The first day of summer
I lazily pull on my robes
By the water's edge
willows have turned a deep green
on the opposite bank
peach and plum blossoms
scatter in the morning breeze
I amble along, plucking blades of wild grass
And casually knock at brushwood gate
Butterflies cavort in the garden in the south
Turnip flowers choke the bamboo fence in the east
Here, in an atmosphere of perfect ease
the long summer days stretch endlessly
So remote a spot is naturally striking
Easily moved by beauty-such is my nature
I take a few phrases
and they just turn into 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
- Ryōkan Taigu
("My Poems Aren't Poems" excerpt from Great Fool: Zen Master Ryokan, Poems, Letters and Other Writings) See less