Ryōkan & Me
Poems inspired by the Old Man of Mount Kugami
Thanks to my step-dad, I was introduced to the writings of a silly guy named Ryōkan who lived in Japan in the late 1700s, early 1800s. He spent most of the last decades of his life in a little hut at the foot of Mount Kugami. During that period, he spent his time begging for food in town, writing, gathering wood, playing ball with the local children, enjoying nature, and occasionally meditating. He was known locally for his calligraphy and writing. After his death he became very famous.
I have loved getting to spend time with Ryōkan by reading what he wrote, which is mostly poems, though they might strike some as too simple to be poetry, and he even says in one of his “poems”:
Who says that my poems are poems? My poems aren't poems at all When you understand that my poems really aren't poems Then we can talk poetry together
But whatever they are, I like them very much. And they inspired me to write many in the same style. And because you are my substack audience, now you must suffer the consequences!! Muahahaha
So here are the ones I wrote that first day and night of writing. When I refer to someone named Tim in the last two poems, I’m referring my mom’s close friend who recently took his own life.
Ok here they are:
2/21 Who am I? Today I sat or lay or walked or read Ryōkan or Dogen or Gautama or Rodney Smith's "Stepping Out of Self-Deception" I wrestled with doing nothing, with feeling bad, with thinking and thinking. My cat sat on my lap and I ate cold kugel At the big field, with the sun low I walked out into the empty green --- Who am I? What am I doing? Writing in my house, waiting for dumplings to heat on the stove. What will I do tonight? I don't know. I may take a bath or watch a movie or meditate- What is meditation? Not taking a bath or watching a movie or reading, just sitting. -- How do I feel? Restless, worried, Quiet, singular, Separate, only, Pinched, unsure, Desperate ---- Now, I sit dejected The fire is stoked and the lamp is on Soon I will turn it off and curl up in my bed thinking of emptiness, being here, being here, Thinking of something or other and then sleep --- I went to sleep ashamed and defeated worn out by the habit of trying, trying Why is it so hard to just be? -- Regretting my decisions erstwhile knowing that I can't know their fruit I dreamt of Tim his voice so real and clear dearer to me than ever My old dead dog joined me on the bed, which signaled Tim's leaving -- Returning from dreams I turned on the lamp And recorded what I could remember of our conversation, my memory lackluster. I hear Tim's laugh even now Can you hear it?
And one more Ryōkan poem:
In my hut, toward midnight, the rain has stopped As I return from my dreams A solitary lamp shines quietly in the room Outside, the plop-plop of rainwater dripping from leaves Against the wall, my old staff displays its hidden ridges and furrows The hearth is cold, there's no more charcoal but whom have I to entertain? Books lie on my bare floor but I'm not even tempted to stretch out my hand The flavor of this night is known only to me Hours later, days later how can it ever be described?
Maybe you are Ryōkan reincarnated. Mulling things over in the little hut at Cut Ln
“I may take a bath
or watch a movie
or meditate-
What is meditation?
Not taking a bath
or watching a movie
or reading,
just sitting.”
so good!!