Poetry Chaikhana Blog

You stop to point at the moon in the sky,
by Ryokan

English version by Sam Hamill

You stop to point at the moon in the sky,
but the finger’s blind unless the moon is shining.

Look deeper. The mystery calls and calls:
No moon, no finger — nothing there at all.

— from The Poetry of Zen: (Shambhalla Library), Edited by Sam Hamill / Edited by J. P. Seaton

/ Photo by insyros /

Here Ryokan is using a common teaching metaphor in Zen Buddhism — the finger pointing at the moon. But what is being said with this imagery?

The awakened state reveals itself as a shining light, as a luminescence permeating the still field of the mind. There is a sense of light from an undefined “above,” silence, a fullness of vitality, and deep rest.

In sacred poetry, particularly in Zen poetry, this is often expressed as the full moon in the night sky.

The full moon is Buddha-mind. It is the soft light that illumines the land below when all is at rest.

The finger is that which directs our awareness to the full moon — the teacher, the tradition, one’s religion, holy scriptures, spiritual practices.

Zen wisdom reminds us not to mistake the finger for the moon. While those “pointers” may be worthy of deep respect, we must never become so enamored that we forget the shining Goal to which they point…

But Ryokan takes this teaching a step further:

Look deeper. The mystery calls and calls:
No moon, no finger — nothing there at all.

In the radical awareness of total Unity (“One moon, one careless finger pointing — / are these two things or one?”), it becomes a foolish mental game to artificially distinguish between the moon and the pointing finger. One is not separate from the other… or anything else. Every thing loses its thing-ness, until, “No moon, no finger — nothing there at all.” We are, at last left, with the wide open mystery that “calls and calls.”

Ryokan Japan (1758 – 1831) Timeline Buddhist : Zen / Chan

Like Han-shan in China, Ryokan is loved in Japan as much for his antics as for his profound poetry.

Ryokan became a priest at age 18 and took to a life of wandering. He eventually met his teacher, Kokusen Roshi, and settled down to study Zen practice, ultimately becoming his most esteemed student. When Kokusen Roshi died, Ryokan inherited his temple. But the duties and regularity of being temple master didn’t suit Ryokan, and he resumed his itinerant life.

He next settled in a small hut he called Gogo-an on Mt. Kugami, where he lived by begging.

Ryokan’s love of children and animals are legendary. He often played games with the local children, attested to in his own poetry.

His reputation for gentleness carried sometimes to comical extremes. One tale is told that, one day when Ryokan returned to his hut he discovered a robber who had broken in and was in the process of stealing the impoverished monk’s few possessions. In the thief’s haste to leave, he left behind a cushion. Ryokan grabbed the cushion and ran after the thief to give it to him. This event prompted Ryokan to compose one of his best known poems:

The thief left it behind:
the moon
at my window.

When Ryokan was 70 and nearing the end of his life, he met a young nun and poet named Teishin. Though Teishin was only 28, they fell in love. They exchanged several beautiful love poems.

As Ryokan was dying, Teishin came to him and held him at his moment of death. It was Teishin who collected and published Ryokan’s poetry after his death.

More poetry by Ryokan

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