Fukuda (Haritsu) Kodōjin (1865–1944) was part of the long tradition of Japanese literati poet-painters. While the Chinese literati ideal as it was understood by Japanese painters and poets of the nineteenth century was not particularly concerned with popularity or communicating to the masses, by Kodōjin’s time it must have been clear that the tradition had become an artifact of an earlier era. Was he a last great figure expressing himself in the centuries-old manner of the Chinese literatus, or was he a stubborn Luddite resisting the inevitable changes that were guiding Japan into the modern age? Was his art a final example of masterful understanding of the literati tradition of the preceding three centuries, or was it outdated and incompatible with Japan’s new social environment?
Drinking Alone
Drinking alone, wine beside the flowers,
spring breezes fluttering the lapels of my robe.
With just this peace my desire is fulfilled,
while the world's affairs leave me at odds.
White-haired but not yet passed on,
these green mountains a good place to take my bones.
Who understands that this happiness today
lies simply in tranquility of life?
Strolling South of Town – Two Poems
Rain cleared up, butterflies in view,
sunlight warm, wild flowers in bloom….
Alone I walk and see the spring all new,
no friend along, yet this is joyful too!
Scattered sparsely, houses, three or four;
on the wattle fence, setting-sunlight glow.
Among the flowers, only chickens, dogs:
the farmers now are all out at the plow.
Silent Temple
In the ancient temple, one cold lamp glows;
the hidden one sits alone for hours.
Deep in the night, there seem to be ghosts;
windblown leaves twirling down empty cloisters.
Returning at Night
Soughing, soughing, leaves in the empty wood;
from the deserted village, one lamplight, dim.
The traveler sees not a single shadow;
somewhere a dog barks at the cold stars.
Left Behind in Parting
A friend has written a noble poem
seeing me off as I return to the mountains.
Let me try to chant it out loud:
pinecones fall in a wind from heaven.
Following Rhymes
A winding path leads deep into bamboo
where a friend has a hidden retreat.
Meditating poems we sit as rain comes down;
we can discuss them with these mountains of green.
Things Seen
A crystal spring reflecting the bright moon,
an ancient gully - cranes not yet returned -
a sliver of rock beneath the towering pines,
a mountain monk who kneels there, washing clothes.
My House
My house gets touched by worldly dust,
so day by day, I sweep it off.
I simply follow where my nature goes;
in this supreme spot my one heart grows.
Last night, crickets sang -
on autumn thoughts the bright moon glowed.
From now on reading will be wonderful,
but first I'll write this five-word poem.
Seeing Off a Friend
I see you off at the ferry; it's evening
and the distant bell carries a touch of frost.
The sun sinks, illuminating the rustic river;
leaves drop, covering the embankment, cold.
Softly, sadly, an autumn breeze stirs;
gently honking, the wandering geese lament.
The moon comes up - and you, alone, set forth:
where will you be, remembering your hometown?
A Visit from Zen Master Gu'an - Two Poems
Evening, and I return from the city,
and close the thatched gate by myself.
Suddenly, a mountain monk stops to visit:
"Too bad there's no moon out tonight!"
The night is calm, pure with autumn air;
a solitary monk has come to my thatched hut.
Here in the mountains it is like antiquity:
the wind in the pines mingles with noble talk.