WEEDS, FALLING RAIN

a selection of Zen Haiku by

Santoka Taneda

new versions by Okami

Santoka Taneda lived from 1882 until 1940, and his life hinged around the moment that he was rescued from the path of an oncoming train in a suicide attempt, and brought to a nearby Zen temple. He duly became a Zen monk and devoted his life to moneyless pilgrimage ("walking Zen") throughout Japan, existing in complete poverty and often in some squalor. Apart from a towel and the clothes he stood up in, virtually all he possessed was just one bowl: the traditional begging-bowl in which he received alms of food or perhaps money, and from which he ate and drank. Such a bowl would have been the most intimate friend and companion. Committed to Impermanence and Solitude, as his haiku indicate, he had a continuing, deep relationship with sakè , the rice wine of Japan.

It is noteworthy that the near-totalitarian régime of pre-war Japan tolerated a man who in the West would now be pumped with mind-numbing and body-deforming drugs at the very least. His haiku were greatly appreciated by the many lovers of poetry. Sent to grateful friends and acquaintances on postcards, they were never worked on or edited. He believed that they should spring freshly from the awareness of the moment.

They are nothing like the pretty pastiches, the smug pseudo-Zen observations, that pass for haiku in the West. Santoka's haiku are spiky, raw, Stoical. Some (printed here in italics) even criticise the militaristic government of the nineteen-thirties for its annexation of Manchuria and invasion of China prior to the Second World War.

Unpleasant days:
days I don't walk, days without booze,
haiku less days.

Sakè for flesh, haiku for soul:
sakè is the haiku of the flesh
haiku is the sakè of the soul.

Walking on and on -
my only course.

So this is what
he calls his "tea grove" -
one miserable bush!

No water but that
trickling from
the farmer in the dry ricefield.

The thistles -
fresh and sparkling
after morning rain.

At the mountain-foot
many graves resting
in the warm sunlight.

This road straight -
and empty of company.

Going deeper
and still deeper
into green mountains.

The sunshine freshly
reflecting from
my freshly-shaven head.

Begging: I accept
the burning sun.

One pot is enough;
I wash the rice.

Shining brightly in the sunshine:
my little bowl of rice.

Within life and death
snow ceaselessly falls.

I have no home;
autumn gets bleaker.

Worn and torn daily
and falling in shreds:
my cloak for travelling.

The giant camphor-tree:
the dog and I
completely soaked.

Nice road
leading to a nice building:
a crematorium.

Rain in my eyes:
I can't read the signpost.

The sky at sunset -
a little alcohol would taste so good.

The long night:
made even longer
by a barking dog.

The louse I've caught
is warmer than I am!

Nonchalantly pissing
off the road
soaking the young weeds.

Winter rain clouds -
soldiers off to China
to be blown to bits.

Marching together
on the ground their feet
will never pound again.

Leaving hands and feet
behind in China:
Japanese soldiers come home.

Will the municipality
stage a banner day
for those brought back as bones ?

Baggage I can't throw off
so heavy front and back.

In the calm stillness
after the rainstorm:
flies.

Slowly but surely
I adopt the vices
of my dead father.

Sweat:
collecting
in my navel.

Today's lunch:
just water.

Breaking the dead branches
thinking of nothing.

Today again
no letters.
Only butterflies.

At last!
The mail's arrived.
Soon ripe fruit will fall.

The leaves fall.
From now on
water will taste better and better.

A little woozy,
leaves fall one by one.

My begging-bowl
accepts the falling leaves.

Hailstones also
drop into my begging-bowl.

If I sell my rags
and buy some alcohol -
will there still be loneliness ?

Twilight - the sound
of a sad letter
dropping into a postbox.

Goallessly
I walk amongst tombstones.

Slowly, slowly
falling apart:
my final autumn.

I've become a real beggar now:
one towel.

The few flies that remain
find me familiar.

Pissing blood -
how long will I be able
to carry on ?

Coughing, coughing -
and nobody to slap my back.

No money, no possessions,
no teeth -
all alone.

My heart's exhausted -
the mountains, the sea
are too beautiful.

Mountains I'll never see again
fade in the distance.

When I die:
weeds,
falling rain.

Some life remains:
I scratch my belly....

A COLLECTION OF HAIKU BY SANTOKA
TRANSLATED AND INTRODUCED BY JOHN STEVENS
UNDER THE TITLE MOUNTAIN TASTING
IS PUBLISHED BY WEATHERHILL, NEW YORK AND TOKYO.