this tree’s form—even when bending, it does so with such measure that none find fault.

I went to Nishiyama.

Let me hear both future and past—even its name I wish to yearn for, this ancient path of a thousand generations.

In the winter of Meiji 27 (1894), at people's request.

"When Yamato's people of Akitsushima battle foreign lands,
they triumph with gods at their side."

"When I picture our imperial forces
lying upon snow-deep wilderness,
I too feel winter's chill."

In the same year, my child Daien was dispatched by the Shingon sect as a military comfort envoy to the Qing campaign.

To China, with hearts aligned—the parent too goes; do not think of it as a solitary journey.

Face the military for the country’s sake; set your heart at ease toward parents and fulfill your path.

In the summer of the following year, I heard that my child Hiroshi in Korea was suffering from a grave illness and was deeply grieved. When someone knocked at the gate late on the night of November 2nd and I asked who it was, it turned out to be Hiroshi’s voice.

I grieved whether life could be traded for sickness—how joyous this aged self felt seeing his living face!

On New Year's Eve, he lodged at someone’s house.

Today, unaware that the year ends, I lodge here—the bird that comes crying to the eaves and I.

Sustained by a compassionate soul’s mercy—homeless through the year, alas, this starving one.

Willow.

Scattering with time—the fragility is not the wind's fault; alone flows the river willow.

During the time when he lived near Koyagawa River.

The amaranth flowers have begun to scent the hedge; wild geese may come crying above the thin mist.

In a grass-thatched hut, drooping desolately—when I gaze out, tears scatter as autumn’s own.

My hermitage—its bamboo pillars so slender, the roof too sags under piled white snow.

On paths coming and going, first catching the eye—winter-withered frost where a single pink blooms fragrant.

Deeper in pathos than its prime—a single chrysanthemum lingering in bloom on the frost-covered fence.

When I look at the window where the dawn moon knocks, in the piercing storm, mulberry leaves scatter.

Snow falls; I call out to my neighbor friend: "Warm sake and behold my dwelling."

This aged body too came to the clear morning field, longing to see snow upon young pines.

On cold nights—how shall I endure them? Even the spring garments this old one wears, stitch them thick with cotton.

In the spring of Meiji 25 (1892), he went down to Yosa in Tango Province after a long absence.

On days when mist rises over Yosa Bay, even Urashima’s fishing of old stands vivid in memory.

When even gazing upon lands finds its limit—how wistful appears Amanohashidate over Yosa Bay.

Both sights and sounds bring tears—yet as I leave, it is my heart that remains in Yosa, this native soil.

During a time of contemplation, even when March arrived, the bush warbler did not sing.

Even the bush warbler must have worldly cares—how belatedly its fresh first song was sung.

Around the same time.

If met in season, what flower could be disliked? It is when untimely that they pale in comparison.

Were I to follow my heart’s desire and yield to my nature’s course, in spring’s spirit of flower-viewing, how smoothly the world would pass by.

In February of Meiji 23 (1890), on his way to view plum blossoms in Tsukigase, Yamato Province.

Through Iga and Yamato blows the spring mountain wind,
At the same time, he passed through Mount Kasagi.
When I bowed, it felt sacred—the mysterious rocks of Mount Kasagi are all Buddhas.
In the beginning of the second month of Meiji 26 (1893), on a day when snow was falling, he visited Dōnyū Hermitage in Shugakuin Village with companions and composed a hundred-poem sequence.
On bamboo leaves, snow piles heavy—from their tips fall droplets surpassing the snowfall itself.

During the time when he lived in Ichijōji Village.

Though its voice lies in Mount Hiei’s misted depths, the valley warbler stays among the blossoms.

Laying a miscanthus mat on the lawn while viewing flowers and singing joyfully—this body finds peace.

In the dream where I envisioned cherry-blossom viewing on the mountain—the chill remains unchanged beneath this flowering tree.

In the hazy moonlight, even the water grows misted; at the mountain well before me, frogs croak.

When I enter deep into the mist of my mountain, even the foraging pheasants and mountain thrushes call out.

Because the mountain is near, from time to time come the tranquil wingbeats of pheasants and mountain thrushes—ah, this old man’s hermitage!

Even the reality of butterflies clustering on rapeseed flowers appears in dreams—ah, this old man’s hermitage!

He toured Yoshino, Koya, and other places with wife Hatsue.

Wandering among blossoms—how many nights have I slept on this journey? Unaware of this, at home they must be waiting for me.

Five Evening Shower Poems.

By Hatata God's evening tempest—offshore in the tide's force—a whale cast up as rough waves rage.

Ōshima—at its foothills a sudden evening shower swirls; the rocky shore where tides churn turbid.

Even cormorants accustomed to rough-shored waves—the wind-swept rain of an evening shower.

The beautiful sand struck into rising mist—a sudden shower sweeps through the shore's pine grove.

At Kazahaya Bay, the evening shower sweeps swift; waves rise as fishing boats clamor.

Among Summer Poems.

In the cedar grove—by an eagle’s unadorned nest—this hermitage stayed cool through summer’s heat.

People of Eguchi, set your weirs across the river—should sweetfish gather there, we’ll make them into vinegared salad.

When flowers blooming by the marsh are picked and scattered, soon bloom successive wild pinks.

The shade of white-rooted tall reeds along the riverbank proved pleasant—perhaps I’ll cool myself here while fishing.

The lotus at Horie River inlet, under May rains, bloomed thickly—their stems stretched long to behold.

On Katsura River’s wave-crossing evening breeze—lit by its glow—fireflies took flight!

On the 29th day of the ninth month of Bunkyū 3 (1863), when mother passed away, he was in the capital and could not be present at her final moments.

More than I, my mother would not forget—the infant heart that clung to her breast morning and night.

Proceed along the path that beckons "Come!"—the Dharma way heard in the world that was.

Untitled.

How fleeting this mortal world! Even the wind shifts course—now west winds blow as easterlies.

He attended the imperial poetry gathering at Yamashina-no-miya Palace—on matters such as personhood, society, heart, body, loyalty, filial piety, and faith.

The demon’s thrall—this tormented heart—has become a shadow from which my suffering body cannot part.

If only I could guard this self with sincerity in heart—may the name 'person' never decay.

How much would I wander through unforeseen paths, if this were a world governed by whim?

Whether they play the flute or not—I follow behind the lion dance; this alone brings peace of mind.

Why do I make this body—light as summer-harvested hemp—heavy myself?

Whenever I see flowers and feel their pathos—if only my own self were thought of by others in such measure.

The hermit complains solely of the world—ah, how then does the world lament me?

Free from worldly cares and bitterness—if only I could have the heart of this green child who sits unburdened.

Taking my lord’s devoted heart as my own—I think of this self as not myself.

If I do not repay, it would not become my own—for this body exists through my parent’s grace.

A heart lacking truth will not reveal itself in words—even at life’s cost, I shall not feign.

Priest Saigyō.

Having abandoned the world at Suzuka Mountain—could there have been depth in this path that even returned me to wife and children?

At the distant memorial service for Venerable Genzei.

This heart that ventured deep—does it dwell evermore among blossoms in Fukakusa’s mist-cloaked valley?

During his time residing in Ichijōji Village, and even after relocating to Uta no Nakayama, he composed various poems each year celebrating the song of the hototogisu.

While dwelling in the mountains awaiting the fifth month—hototogisu, come to my hermitage and practice your wings.

Hototogisu—have you not sung your first song? In vain, another day has ended here in these mountain reaches.

Koshizakigaki—though this hermitage holds no merit, ’tis well for hearing the mountain hototogisu.

The rain that would let you cry falls on bamboo—do not trust the sky, mountain hototogisu.

Would that I were an ancient tree at the mountain's edge—each summer's coming, I would shelter you and listen.

What a profoundly poignant bird, the hototogisu—each listener cannot but ponder.

Unaware of the hototogisu's song, I entered these mountains—its voice now falls upon the oak's crown.
When I hear the hototogisu's first song—the time has come to sow sacred seeds in the rice nursery.
Oh poignant bird who knows tears—hototogisu, you sing at dawn on nights of sorrow.
Hototogisu—if you would lodge near my bed where I sleep alone, sing so I may hear you as my spouse.
Living alone in these sacred mountains beneath the moon—how lonely those nights when the hototogisu sings!
The hototogisu's murmuring voice—in the season when wisteria perfumes young leaves on summer mountains.
The May rains were lonely enough—but nights when I heard the hototogisu alone left no peace in my heart.

What brings joy instead of cherished flowers—the hototogisu singing in early summer mountains.

Even the bitter world of old comes to mind when hearing the hototogisu in this present age.

In this world, what is most enchanting is the hototogisu—its voice at dawn mingling with dreams.

Comforted by a single cry—even the mountain path became easier to cross, mountain hototogisu.

The hototogisu comes singing, resounding through my hermitage’s ancient zelkova tree—in ears long accustomed.

Painful indeed—by nights counted in waiting, I’ve come to know: does this resemble love? Mountain hototogisu.

Having cried out at my dwelling, Mountain Hototogisu—without my knowing, where have you gone?

Hototogisu—what were you in a former life? Through countless days I hear your song as sorrow given voice.

In sacred mountains unknown to worldly realms—beneath cool moonlight even you sing consolation.

Though named a bird of pathos—when silent we await you; when singing how sorrow swells.

Unawaited at Uta's Middle Peak—still you come crying through evening rains.

To ears aged in renunciation—the mountain hototogisu's call brings brimming tears.

Hototogisu—on nights when sorrows weigh my heart, does even this bird know? It sings persistently through the hours.

Though I sit alone resolved to silence—the mountain hototogisu sounds its cry once more.

During his time residing in Rakuto Okazaki Village.

Though I avoided it, does the world still linger here? In Okazaki Village where the Korean-style mill’s toil clamors nearby.

The wind crossing the mountains grew season-tinted; evening mist settled over my small rice field—the wild goose cried.

Mistaking it for patchy snow, I walked the path beneath bamboo where moonlight scattered.

Having erected planks to guard the early rice fields—the first autumn wind bore down on the tips of the ears.

Though grass flowers bloomed fragrantly and cicadas came singing, the field edge had grown desolate.

The gathered fog settled in the valley, faintly whitening the hermitage in autumn’s field.

The autumn wind’s loneliness that seeped deep into the body—a rainy dusk when thin mist rose.

The jade-coiling wind through arrowroot leaves begins to show itself—yet what carries sorrow’s edge is the first wild goose’s cry.

At the frost-withered field’s edge where a hermit dwells—thin smoke rises from the pine door.

The evening wind through the planks startles the millet birds lingering at Oyamada’s small mountain fields—their straw-built rice guards still standing.

The exposed eaves in winter’s desolation grow lonelier still—when willows shed upon Uriu’s frost-laden fields.

During his time residing at Seikaji Temple, there was a house on Kiyomizuzaka that kept monkeys tethered in front to make their livelihood.
How sorrowful it was to see them come and go from the mountains.

Even with just this single body, the world is full of suffering—seeing the monkey clasping its hands, tears spill.

When I see the trained monkey begging for food and clasping its hands as myself, how it strikes close to home.

Horse.

Though the pasture horses kicked up wildly, the stalwart man handled the reins and rode without a saddle.

Smoke.

The smoke rising over the field’s edge—when I consider it my end, peace comes; my heart grows pure.

Two Poems on Willows

While roots are washed by water, Kamo River willow tips appear hazy green.

Hazy skies—even the wind carries fragrance veiling Mutada's stagnant waters: a field of green willows.

Spring rain.

In flower-hazed spring rain that falls unseen,
the cow’s back stays dry between plowings of the gatefield.

Two Poems on Fallen Flowers.

The chill stems from one's own heart—on Mimiga Peak in sacred Yoshino, flower snow falls.

In deep spring, Kiyotaki River roars not with water but with storm—white waves of flowers.

The winter he lived at Uta no Nakayama.

Elegantly mingling crimson and white, upon the lingering crimson leaves falls the first snow.

When heavenly mists shroud and winter rains fall at Satanzurau—the crimson leaves scatter, and how desolate the mountain becomes.

Day after day heavy snow falls—in the deep mountains, even pine treetops bend to touch the earth.

The child Shōdō—who once thought to end his life using my knee as a pillow—in the spring of Meiji 19, I sent to become the adopted son of Tokuōji Temple in Suō-Tokuyama.

Where will this body end, in what soil decay? Consider this a world already prepared.

Though form may be as it is, do not wash the ink-dyed hue in this fleeting world’s waters.

Since you are one who will serve the Dharma through lifetimes as the Sese Sutra teaches, do not let your heart be stained by the dust of the defiled path.

Be prudent in yielding the path to others; do not let your heart grow proud with a knowing face.

Serve diligently without ceasing; for you are a body dedicated to the Buddha.

Cover your body with garments that properly fit; do not indulge in luxury unbefitting me.

Is it only the struggle during meals? Eat mindfully—for food exists to sustain life.

Greed arises above all else; release your mind into the vast sky and observe what you seek.

This heart, this body were born of the world's bounds; if you know me, what remains to lament?

Do not envy those who seem at peace in this world through outward appearances; people would see me thus as well.

Entrust your life to the world; making heaven and earth your home brings peace of heart.

For roughly twenty years around the Meiji Restoration, resolved to serve the revered nation even with this ineffectual body, he engaged with Satsuma Domain and other feudal clans, exhausting himself in these efforts; thus having no time to tend to his home, his Okazaki Temple leaked rain through the roof, its tatami mats all rotting through, and from the cracked gaps where white-moldered floorboards had fallen away, even bamboo grasses sprouted forth.
It was, from the start, a temple that had no parishioners whatsoever.
After returning from a year-long journey, he composed a poem moved by the pitiful sight of his wife and children keeping house amidst this desolation.

Spreading straw on bare earth to sleep—when I consider this my daily reality, how sorrowful it is.

How impoverished I am, that there isn't even rice to feed my poor wife and children!

When spring comes, people speak of flowers and nightingales, but my heart pays no heed—for I hunger for rice.

The sound of rain coursing along the pillars of this dilapidated temple—even as it beats against the boards, my heart remains unbroken.

Though men lament the nation, the young wives lament for home and children’s sake.

Though I have not bathed in Arima’s hot springs, morning and evening—how my sleeves grow damp.

Though it is not the world’s turmoil, I cannot sleep—on nights when the anakama wind rustles through the bamboo.

The summer he lived in the village of Ichijōji.

Knocking off pods from rapeseed plants, taking seeds to kindle crimson field fires—a summer evening.

As my hand pulling irises grows fragrant from paddy ditches, I shall transplant small water-onion flowers too.

In my doze, night must have deepened—through blinds seeps pale moonlight on this summer's eve.

When winds blow, dew on oak trees becomes droplets scattering softly, heralding autumn's approach.

O evening stormclouds, shield this frail summer-withered frame from harsh sunlight's glare.

My hermitage lies deep within bamboo groves—perhaps summer's visit passes unknown here.

Around the same time, when lotuses bloomed.

Cool through cedar gaps at the mountain temple—fragrant,
lotus flowers blossoming in channeled water.

Looking away at lotus sounds scattering—
shall I perfume my soul for lives to come?

Two Poems on Fallen Leaves.

When mulberry and willow leaves yellowed by the wind scatter, even sunlight turns sorrowful in evening fields.

As riverside willows shed at Himori's secluded dwelling, moonlight streams unveiled through bare branches.

Cold Moon.

Withered pampas grass glistens with frost; shadows deepen as the pale moon shines on rough foothills.

The spring he lived by the Kōya River.

When I count the months, spring remains distant; yet on the day the new year begins, mountains don their haze.

Only willows presume to know spring's ways, greening haughtily—while this hermit tends crumbling walls.

As they fall along willow branches—spring rain's beaded droplets pierced by spider's thread.

While maidens guard blossoms with motherly devotion—who comes now to pluck these flowers I protect?

By Kōya River, my clasped hands grow fragrant—might floral dewdrops scatter through these waters?

Around that time, one night after bolting the gate, he heard a friend had come yet left without knocking.

The brushwood door shut by mist—why did my nightingale-like friend not knock ere departing?

A pensive time.

A flower blooms and scatters alone upon the moss—no one to cherish it, no one to see it.

Though I age, should I discard anything? Even on Furukawa’s decayed willow, buds have sprouted.

Four Poems on Cherry Blossoms.

At Tatekura and Kawai of Mioya Shrine—a single tree's blossoms startle into bloom.

Bearing quivers and wearing long swords—the mountain cherry blossoms adorn themselves in Mononobe warriors' guise.

When morning winds blow through field temples' thatch—cherry petals scatter like snowdrifts. Ah.

Even in the afterlife, beneath moss I'd seek flowers—if only for cherry blooms would this heart bend.

When he visited Utabuchi and Shisendō.

In secluded tree shade - a faint-lit fire's reflection cools within mountain irrigation water.

Clear falls the cascade's mountain-shadowed sound - hearing evening cicadas' cry, autumn draws near.

In the cicadas’ cry—let summer linger—the mountain window fragrant-cool with kudzu’s first blooms.

When he visited Orisono in Suminoe of Harima Province.

When dew settles—whitening into coolness—ah, do not mow the grass of Orisono in Suminoe.

At Bantō-in within Myōshin-ji, Inaba Chikata passed away.

Past sixty years together we saw this floating world as a dream—you were first to awaken and depart.

Tokuemon Inokuchi of Takano Village in Atago District, Yamashiro Province had practiced Zen since his youth; when he passed beyond, a ritual offering was made.

Having cast the lifeless form into this world—not one thing left to perceive—has one returned to their original self?

On January 9, 1891, when the Venerable Kakuju, elder monk of Nishigamo Shinkō-in, entered nirvana.

Though but a fleeting shadow—how sorrowful!—the Dharma Moon hides behind clouds.

When he returned from Satsuma Province.

How utterly painful these entangling threads! This world stretches long yet brief—my heart lies disordered.

To discard worldly bustle and pass through life at ease—such seeking does not exist.

While this body remains, I shall not intend—in this transient world, how long persists this frivolous heart?

By chance I glimpsed this floating world's dream—yet no village exists where my heart might anchor.

He presented them to others.

All things stem from oneself—do not carelessly speak ill of others.

When a separating heart arises between others and me, tell yourself: "You stray from the path."

Even heaven-and-earth's people stand divided by one thing; I spend my days with this heart alone.

What can I claim as mine? In this borrowed world—a single reed joint from Naniwa's marshes.

If you have a house, you lament the house; if you have fields, their very being becomes seeds of sorrow.

I lament having neither fields nor house—yet if I had them, even my wife and children would grieve.

At the seventieth celebration of Venerable Master Ogino Dokuen of Shōkoku-ji.

May the Dharma moon shine unobscured by age’s shadow, its mercy dwelling in samsara’s dew.

At the seventieth celebration of Kurata Yasuyuki.

To the fierce man unbent at seventy years, even the minion of age would cower in fear.

Sake.

Had Susukori not spent even a brief span brewing in this world, would such things exist?

Waterwheel.

Unexpectedly following the floating world, turns—the small wellhead waterwheel submerged in water.

When Amata Tetsugan shaved his head and entered Rinkyu-ji Temple.

Enter and see what lies in the heart's depths—mountains upon mountains, waters upon waters.

The water's hue and scentless clouds permeating one's being—how they suit those tranquil souls in this world.

The name Shōkei that I bear had been selected from the Classic of Poetry and bestowed upon me in my youth by my teacher of National Studies, Lord Yagi Taterai.

Though one may cloak oneself in scanty ivy above, to wear brocade beneath brings shame.

At the sixtieth celebration of Toba Shigeyoshi, composing a pine-themed congratulatory verse.

From this year, having escaped the floating world—may the pine grow thick; a thousand years—I hear it is my own age.

He lodged at Aizen-in Temple in Hanada Village of Kawachi Province.

Stretching upward—the sun shines through—good too the shade; soon ears will emerge from the wheat below the window.

When he visited Yagi Village in Yamato Province.

Autumn’s chill—at Amanokagu Mountain, as night departs soundlessly, white mist rises.

He passed through Nishiohani in Higashiyama.

On the moss of an ancient mound, white dew lies—pure too where lodges the lingering moon.

At the imperial poetry gathering of Prince Yamashina-no-miya: Insects.

At the pillar’s base in a wall’s crumbled decay, through the shared cold of night, a cricket sings.

Autumn Grasses: Three Poems.

In the first frost of autumn when exotic grasses wither—the emaciated knotweed flowers.

Had they bloomed without withering, would I have grown so weary of gazing? Morning glory flowers.

In autumn wind, my heart unravels—the thoroughwort has come undone, with none to wear it.

Autumn Wind: Three Poems.

How beautiful the wildflowers—the cicadas’ cries too mingle in autumn’s first wind.

Even this vainly recalled bygone world—when autumn winds blow, how lonely grows my heart.

How lonely when visiting the bush clover leaves—this wind I deem heartless.

Wild Geese: Four Poems.

In autumn winds they cry and cry—these celestial wild geese—do they know this world is fleeting?

At Arima Mountain’s Ina no Furutae, rain passes; beneath the moon among reeds, wild geese descend.

The autumn wind chills the skin; to Mizumon Rice Fields draws near the time when wild geese come crying.

At Awaji Sea, morning fog lies deep; rowing round Isozaki—wild geese cry out.

Untitled.

With the hem of the robe undisturbed, cords fastened, and hakama creases sharp—may this world be upright.

House.

Plastering straw over wall weeds with bamboo pillars—the thatched roof indeed made it good to dwell.

The winter he dwelt in Ichijōji Village.

Startled by the clattering sound on the plank roof—until even the birds took flight—the hail struck.

Winter Rain: Two Poems.

Has it cleared? Offshore, blue clouds faintly appear—the winter rain wind flows upon the waves.

The wind from Inamino Field stirs Arima Mountain—first battering the sasa plain with scattered showers, ah.

Frost.

In the rocky shore’s shade—frost formed unknown even to the morning sun—as the tide advances, it cannot endure but fades away.

Snow: Three Poems.

As far as the eye can see—Yasoshima lies white; from Satsuma Bay to Okinawa, the white snow piles high.

A blizzard blows—through Kurogata Lagoon’s tidal winds that raise waves high—a ship draws near.

Katsuragi—through breaks in winter rain clouds—faintly visible: the white snow on peaks.

On February 5 of Meiji 25，he suddenly contemplated the frailty of this aged body，sobbed with senseless abandon，and—even resenting the world and children—composed some two hundred poems from midday until evening．

This ephemeral self—like dew on kudzu leaves—must scatter while resenting this sorrowful world．

If I die—see those drifting clouds swaying toward mountains as my memento—their course untraceable.

Though a thousand years would still leave this world wanting—this life—even mocked—I yearn to keep living.

Who would inquire?—how sorrowful becomes what follows me—this self shunned even while dwelling in the world.

Were someone to ponder my aftermath and ask—the moss-clad stone alone would know loneliness.

As I age and grow estranged from the world—how I long to enter where the moon sinks beyond mountain rims.

In my sorrow—others too must think transiently—the pathos of existence—only through aging does one truly comprehend.

Yet since this body stays bound to the heart—still fire scalds hot—water runs cold.

Even if I were to lay my bones bare in a roadside knotweed thicket, would I ever receive compassion from those who care not for me?

Sorrows—oh pile still upon this body! That even in age, this heart not yet sated with the world might be known.

Though aged, I have none to nurture me—this body is no plant...

Even if someone were to guard my pillow—not as fire—I weep myself to sleep; there’s none to witness the pathos of old age.

Since I've grown accustomed to seventy years of moons—light now the path I tread: Death's mountain trail.

Though I have lived through seventy springs...

Wretchedly, I lament only myself—not a single day have I lived for others.

The lingering dawn moon and my aged self—in this world we make such pitiful figures.

When I sit alone thinking, even the soundless wind leaking through gaps seems to weep—or so I imagine.

Disdained and unnoticed by spring—this aged body lies at the edge of the flower capital.

My existence—a mere shadow in the heat haze—lingers on the edge of vanishing.

Locked by the barrier of my own heart—how I linger in this world so easily crossed!

Weary of the world and no longer counted among people—this aged self thinks even beyond death it shall remain pitiful.

Though I dry these sleeves wet with pensive tears beneath the lingering dawn moon, still they will not dry.

If even my child would think "Ah, how pitiful..."—what could this aged, decaying parent possibly entrust to me?

Born a hard-to-please soul, to end in futility—how lamentable this self of mine!

At seventy years, crumbled with age—to think I’d be cast aside even by wife and children was beyond imagining!

If they were near—seeing this old age suffering alone—even children, being human, would not forsake me.

Even were they to dwell in distant lands, this aged visage would not appear in my children’s dreams—ah.

Weary of the world, when my heart grows frail—even the wind through pines draws forth tears.

The tangled skeins of suffering are the world itself—thus being so, they meet and fray in this very manner.

Though ears sprout after cutting, bearing no fruit—these untouched withering stalks—ah, I am.

This mocked aged self—is there not silence rather than composing halting verse?

Plum Blossoms: Two Poems.

In the villages stretching around the capital where the inner sun shines—white plum blossoms blooming in the dim light of dawn.

The plum fragrance, softly blown in, perfumes the robes on the clothes rack—spring’s morning breeze.

The spring of Meiji 23.

Though I have passed sixty-eight springs, my heart remains unaged—this truth have I come to know.

With everyone, he went to Sagano for flower viewing.

Oh mountain wind blowing through flowers—if only I were a great bird spanning a thousand leagues with a single wing.

Even the flower keepers must think me mad—here I lie drunk beneath cherry blossoms.

In the autumn of Meiji 25, he journeyed to visit Shōdō in Tokuyama, Suō Province.

Rowing through Mari-no-Ura Bay in Kuga District of Suō—how desolate rose the autumn waves.

The sea winds shifted at Mina's bend; black clouds gathered and autumn rain fell.

There he stayed until winter, when preparing to depart for the capital.

Imagine—this aged self returning through storm-tossed seas: such parting feels like death's own journey.

At my mountain hermitage none await me—yet returning, I shall greet the new year.

At the end of that year.

Without preparing the old tree at the eaves as a gate pine—the year comes to an end uneventfully at this hermitage.

On New Year’s Day of Meiji 26.

In the auspicious words of the turning year, I recite the honorable name of Buddha and celebrate this spring.

Peach Blossoms.

As I walk the path lined with peach blossoms, even my soiled robe’s sleeves grow fragrant.

The diligent care that Daien, Shōdō, and others provided to his aged body brought him joy; likewise, he rejoiced in the profound mercy of Buddha and the blessings of heaven and earth—thus he composed these poems from time to time.

Though aged without home or merit, having children keeps me from peril.

What do they make of this aged body? My children sustain me from within.

How wondrous! In the mid-sky between dream and reality, again I find phantom comfort.

Since realizing this existence where nothing clings to my body—both heart finds peace and things suffice.

Precious indeed—who grants these thrice-daily morsels to sustain life?

Though what comes after may be uncertain, this fleeting form holds worth—not born among beasts or birds.

Why grieve for worlds beyond? From the heart’s depths flowed a path of joy.

When I recall how axe handles rotted long past, this mountain-dwelling self finds time grown vast.

Though lost in worldly ways of livelihood, this solitary heart knows gladness still.

Though heaven and earth voice no words, through fourfold seasons’ turn all needs are met.

When I ponder deeply, how peaceful is my existence—abandoning what does not come to be and entrusting myself to what does.

Living unnoticed in the world brings peace—I am an old eggplant discarded by others in a lean field.

Let me not lament—the transience that makes this world’s ever-changing forms cycle on.

If I were to regret this body, there would be no end—yet dwelling in nostalgic thoughts brings unexpected joy.

Taking loneliness as my heart—when I think to knock on the brushwood door, it’s the mountain pine wind.

Drowsily, drowsily the days pass—how enjoyable! With no heart lingering in this world.

Soon my existence will end—how joyful! The day to yearn for my parents’ traces has drawn near.

Having passed seventy-four years—how joyful! If I live on, then live; if I die now, then die.

I grow old—years having crossed seventy-four—now shall I think myself a being no longer of this world.

This body that will vanish without a trace—how joyful! For the fleeting dreams of this world know no end.

The capital.

Behold the figures of people in the adorned capital—it is precisely from that place that this self becomes noble.

My ears had grown dull.

Had my ears remained keen, I might not have dwelled on worldly affairs when hearing them.

Rainy season.

The ceaseless Fifth Month rains at the river shrine—may your heart hold firm lest the current surge.

Summer Sojourn in Ōmi Province.

The wind rustles; boats of Katata circle the rocky shore. Waves too grow calm—the evening moon also good.

Grebes floating among reed-bed waters—rowing across, how cool it is, Mano’s fishing boat.

The coolness received by the full sail—the Hira-oroshi blows upon the grebe’s fishing boat at anchor.

Heron: Two Poems.

The setting sun shines on Toba’s pine grove—until it seems white snow falls, herons come to rest.

On the river’s sandbar, a flock of herons white—in the evening shower’s murk they forage—summer dusk.

The summer he lived in Ichijōji Village.

After the scorching heat, an evening shower pours—damp coolness rises with the scent of earth.

In the evening downpour, a crow shakes its drenched wings; paulownia blossoms scatter in the twilight's glow—ah!

Without even the wife’s quarters arranging pillows—in the coolness of night, I’ll watch until the summer moon sets.

In the summer of Meiji 26, the children gathered and performed memorial services for their ancestors and the souls of deceased relatives who had become disconnected, in their joy.

Longing to recall that bygone world, I gaze upon lotus leaves and wonder where departed souls have gone.
Is it siblings or parents? The plaintive cry pierces my being—these sleeves grow damp from mountain cuckoo’s call.
Remembering parents of old during Obon—even when breaking off a flower, my sleeves moisten anew.
On the eve of performing Obon for them—are these pine crickets the voices of awaited souls?—so I hear.
Even as I honor my parents’ spirits—soon to join death’s tally—I dwell on this existence of mine.

Natsuda House.

Pale and profuse, the evening faces bloomed all around; within the flowered enclosure came the sound of washing a horse.

At a certain villa.

Though built with curved wood supporting eaves, in summer it stayed cool—the thatched roof.

Having attended the imperial poetry gathering at Yamashina-no-miya Palace, on the theme of "Summer Sea."

Kii Sea—in the summer tailwind, rowing past Yura Point: what a pleasant morning to begin!

Cuckoo.

By the Uji River where water spray surged without waterfalls—listening to the cuckoo while fishing for sweetfish.

On July 12, Meiji 27 (1894), when they held a hundred-poem composition event with others on a day of extreme heat.

In this scorching air, even my own home becomes like a traveler’s grass pillow—nowhere to lay this wandering self.

Sojourning in Uji.

By Uji River—watching fireflies, leaning on the plank bridge’s beam—this night that has deepened.

Cicadas: Four Poems.

In summer’s depth at Narutaki Mountain, evening cicadas sing cooler than water’s murmur.

Skin cooled by autumn breeze during noon nap—how pleasing these evening cicadas’ voices.

While cicadas trill of exquisite beauty, coming to fields I find a thousand wildflowers blooming.

As for me—wasting these irrecoverable days; and mountain cicadas.

Insects: Three Poems.

As dusk nears, insects cry in paulownia shade—did a fallen leaf startle them?

Butterfly bush and pampas plumes gathered through fields—behind us crickets cry.

In the dewy field, katydids cry—chirping shrilly, some wind their spindles, others weave their looms.

With Morita Masafusa, he went to Ohara to listen to deer.

When I hear its voice, such pathos overwhelms me—that male deer, I cannot perceive it as having antlers at all.

On the forty-ninth day memorial after Ueda Shigeme’s passing.

Seeing it vanish, one would grieve—yet might these beads of white dew return entwined with lotuses?

November 25, Meiji 28 (1895), when he visited Nishigamo’s Shinkōin Temple and saw a roadside grave.

Who in this world should remain alive? When I behold these ancient graves, tears flow unbidden.

On September 2, Meiji 29 (1896), his wife Hatsue departed this world.

Not wanting to be left behind yet unable to bear the thought—this parting from my wife. Leaving me here—where have you gone?

Lamenting the uncertain path of this aged self who knows not tomorrow—ah, this year passes without my wife.

Bound by fate to guard our shared dwelling—the katydid: no shadow seen, no voice heard.

This morning she does not appear at home—for the lonely child, the mother's visage with drooping breasts.

Though I tell myself it's but a wisp of cloud veiling you—unseen—how lonely grows autumn's call of wild geese.

During that time of mourning seclusion.

The autumn day too passed desolately; as for night, I simply breathed through till dawn—such was this existence of mine.

Unable to lie down, tormented by the autumn night’s chill—the insects on the wall and I upon this bed.

The day the mourning period concluded.

Forty-nine days since your passing—how poignant that my wife’s purification rites too reached their end today.

While she lived, complaints might have been voiced, but seeing her house now she’s gone—how sorrowful I feel.

The autumn of the following year deepened.

The one with whom I pledged a thousand years has gone; must I alone now hear the evening wind through silver grass?

Why must these tears fall so freely? Each time I gaze upon the moon, moisture clouds my eyes.

The moon parts from the mountain pines' crest—why then does my existence in this world grow shadowed?

The autumn of Meiji 31 (1898).

Parted from my sister—three years have passed since then—yet none remain to mend the unraveling at these shoulders.

On occasions.

Each person may have noble and base qualities, but in life's seed there exists no good or bad.

Though people speak groundlessly—whether praise or blame—I shall keep silent and let matters pass without incident.

Whether yea or nay, I shall not demur—this way or that, let human hearts rest with humans.

On Paintings.

Mockingly doing nothing but doubt, the drunken one affects a voice and shakes their head.

Mountain Hermitage.

Along the winding narrow path through cliffs high in the mountains—who comes seeking my pine door?

Composed after moving to Nakayama of Song: Various Poems.

Escaping the sorrowful world thick with affairs—even secluded Iwashu dwells within the same heaven and earth.

Though I constantly gaze upon the capital thick with affairs, the mountain wind sweeps away the dust of this fleeting world.

From the mountain valley where I dwell, gazing afar—the capital lay beneath the clouds.

Responding to the storm’s roar crossing Yamashina, the garden’s brushwood fence quivers.

Dwelling in seclusion at Uta no Nakayama—only by abandoning this self does the world become known.

There is never a day when drawn water runs short—water from the crags; how fine it is to dwell at Nakayama of Song.

The hermitage where I dwell lies deep in Nakayama of Song; what I long to enter is the path of Shikishima.

At the gate stands an ancient enoki tree; the morning-crying voices of birds nesting there rouse my eyes.

Even as I ponder this unasked-for life in old age—how keenly I regret this year’s blossoms.

The white clouds veiling the brushwood gate on the lofty peak—when will they transform into purple clouds?

In this mountain where I dwell alone, sensing its stillness—the cedar door left unlatched as I gaze upon the moon bleaching it white.

Do not forget—the moonlight grown familiar through seventy years now grows distant to aged eyes.

When bush clover rustles, aged distant eyes linger—coolness in autumn’s first wind.

Though visitors come and leave, true constancy in yearning for this solitary self lies with the moon alone.

In autumn nights when I dwell on things—it is through insects' voices in the grass that even age might weep.

If I try to guard it, my heart grows troubled; casting off this body, may I be borne westward by the moon.

Autumn deepens—the mountain too grows clear; through frosty nights of rustling bamboo leaves, I lie awake alone.

On June 17 of Meiji 30 (1897), Prince Yamashina-no-miya Akira honored my Seikan Temple with his presence alongside Prince Kikumaro and his consort, conversing throughout the day—a most profound privilege.

Because this dew-drenched hermitage lies among summer grasses—how discourteous of carriage wheels to soak me today!

To the cuckoo's inaugural song I would append this pure mountain breeze, humbly presenting it to His Majesty.

Autumn field.

Let us go see autumn in the fields—where dewy eulalia and patrinia please the eye with their shifting hues.

Warrior.

While awaiting to become His Majesty’s august shield, this life continually offers itself.

Untitled.

At times smiling, at times raging—the world indeed unfolds as child’s play.

Poems of Mutual Longing: Twelve Verses.

Day and night, in moments unseen by others, tears stream—for when my heart bends toward love, they fall.

Having stealthily brought that cherished one to wait outside—how could I sleep alone? Though Mother knows.

Even the stalwart who should ride Kara's tiger finds his valor gripped by love's wretched bondsman.

Years have passed—this weathered sedge hat's tangled affections lack even a cord to bind them.

In fitful slumber's dreams alone do I glimpse it—the love my nursing mother denies is what I implore.

Better death than life laid bare—for revealed, this flesh would become naught but wasted being.

Though schooled by another's cold indifference, unceasing remains this twilight sky of yearning.

Laying a sleeve upon the narrow mat, the moon I gazed upon with my beloved existed only in a dream.

Indeed it must be—those nights when we meet intimately grow rare, yet even our hearts have become divided.

If none exist to bind them together, a single thread—no matter how finely spun—would prove futile.

Through brooding I have grown thin indeed—the sorrowful one's harshness now shows upon me.

Had I not seen your departing form this morning, my heart would not cling to you, my beloved.

In the winter of Meiji 30 (1897), I journeyed to visit Shōdō in Tokuyama, Suō Province, and there welcomed the new year.

Two-trunked New Year pines—grow, grow! One trunk is you, one trunk is parent.

Even the water this unknowing old man draws this morn—how not unpleasant is the name 'youthful'.

In the spring of the same year, while staying in Tokuyama, he attended Kaneko Masateru’s sixtieth celebration.

Having passed sixty years in this mortal world, escape bodily sorrows and revel among flowers and birds.

Around the same time.

Diverting mountain-stream water to the fields, leading oxen in—the villagers of Tonō make their rice seedbeds.

How peaceful! Even the bell from the field temple hazes faintly through flower-lit evening dusk.

Around the same time, he somehow came to feel his life was nearing its end.

Having indulged utterly in moonlit blossoms, may this body's end—through dew's fragrance—purify even my bones.

Though they compelled me to voice many things in this world, I have now become a self that speaks no more.

This summer, the rain had not fallen for a long time.

Southwest winds blew from offshore, and under the southern sun, the river’s water dwindled day by day.

In that same summer, having long been afflicted, he lay prostrate at Tokuō-ji Temple.

Even on sweltering days, the coolness of my bed where I lie is due to none other than this bamboo shade.

Neither mustache nor hair shall I groom—to the heart that birthed me into this world of heaven and earth, I entrust myself.

Death poem.

(Hiroshi says:
Upon hearing that Father’s illness had worsened, Daien came down from Kyoto and Hiroshi from Tokyo. Around three in the afternoon on August sixteenth, Father—supported by Hiroshi—sat upright, had Daien, Shōdō, and Shōdō’s wife Masuko sit by his bedside, and declared: “My life too reaches its limit today. Let us compose parting poems together.” He then deigned to recite the following poems aloud, listened to the verses his children composed, and chuckled faintly. Around three in the morning on the seventeenth, his voice reciting Buddhist invocations grew faint, and he peacefully breathed his last.)

What need have I to declare anything? As I die amidst heaven and earth's insufficiency—

That time I wandered lost from Mount Washi—had I forgotten? Autumn has come again through moon-viewing return.

Speaking of flowers—they comforted me until my body's end, becoming the world-to-come's fragrant memory.

While alive, I slept among flowers and passed my days; today's awakening—could this too be but a dream?

(Hiroshi said:
These two final poems were composed by Father as he gazed upon the fragrant bush clover and balloon flowers that Masuko had arranged in the large urn placed at his pillowside.)

Priest Reigon Poetry Collection – End

On the day before Father’s passing, when he gathered his children at his pillowside and commanded them to compose poems for their eternal parting, they tearfully recited them through their weeping.

Daien

Together rejoicing in the path of Buddha, will we be called parent and child even in the world to come?

Shōdō

Parent and child are but temporary names of this world—how joyful is the enlightenment of mutual inclusion!

Hiroshi

To speak of parents remains a parting in this human world; I think of the Buddha we may never meet again.

Corrections and Additions.

1. After completing the printing of this collection, my cousin Hosomi Chie reported that a ninety-six-year-old elderly woman residing in Kayamura, Tango Province—who retained memories of my father’s childhood—had related that his childhood name was Chōzō and his post-coming-of-age youthful name was Gijūrō.

1. Furthermore, during the time when Father was raised at Sen'nō-ji Temple in Wakasa Province, he first fathered a son named Kyōten and then a daughter named Mine no; however, it was reported by his elder brother Kyōten that she passed away at the age of two.

1. In this collection's page 32, among the poems by Daien reminiscing about his journey to Qing China, there was one poem that read: "Having sent my child's hair to war—on days when winds blow through mountain villages, how I do think of things." This was omitted during printing.