My friend Sally and I were chatting one day a year or two back and she suddenly noted, somewhat brightly, “Andrew! It seems every time we meet we wind up talking about death!” Upon the briefest reflection, I had to admit she was right, which begat what felt to me like a most natural response: “And the problem is???”
Death, of course, grins in at the banquet table of life with increasing frequency and just-plain-reality as one traverses the sixth and seventh decades of one’s life, all the more so after getting a good running start on one’s eighth. The transition from abstract/futuristic to concrete/ever-present seems to suddenly complete its long-running takeover of one’s consciousness, like watching an empty swimming pool slowly take on water from a quiet hose, rising inch by inch until it finally starts lapping at the gutters, its pervasiveness indisputable.
Each calendar click and notice of yet another friend or family member leaving a fresh puncture in one’s circle of intimates brings with it reminders that human life, for all our medical technologies and marketing chatter about the right combination of supplements to keep the Grim Reaper chasing more vulnerable prey than ourselves, is still circumscribed, finite, and dead-set on claiming us all, at our appointed time.
Fortunately, human mortality is not a newly discovered topic, and plentiful self-reflective, poetic souls before our time have pondered its questions and imperatives, then committed them to parchment and paper.
Prominent among them have been Japanese poets, hundreds of whose wry, accepting, sometimes jaded and sometimes amusing commentaries on death—all of them just a few lines—were collected by the late Israeli scholar of Japanese poetry, philosophy, and Buddhism Yoel Hoffmann and published in a nicely packaged 1986 volume, “Japanese Death Poems.”
As you’ve no doubt noticed above, the cover is not black, but a pleasing cream, accented by red print and a very Buddhist looking singular dark flora. The effect is warm and invitational, as are most all the poems, and not merely as an invitation to read.
The sheer variety of Japanese poetic voices drawn from different eras and traditions also invites us to consider writing our own last words for posterity, our own observations and imagery on what the wintering of our lives has brought to bear in our hearts and minds. And not necessarily as advice (though that is permitted, nothing being verboten), but as summary, whimsical epitaph, or repartee with one’s Angel of Death.
Turns out there’s a rich tradition of such death poems running through Japanese culture, originating mostly with ancient monks but not limited to them. “Japanese culture is probably the only one in the world,” writes Hoffmann in his introduction, “in which, in addition to leaving a will, a tradition of writing a ‘farewell poem to life’ (jisei) took root and became widespread.”
That thoroughly charming idea is likely too daunting for a great number of modern folk who think of poets as some protected professional class and their poetry as the only permitted entries in Great Celestial Poetry Collection. That’s a pity, though.
No one musing on death needs any guild to approve their words. Parting thoughts stand on their own and belong to whomever is thinking them, whether shared with family or just as a means to better meet the final chapter of their lives. If our words come from our hearts as we contemplate our final days, it will be poetry enough for those we have graced with our love and regard. That should make it enough for ourselves, too.
***
***
That which blossoms
falls, the way of all flesh
in this world of flowers
—Kiko, died May 2, 1823, age 52
***
Cuckoo,
take me up to where
clouds drift.
—Uko, died 1743, age 57
***
This world—
to what may I liken it?
To autumn fields lit
dimly in the dusk
by lightning flashes.
—Minamoto-no-Shitago, died 983
***
Till now I thought
that death befell
The untalented alone.
If those with talent, too, must die
surely they make a better manure?
–Morikawa Kyoriku, died 1715, age 58
***
***
Pampas grass now dry,
once bent this way
and that.
—Shoro, died April, 1894, age 80
***
Man is Buddha—
the day and I
grow dark as one.
—Ryushi, died September 6, 1764, age 70
***
My shame in this world
will soon be forgotten—
springtime journey.
—Shokei, died February 13, 1895, age 72
***
Since I was born
I have to die,
and so…
—Kissei, died 1764, age 75 or 76
***
***
Today is the day
for one last view
of Mt. Fuji
—Kimpo, died September 3, 1894, age unknown
***
Oh, morning glory—
I, too, yearn for
eternity.
—Shohi, died August 14, 1750, age 79
***
Cutting a swath
through thick-dewed grass,
I set out.
—Kefu, died in autumn, 1898
***
This final scene I’ll not see
to the end—my dream
is fraying.
—Choko, died October 2, 1731, age 46
***
***
Stumble,
fall,
slide down the snow slope.
—Getsurei, died January 29, 1919, age 40
***
Today I put on summer
clothes and journey
to a place I haven’t seen yet.
—Michikaze, died April 4, 1709, age 69
***
A lone monk
came to call
one autumn evening.
—Tamashichi, died 1910
***
One gulp,
a taste of nectar!
Water in the spring.
—Kimpu, died February 7, 1726, age 60
***
***
Death poems
are mere delusion—
death is death.
—Toko (1710-1795)
***
Now it reveals its hidden side
and now the other—thus it falls,
an autumn leaf.
—Ryokan, died January 6, 1831, age 74
***
For eight and fifty years
I’ve had my fun
with moon and flowers.
—Tanko, died March 27, 1884, age 58
***
Seventy-one!
How did
a dewdrop last?
—Kigen, died August 23, 1736, age 71
***
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ggI-ps6i_Zk
***
Comments, questions, attaboys, arguments or suggestions for future posts, songs, poems? Scroll on down below, and/or on Facebook, where you can Follow my public posts and find regular 1-minute snippets of wisdom and other musings from the world’s great thinkers and artists, accompanied always by the kind of creative photography you see on this post. https://www.facebook.com/andrew.hidas/
Deep appreciation to the photographers! Unless otherwise stated, some rights reserved under Creative Commons licensing
Homepage rotating banner photos (except for library books) by Elizabeth Haslam https://www.flickr.com/photos/lizhaslam/
Library books by Larry Rose, Redlands, California, all rights reserved, contact: larry@rosefoto.com
Woodblock print top of page by Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849), courtesy of Cleveland Museum of Art https://unsplash.com/@clevelandart
Tenji Tenno, Satta Peak, Umezawa Marsh, Fishing by Torch, courtesy of Art Institute of Chicago https://unsplash.com/@artchicago
Cloudy day at Mizuki by Kawase Hasui, courtesy of Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa
Peach on table
Ripe full
Born to be eaten
That’s exactly the spirit, John—love it!
Dawn soon becomes dusk,
Fruit and nuts falling, falling,
Soon I will follow.
Lovely exploration, Andrew. At 80, it occurs to me often.
This bus has made many stops
For excursions along the line
But the final destination
Is seen through the windshield.
Wondering if I can gas up
And set out again?
Whoa, Jonathan, I see you’re following the classic haiku 5-7-5 syllable pattern there, serious business! This post really brought home to me the difficulty of doing so in translation, when the choice often comes to either sacrificing some meaning or fidelity to the original in order to maintain that structure or else losing that structure but hewing closer to the original’s meaning, even if it comes out 4-3-5, or whatever. Your strictly English version was stellar, though, and thankfully didn’t have to contend with that issue!
Marianne, I have always loved the windshield and the car trip it implies as metaphor, and I’m glad you took that “route,” so to speak. So many “lasts” to consider near the end, and one I hadn’t landed on was the last fill-up, thanks for that!
The day before yesterday I started my colonoscopy prep. Yesterday I drank a mixed concoction of polyethylene glycol 3350, sodium ascorbate, sodium sulfate, ascorbic acid, sodium chloride, and potassium chloride; it’s the taste of death. In keeping with this blog’s Japanese poetry bent, I wrote a haiku on the near-death experience of downing this undrinkable cocktail drink in the required 30-minute span.
–Spence, age 76, not there yet.
Its aftertaste dwells,
Inside forever it thrives,
death in a dark quaff.
Love the Japanese art, ojisan.
There’s something about the phrase “undrinkable cocktail drink” that chills my very bones, Robert, and I pray you’ve survived not only that abysmal experience, but its always notable after-shocking systemic convulsions. Please check back in with us to signal whatever passes at this age for “all clear and carrying on…”
Thank you Andrew!!
Gratitude for breath
For Dawn and many sunsets
The chance to behold
Nice, Michael! That seems to fall into the “summation-epitaph” category, and lucky is the man who can bring things to a close with those words on his mind.
Winter Storm Postscript
A sinking sun sets
the ice-glazed treetops on fire.
Skies blaze with diamonds.