I set out on a journey of a thousand leagues, packing no provi-
sions. I leaned on the staff of an ancient who, it is said, entered
into nothingness under the midnight moon. It was the first year
of Jo¯kyo¯,autumn, the eighth moon. As I left my ramshackle hut
by the river, the sound of the wind was strangely cold.
bleached bones
on my mind, the wind pierces
my body to the heart
nozarashi o / kokoro ni kaze no / shimu mi kana
autumn, ten years:
now I point to Edo
as the old home
aki totose / kaette edo o / sasu kokyo¯
On the day I crossed the Barrier, it was raining and all the
mountains were cloud-hidden.
misty rain,
a day with Mount Fuji unseen:
so enchanting
kirishigure / fuji o minu hi zo / omoshiroki
A man named Chiri was my companion and aide, and he
put himself completely into caring for me. Our hearts are as
one, and in friendship he is ever faithful.
Fukagawa—
leaving the basho¯ tree
to Mount Fuji’s care 1
fukagawa ya / basho¯ o fuji ni / azukeyuku (Chiri)
I was walking along the Fuji River when I saw an aban-
doned child, barely two, weeping pitifully. Had his parents been
unable to endure this floating world which is as wave-tossed as
these rapids, and so left him here to wait out a life brief as dew?
He seemed like a bush clover in autumn’s wind that might scat-
ter in the evening or wither in the morning. I tossed him some
food from my sleeve and said in passing,
those who listen for the monkeys:
what of this child
in the autumn wind?
saru o kiku hito / sutego ni aki no / kaze ika ni
Why did this happen? Were you hated by your father or neg-
lected by your mother? Your father did not hate you, your
mother did not neglect you. This simply is from heaven, and you
can only grieve over your fate.
¯
The day we were to cross the Oi River, rains kept falling
morning till night.
a day of autumn rain:
in Edo they’re counting their fingers ¯
about the Oi River
aki no hi no ame / edo ni yubi oran / o¯igawa (Chiri)
A poem on horseback
roadside rose
of sharon: devoured
by my horse
michinobe no / mukuge wa uma ni / kuwarekeri
The waning moon shown pale in the sky, the base of the
hills was still dark. With my whip dangling from my horse, we
crossed many miles before any sound of cockcrow. I rode in a
lingering dream as in Du Mu’s “Dawn Departure,” then as I
arrived at Sayo-no-nakayama I was startled awake.
dozing on my horse,
with dream lingering and moon distant:
smoke from a tea fire
uma ni nete / zanmu tsuki to¯shi / cha no keburi
I visited Mutusbaya Fu¯baku in Ise, resting my feet for about
ten days. As night came on, I worshipped at the Outer Shrine.
With shadows draped across the First Torii and sacred lanterns
lit here and there, the “pine wind from the high peak” pierced
my flesh and struck deep into my heart.
month’s end, no moon:
a thousand year cedar
embraced by a windstorm
misoka tsuki nashi / chitose no sugi o / daku arashi
I wear no sword on my hips but dangle an alms wallet from
my neck and hold a rosary of eighteen beads in my hand. I
resemble a priest, but the dust of the world is on me; I resemble
a lay person, but my head is shaven. Although I am no priest,
here those with shaven heads are considered to be Buddhist
friars, and I was not allowed to go before the shrine.
There’s a stream in the lower end of Saigyo¯ Valley. As I
gazed at women washing potatoes,
potato-washing women:
were Saigyo¯ here,
he’d compose a waka
imo arau onna / saigyo¯ naraba / uta yoman
When I stopped at a teashop, a woman named Butterfly
asked for a poem referring to her name. She brought me some
white silk, and on it I wrote:
an orchid’s scent—
its incense perfuming
a butterfly’s wings
ran no ka ya / cho¯ no tsubasa ni / takimono su
Visiting the thatched hut of a recluse living in tranquillity
planted ivy
and five or six stalks of bamboo
in the windstorm
tsuta uete / take shigo hon no / arashi kana
I returned home at the beginning of Ninth Month. The For-
getting Grass by my mother’s room had withered with frost, and
no trace of it remained. Everything from the past had changed.
The temples of my brothers and sisters were white, wrinkles
around their eyes. “We’re still alive!”—it was all we could say.
My older brother opened a relic case and said, “Pay your
respects to Mother’s white hair. Like Urashima with his jewelled
box, your eyebrows have aged.” Then, for a time, we all wept.
should I take it in my hand
it would melt in these hot tears:
autumn frost
te ni toraba kien / namida zo atsuki / aki no shimo
We continued our pilgrimage into Yamato Province to a
place called Take-no-uchi in Katsuge District. This was Chiri’s
hometown, so we rested our feet for a few days.
cotton-beating bow—
as consoling as a lute
deep in the bamboos
wata yumi ya / biwa ni nagusamu / take no oku
Visiting the Taima Temple on Mount Futagami, we saw a
pine in the courtyard that must have been a thousand years old,
“big enough to hide oxen.” Though nonsentient, its connection
to the Buddha preserved it from the woodsman’s axe. How for-
tunate, how awesome!
monks, morning glories:
how many died, and reborn;
pine of the dharma
so¯ asagao / iku shinikaeru / nori no matsu
I wandered alone into the heart of Yoshino. The mountains
were so deep. White clouds lay piled on the peaks, and misty
rain filled the valley. The woodsmens’ tiny huts were scattered
all around, and the sound of wood cut to the west echoed on the
east. Temple bells struck to the base of my heart. From of old
many who abandoned the world and entered these mountains
fled into Chinese poetry, took refuge in Japanese verse. Surely
one can call this Mount Lu, like the mountain in Cathay.
At a certain temple lodging, I put up for the night.
beat the fulling block,
make me hear it—
temple wife
kinuta uchite / ware ni kakiseyo ya / bo¯ ga tsuma
The remains of Saigyo¯’s thatched hut is off to the right of
the Inner Temple, reached by pushing a few hundred yards
along a faint woodcutter’s path. It faces a steep valley—a stun-
ning view. The “clear trickling water” seems unchanged from of
old, and even now the drops trickle down.
dew trickles down:
in it I would try to wash away
the dust of the floating world
tsuyu tokutoku / kokoromi ni ukiyo / susugabaya
¯
From Yamato I passed through Yamashiro, taking the Omi
Road into Mino. Beyond Imasu and Yamanaka lay the grave of
Lady Tokiwa. Moritake of Ise once wrote, “autumn’s wind
resembling Lord Yoshitomo,” and I had wondered what the
similarity was. Now I too wrote:
Yoshitomo’s heart
it does resemble:
autumn wind
yoshitomo no / kokoro ni nitari / aki no kaze
At Fuwa Barrier
autumn wind—
just thickets and fields
at Fuwa Barrier
akikaze ya / yabu mo hatake mo / fuwa no seki
¯
The next night I spent in Ogaki, the guest of Bokuin. When
I set off on my journey from Musashi Plain, I had bleached
bones by the roadside on my mind, but now:
not dead yet
at journey’s end—
autumn evening
shini mo senu / tabine no hate yo / aki no kure
At Honto¯ Temple in Kuwana
winter peonies
and plovers, like
cuckoo in snow
fuyu botan / chidori yo yuki no / hototogisu
Weary of sleeping on grass pillow, I went out to the beach
in the predawn darkness.
daybreak—
a whitefish, whiteness
one inch
akebono ya / shirauo shiroki / koto issun
I went to Atsuta to worship. The grounds of the shrine
were utterly in ruins, the earthen wall collapsed and covered
with clumps of weeds. In one place a rope marked the remains
of a smaller shrine, in another was a stone with the name of a
god now unworshipped. All around, mugwort and longing fern
grew wild. Somehow the place drew my heart, more than if it
had been splendidly maintained.
even the fern of longing
is withered; buying rice-cakes
at an inn
shinobu sae / karete mochi kau / yadori kana
On the road to Nagoya, I chanted verse.
a wild poem:
in winter’s winds
don’t I look
just like Chikusai
kyo¯ku / kogarashi no / mi wa chikusai ni / nitaru kana
grass for my pillow:
is a dog too being rained on?
night’s voices
kusa makura / inu mo shigururu ka / yoru no koe
Walking out to view the snow
market townsfolk!
I’ll sell you this hat,
a snow umbrella
ichibito yo / kono kasa uro¯ / yuki no kasa
Seeing a traveler
even a horse:
gazing on it on a
morning of snow
uma o sae / nagamuru yuki no / ashita kana
Spending a day at the seashore
the sea darkening,
a wild duck’s call
faintly white
umi kurete / kamo no koe / honoka ni shiroshi
Removing my straw sandals in one place, setting down my
staff in another, I kept spending nights on the road as the year
drew to a close.
the year ended,
still wearing my bamboo hat
and straw sandals
toshi kurenu / kasa kite waraji / hakinagara
Chanting such verse, I spent New Year’s at a mountain hut
back home.
Whose son-in-law?
bearing fern fronds and rice-cakes
this year of the Ox
ta ga muko zo / shida ni mochi ou / ushi no toshi
On the road to Nara
yes, it’s spring—
through nameless hills,
a faint haze
haru nare ya / na mo naki yama no / usugasumi
Secluded in Second Month Hall
the water drawing—
in the frozen night, the sound
of the monks’ clogs
mizutori ya / ko¯ri no so¯ no / kutsu no oto
I went to the capital, visiting Mitsui Shu¯fu¯’s mountain villa
at Narutaki.
Plum Grove
the plums so white:
yesterday did someone steal
the cranes?
ume shiroshi / kino¯ ya tsuru o / nusumareshi
Meeting Priest Ninko¯ at Saiganji Temple in Fushimi
onto my robe
sprinkle dewdrops from
Fushimi’s peach blossoms
waga kinu ni / fushimi no momo no / shizuku se yo
¯
Crossing the mountains on the road to Otsu
on a mountain path,
somehow so moving:
wild violets
yamaji kite / naniyara yukashi / sumiregusa
A view of the lake
pine of Karasaki:
more vague even
than the blossoms
karasaki no / matsu wa hana yori / oboro nite
Sitting down for lunch at a traveler’s shop
azaleas all arranged:
in their shade, a woman
tearing dried cod
tsutsuji ikete / sono kage ni hidara / saku onna
Poem on a journey
in a field of mustard,
with flower-viewing faces:
sparrows
nabatake ni / hanamigao naru / suzume kana
At Minakuchi I met a friend I had not seen for twenty
years.
our two lives:
between them has lived
this blossoming cherry
inochi futatsu no / naka ni ikitaru / sakura kana
A monk from Hiru-ga-kojima in Izu Province, on pilgrim-
age since last autumn, heard of me and came to Owari to join
my journey.
well now, together
let’s eat ears of barley:
a grass pillow
iza tomo ni / homugi kurawan / kusa makura
The Abbot of Engakuji, Daiten, had passed away early in
First Month. Shaken, I felt as if I was in a dream, and from the
road I sent word to Kikaku:
yearning for the plum,
bowing before the deutzia:
eyes of tears
ume koite / unohana ogamu / namida kana
Given to Tokoku
for the white poppy
it tears off its wing:
the butterfly’s memento
shirageshi ni / hane mogu cho¯ no / katami kana
Once again I stayed with To¯yo¯, and as I left for the Eastern
Provinces,
from deep in the
peony’s pistils, the bee’s
reluctant parting
botan shibe fukaku / wakeizuru hachi no / nagori kana
At the end of Fourth Month, I returned to my hut, and as I
rested from the weariness of the journey,
summer robes:
still some lice
I’ve yet to pick
natsugoromo / imada shirami o / toritsukusazu
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