Ozhou Xiaodao

Author: Matsuo Bashō (Japan), translated by Zheng Minqin
Translator: Zheng Minqin / Country:
Publisher:
Publication Date: 2002-06-01
Features: On the way from the noble residence in Kyoto to the coast of Suma to admire the moon, reciting "Pine trees shine in the eyes, round and round in the middle of three-five nights, remembering the Minami no Naishi." Thinking of such a stylish scholar's refined taste, I wish to visit Kishima to admire the moon this autumn. Accompanied by two people: one a ronin samurai, the other a Zen monk. The monk, clad in black robes like a crow, with a chain around his neck and a shrine carrying an image of Shakyamuni Buddha's enlightenment and departure, holds a wooden staff with iron rings that jingle like passing through the "No Gate Pass." He walks alone through the heavens, already on the road. The other, neither monk nor layman, straddling the line between bird and mouse, is called "bat," and he says he is heading to the "birdless island." He loves to take a boat in front of the door and arrives at Gyodo. Discarding the boat and landing, he does not ride a horse but wishes to test the strength of his legs like a crane, so he walks. All three wear flat cedar hats given by someone from Kai. Passing Hachiman, entering Kamigaya Plain, the plains are vast. The so-called "Qiantian Yi Thousand Li" allows for a distant view. Mount Iwate stands tall, with twin peaks. Hearing that in Tang China there is a "Double Sword Peak," it is the peak of Mount Lu. The snow scene is self-evident; a purple mist lightly shrouds Mount Iwate, and it is also beautiful in early spring. This is the verse of my disciple, Aran'yuki. This mountain is said to have originated from the song of Japanese Takefuji, and the utai singers took this as their source and named it accordingly. Seeing this mountain is not without song, passing this mountain is not without verse. Truly a revered mountain. The Japanese knotweed spreads like brocade on the ground, truly as if it were packed into a suitcase by Nakatsuka and sent to the capital as a gift, the ultimate in elegance, and my heart yearns for it. The balloon flower, dragon's tooth grass, and other herbs are in a riot of colors. The stag roams, his love for his wife is unbearable. The grazing horses are leisurely, full of charm. As dusk approaches, they arrive at the Buzo shore of the Rigen River. Fish weirs are set in the river, and salmon are sold to the Wujiang market. Staying at a fisherman's house, the smell of fish is strong. The vast sky is illuminated by the bright moon, shining for miles. That night, they took a boat down to Kishima. The next day, at noon, it began to rain, and they feared that admiring the moon would be in vain. Hearing that the abbot of the Kondai Temple now has retired to the mountains, they went to visit him for shelter. Truly as the ancients sang, "making one reflect deeply," it seems to have gained a moment of tranquility. At dawn, the sky cleared slightly. The monk woke them up, but found that everyone had already risen. Only the beauty of the moonlight and the sound of rain filled their hearts, yet they could not compose a verse. Having come from afar to admire the moon but failing to do so is indeed a regret. Yet she also failed to compose a verse about the nightingale and returned reluctantly, and is not she also a fellow sufferer of my plight? Under the same moonlight, yet because of the white clouds transforming into dogs, it changes in an instant. The monk, with the rain cleared and clouds bustling, the moon shines like flying over the treetops, water droplets and foam reflecting clear light. At Taiko-ji, they stayed in a deep sleep, their pure Zen heart reflecting deeply, reverently admiring the moonlight. At Taiko, the bamboo sleeps in the rain, the fragrance of the night. Hearing that the moon has cleared, they turned over and rose, delighted to see the bright sky. At Zenglang, the temple hall is quiet after the rain, the sound of water droplets dripping from the eaves, the moonlight even more desolate. At Zengbo Shrine, they gaze up at the ancient pine, which has grown since the age of gods. In late autumn, they thirst for the shrine. At Taiko, green moss grows on the stone, said to be where the divine spirit descended, wanting to wipe the dew. The Zengbo shrine deer also kneels, reverently and respectfully before the deity, crying earnestly. At Zenglang, the rice fields are ripe, and the reapers have begun to harvest. The cranes come to feed, walking leisurely, the countryside is in full autumn. At Taiko, under the moonlight, they are harvesting rice. If you invite me to help, I can watch the jade toad while doing so. At Zengbo, a humble farmer's son suddenly stops peeling, looking up at the bright moon. At Taiko, the leaves of the taro plant sway in a patch of green in the dry field, waiting only for the moonlit night. At Taiko, the fields are wild, the Japanese knotweed on the pants stained with juice. At Zenglang, the grass on the plains is scattered. The grazing horses are well-fed, the autumn scenery is pleasant. At Zenglang, the fields are in bloom with Japanese knotweed, allowing the mountain dogs to sleep for a night. At Taiko, on the way back, they stayed at a friend's house, sparrows coming to visit, building nests with dry grass in my home. The host (Zeng) planted seedlings by the wall, and the cedars grow tall in autumn. The guest (Basho) wanted to see the moon, so he called the boat to take me along. At Zenglang, on the fifth day of the fifth month of the Zheng era (the last five days), they left Yuhai and went to the foot of the, where they were welcomed to the Choshin family, reciting a volume of haikai. Lefty also brought me here, then took a boat to the port of Sudo, staying at the house of the physician Unokichi. Looking south, the mountains of Wenhai, and to the north, the coast of Fupu. It is pleasant to ride in the evening cool, the magnificent scenery filling the heart. The rushing Uchi River, carrying the heat of a hot day, flows into the sea in one day.