KANSHI
Ryōkan was particularly inspired by the poetry of Hanshan, a Chinese lay follower of Zen Buddhism and a poet noted for his simplicity of language and directness in depicting a spartan life of ease and detachment. Ryōkan composed two types of kanshi: those that are Buddhist poems, which lay out doctrinal principles, and those that confess to worldly concerns or praise everyday life in the farm village. The latter depict many of the same activities that his poems in Japanese do—winters in the small hut, begging expeditions, playing with children, wanderings, visits with friends.
Who says my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems at all.
Only when you understand that my poems are not poems,
Can we begin to talk about poems.23
[RZ 1: 222, translated by Burton Watson]
How admirable—the fine gentleman,
In spare moments so often trying his hand at poetry!
His old-style verse is modeled on Han and Wei works;
For modern style, he makes the Tang his teacher;
With what elegance he shapes his compositions,
Adding touches that are striking and new.
But since he never writes of things in the heart,
However many he may turn out, what’s the point?24
[RZ 1: 232–233, translated by Burton Watson]
All my life I’ve had no interest in worldly success
I take it easy, leaving things to nature.
In my pocket, three cups of rice
By the stove, a bundle of brushwood
Why should I ask about ignorance or enlightenment?
Why should I know about the dust of profit and fame?
During the evening rain, inside the hut
I stretch out my two legs as I please.25
[RZ 1: 216, translated by Haruo Shirane]
In my sleeve the colored ball worth a thousand in gold:
I dare say no one’s as good at handball as me!
And if you ask what it’s all about—
One—two—three—four—five—six—seven.26
[RZ 1: 62, translated by Burton Watson]
Calligraphy by Ryōkan. One of his favorite poems, the four-line kanshi “In my sleeve the colored ball worth a thousand in gold,” is written in cursive script (sōsho), abbreviating and connecting the strokes of the characters. The soft, round contours and the uniform width of the flickering brushstrokes are characteristic of Ryokan’s style. The Japanese reading of the three calligraphic lines is shūri no kyūshi atai senkin omohu / ware kōshu tōhitsu nashi to kachū no / ishi moshi ai towaba hi fu mi yo i mu na. (Courtesy of Northern Culture Museum, Niigata)
I lie alone in my grass hut,
all day not seeing a soul.
Alms bag—how long now it’s hung on the wall,
walking stick left wholly in the dust.
Dreams wing away to mountain meadows;
waking, my spirit roams the city—
along the roadside, the little boys—
as always, they’ll be waiting for me to come.27
[RZ 1: 309–310, translated by Burton Watson]
________________________
1. Hokuzan makes the high Tang the poetic ideal while automatically rejecting everything from the middle Tang. He is contrasting Li Panlong’s dogmatism with Yuan Hongdao’s willingness to draw on what is best from each particular period.
2. A quotation from the Commentary on Appended Judgments (Xici zhuan), a commentary on the Book of Changes (Yi jing) traditionally attributed to Confucius. The quotation originally refers to how the hexagrams, together with the judgments appended to them, offer us a way to bring our actions in line with the workings of the universe. Li Panlong borrows this passage to describe his own poetic ideals.
3. In this section, Hokuzan is paraphrasing ideas that appear in such texts such as Yuan Hongdao’s “Letter to Qiu Zhangru” and his “Preface to the Poetry Collection of Yuan Zhongdao” (Xiao xiu shi).
4. From the first of “Two poems composed on the brushwood painted by Assistant Magistrate Wang of Yanling” by Su Shi (1037–1101).
5. From Yuan Hongdao’s “Letter to Zhang Youyu.”
6. In this seven-word quatrain, which he wrote at his home in Kannabe in the winter of 1811 when he was sixty-three, Chazan composes on the pleasures of reading alone and the joy of encountering the hearts of the ancient sage-kings of China. The flame of the lamp, which resembles the ear of rice, casts light on the heart of the ancients.
7. Settsu and Harima are in present-day Osaka and Hyōgo Prefectures. Yamazaki is a mountain road between Kyoto and Osaka.
8. Kongō is a hill in southeast Osaka, where Masashige built Chihaya Castle.
9. This temporary residence refers to Kasagi Mountain near Kyoto, where Emperor GoDaigo stayed in 1331.
10. The sinking sun was GoDaigo’s exile to Oki. Kusunoki enabled GoDaigo to return to the capital, thus bringing the sun back up.
11. Takauji and Yoshisada attacked Kamakura and Rokuhara (in Kyoto) while the Hōjō were on the move and destroyed Hōjō Takatoki (d. 1333) and others.
12. Sanyō regrets the mistake made by the emperor in leaving the power to the Nitta clan rather than to Kusunoki after Ashikaga Takaujiōs betrayal.
13. According to the Taiheiki, Emperor GoDaigo had a dream while at Kasagi Mountain that the seat of the throne was placed under a “southern tree” (two radicals of the character for Kusunoki) of the main building in the imperial palace, and he consequently summoned Kusunoki Masashige.
14. The Southern Court.
15. In 1392, the Northern and Southern Courts were reconciled, and Emperor GoKameyama of the Southern Court ceded the throne to Emperor GoKomatsu (r. 1382–1412) of the Northern Court, thereby reunifying the imperial line.
16. Sanyō is implying that Kusunoki’s greatest accomplishment was establishing respect and loyalty for the emperor. By sacrificing himself to the Southern Court and showing unswerving loyalty to GoDaigo, he helped maintain the imperial line for eternity.
17. The mounted warrior uses a derogatory term for inexperienced youth, “punk” (jushi), intended to to insult and draw out Shingen.
18. By calling out to the mounted rider, Takeda Nobushige (1525–1561), the younger brother of Takeda Shingen, deflected attention to himself and ended up sacrificing his life for his brother.
19. Echigo was Kenshin’s home province.
20. The poem is written from Kenshin’s perspective. The opening line describes Kenshin’s army, which is quietly crossing the river in preparation for an attack. The “great tusk” is a banner topped with a large tusk, marking the main camp of the general (Kenshin). The first four characters in the fourth line have been interpreted as either the momentary light of a shooting star or the momentary light beneath a drawn sword. In either case, the phrase refers to the moment of opportunity that Kenshin let slip. The “long snake” represents Takeda Shingen. The poem, which is still recited today, is noted for its rhythm and sound, which match the dramatic content.
21. Sanyō composed this seven-word old-style (koshi) kanshi in 1818, during a journey in Kyūshū. In the first line, the speaker wonders whether what he is seeing is Wu (Go), a kingdom in the Spring and Autumn Warring States Period (eighth century–third century B.C.E.), or Yue (Etsu). Yue, a small kingdom in the south of China, defeated the kingdom of Wu in a war around 473 B.C.E. Amakusanada (literally, Sea of Heavenly Grass), the waters between present-day Kumamoto and Nagasaki Prefectures, faces China, although it would be impossible to see China from Amakusa. The poem is notable for its vast physical and temporal scale, reaching back into the past and up to the stars. Lines 1, 2, 4, and 6—Etsu, hatsu (hair), botsu (sink), and tsuki (moon)—rhyme. The “old-style” or “ancient-style” poem became popular in the Han and Wei (403–225 B.C.E.) periods.
22. Sanyō has also been admired as a poet of everyday life. A good example is this five-word old-style kanshi, considered to be one of his masterpieces. In the s
pring of 1829, Sanyō’s sixty-eight-year-old mother came to visit him in Kyoto. In the winter of the same year, he escorted her part of the way back home to Hiroshima. The simple expressions combine in parallel couplets to create a buoyant rhythm, suggesting the poet’s joy in being able to accompany his elderly mother.
23. Many poems by Ryōkan, like this one, have no title. The word “poetry” (shi) in the first two lines refers to traditional notions of kanshi, or poetry, which follow complex rules and form (such as rhyme schemes and the number of lines) and which describe nature in beautiful language. Ryōkan is warning the reader—and, more important, himself—that it is only when one gets beyond such conceptions that one truly begins to compose poetry.
24. Under the influence of Ogyū Sorai’s (1666–1728) Ancient Rhetoric school, kanshi was dominated by a neoclassical style in which the poet aimed for the “elegant” style admired in the high Tang. Ryōkan supported those, such as Yamamoto Hokuzan, who rejected this approach as imitative.
25. “Leaving things to nature” means following what “heaven” or “nature” gives us. Ryōkan clings to neither ignorance (lack of spiritual awareness) nor enlightenment (satori). Instead, he goes with the flow, being satisfied with a simple, spartan lifestyle and a life of ease.
26. A temari (handball) is a cloth ball wound with colored thread and used for various children’s games, to which songs are sung. The temari frequently appears in Ryōkan’s letters, calligraphy, and poetry—in both his kanshi and his waka—as the primary means by which Ryōkan plays with children.
27. This poem describes a period when Ryōkan was ill and lying in a mountain dwelling. Unable to move physically, his spirit travels to the city and thinks of the children with whom he has always played
Chapter 24
THE MISCELLANY
The zuihitsu (literally, following the brush), or miscellany, is usually traced back to Sei Shōnagon’s Pillowbook (Makura no sōshi, ca. 1000) and is regarded as reaching a peak with Yoshida Kenkō’s Essays in Idleness (Tsurezuregusa, ca. 1310–1331). The zuihitsu varied in form but usually consisted of a collection of short sections, often randomly ordered, written in relatively short sentences, although it could also be an extended and unified essay. The contents of the individual sections ranged from diarylike entries to meditative or philosophical reflections, instructions on living, observations of society, lists of interesting things, transmissions of folk stories (setsuwa), and repositories of useful knowledge. In the early modern period, the zuihitsu became a defined and important genre when a number of intellectuals and writers—ranging from Confucian scholars, bunjin (literati), and nativist scholars to poets and writers of various types—took up the form. Perhaps the most famous of these collections is Matsudaira Sadanobu’s Blossoms and the Moon (Kagetsu sōshi).
MATSUDAIRA SADANOBU
Matsudaira Sadanobu (1758–1828), the son of Tayasu Munetake (1715–1771), a noted kokugaku scholar and poet and the grandson of the shōgun Tokugawa Yoshimune (r. 1716–1745), became the lord of Shirakawa Domain in northern Japan. In 1787 he became senior councillor (rōjū) to the eleventh shōgun, Tokugawa Ienari (r. 1787–1837), and engineered the Kansei Reforms (1789–1801), which reined in what Sadanobu considered to be the excesses of the former period. After only seven years of service, however, he retired to Shirakawa where he turned to writing and other leisurely activities.
BLOSSOMS AND THE MOON (KAGETSU SŌSHI, 1818)
Blossoms and the Moon, which Sadanobu wrote around 1812 after his retirement to Shirakawa and published privately after 1817, consists of six volumes and 156 sections on a wide range of topics, including literature, learning, gods, medicine, ethics, and military affairs. Blossoms and the Moon reveals the author’s position as a social and political leader and became standard reading in textbooks from the Meiji period onward. It has been particularly admired for its elegant neoclassical style (gabun) and its observations on nature.
On Blossoms
To speak against what you are told, wanting to say yes when someone says no, or to call good what someone calls bad—that is perverse indeed. Still, even knowing that the cherry blossom supposedly was unique to our country, I thought it must surely exist in China as well and did a good deal of searching, only to find no Chinese paintings of cherry blossoms and not a poem that seemed to refer to that plant. Thus I must conclude that cherry blossoms do not exist in China.
Now then, even if one said only “blossoms” and not “cherry blossoms,” no one would mistake the cherry for any other tree. It would be frivolous to mention only the sight of blossoms so grand on a mountain ridge lit by faint dawn light that one would think they might be clouds or snow, or so bright on a hazy evening that a faint view of them would seem to reveal one place where the day had not yet ended. And all the more haughty would it seem, then, to say that the long calyx of the blossoms makes them less excellent when viewed up close. Whether tossed on wind or drenched by rain, viewed on far-off mountains or close-up near the eaves of one’s house, at dawn or in evening light; still one never takes one’s eyes off them, not even for the moment it takes for the dew to fade away. Moreover, the plant seems especially suited to the ways of our country, with branches so gentle, flowers so delicate in shape, and hues so simple that the total effect is perfect beyond belief. And yet it is true that they are found everywhere, and to add words insisting they are more alluring at dawn or at dusk means only that one has not yet considered the matter deeply. Only those of shallow feeling would think abundant words could account for such things.
Leaving It to Heaven
The saying goes, “I will leave it up to the distant skies and not depend on my own insignificant talents,” but one must think deeply before leaving things up to Heaven. For even when one can see starlight, a rough wind may be in the offing; to get on a boat knowing beforehand that the winds will blow here around noon tomorrow—that is leaving things up to Heaven. To not even ask about whether the wind is blowing offshore and just row out because the waves are calm where one is at the moment—that should not be called leaving things up to Heaven. The same is true even of eating: One should leave one’s life or death up to Heaven only after taking the greatest care and doing all one can to nurture one’s body—although I suppose there are also those who say they are leaving everything up to Heaven by giving no attention to nourishment and just following their desires.
Study
Someone says, “That man has spent years by his window, gathering snow and fireflies for light, using all his energy in looking at books, and so he is quite removed from things of the world,” and then proceeds to praise such a person, saying he is one who truly pursues the Way of Learning. But to pursue the Way of Learning—what can this mean but to begin with the Five Ways,1 learning to govern others and govern oneself? We should praise as a Pursuer of the Way of Learning only that person who knows not just about his own world at the present but is also enlightened about everything else—things of a thousand years ago, unseen things in China now or long ago, the signs of prosperity and decline, the thoughts of people’s hearts, indeed, everything down to the details of how to serve one’s lord. “How can one call a man who is ignorant of the world around him one who truly pursues the Way of Learning?” someone once asked.
On Skies Clearing and Rain Falling
One day in a time of drought, the east wind blows your way, clouds form, and you think, “Ah, today it will rain”—until the wind suddenly dies, the clouds break up, and the sunlight begins to beam down once more. Or again, when the rains have continued for some time, you hear the wind sounding strong in the pines, and it looks as if it will begin clearing up as you watch clumps of clouds turn green here and deep red over where the sun is going down, making you think, “Ah, the moon will shine brightly tonight!”—but then clouds form when the moon does come out, and you hear the sound of raindrops. I hear it said that this is the way also with times of unrest and times of order and with the state of our hearts.
Rain
“On a moonlit night, no worries trouble one’s thoughts and one’s heart is clear down to its very bottom,” I say, “yet I feel that a dark night, when the sky is free of clouds and the stars are shining bright, with the wind coursing high above, is still superior.”
To this another replies, “Ah, but a rainy night is even better.”
“How so?” I counter.
“Well, take rain in a time of drought—that goes without saying. Then, too, the flowers that bloom on grasses and trees are a result of the rain’s blessing, are they not? And if one speaks of the most profound feelings, think of the first day of the year when the rain comes softly down, creating a mist all around that makes one feel that indeed spring has come. Or think how intrigued one is by the gentle rain on the last day of the old year that seems to be waiting for spring to begin.
“In spring the rains are always mild. Out from the eaves spreads a mist so fine that one’s robes become damp, even though no rain seems to be falling at all. Everything about the scene is peaceful—the way an abandoned spider’s web is strung with water beads, out beneath the eaves where the sound of falling drops seems more far away; the way green growth begins to show low on the withered grasses of the garden; the way droplets increase on willow branches still unmoved by wind. When one lights a lamp, its light seems moist, and the faint tolling of the evening bell clears the heart. Furthermore, the moist scent of plum blossoms spreading abroad in the depths of night, and even one’s complaints against the rain on behalf of the blossoms—these, too, are most touching. Then as spring grows old, how amusing are the frogs croaking, as if to claim the time their own.
Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900 Page 128