Her Day Off: Chiyo-ni’s Haiku of Compassion on a Cold Night

During the Edo era[1], there was a certain class of women who weren’t thought of very highly. Even today, they’re often looked down on — proof that some things never change. Chiyo-ni, however, saw things differently. She wrote:

身あがりに独ねざめの夜寒哉
miagari ni hitori nezame no yosamu kana[2]

on her day off
the prostitute wakes up alone
ah! the cold of night
—Chiyo-ni[3]

Evening Cool by Tomiya Oda
“Evening Cool” by Tomiya Oda

Chiyo-ni is often considered the greatest female haiku poet of Japan, or at least the most admired. Her teachers were disciples of Bashō, and his influence echoes in her verse. Yet she developed her own quiet voice, refined and intimate. She began composing haiku at age 7, and by 17, her work was known across the country.

Some time after her husband died, she took Buddhist vows and became a nun; she still lived at home, but lived a very simple life, writing poetry and communicating with friends.

In the above haiku, she takes a compassionate look at sadness of a profession we don’t often give much compassion to: a prostitute waking alone on her day off, feeling the bite of the night’s cold.

One of her friends, a fellow nun named Kasenjo, had been a prostitute in her youth; it’s speculated Chiyo-ni may have been thinking of her when she wrote the above poem.

Whatever the inspiration, it’s a remarkable moment of empathy.


  1. 1603–1868, the period when the Tokugawa shogunate ruled Japan.  ↩

  2. See: Pronunciation of Japanese  ↩

  3. See: a note on translations  ↩

The Thief and the Moon: A Zen Tale in Ryōkan’s Haiku

One day Ryōkan returned to his hermitage only to find a burglar there. After an exchange which I’ll detail below, he wrote this haiku.

盗人に取り残されし窓の月
nusubito ni torinokosareshi mado no tsuki

the thief
left it
the moon at my window

—Ryōkan

Moon River by Hasui
“Moon River” by Hasui

This is one of my favorite haiku. Ryōkan captures such an image that one can’t help but love it. So beloved, in fact, that this story has been the basis for a famous “Zen tale”.

The tale goes as follows:

Ryōkan, a Zen master, lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot of a mountain. One evening a thief visited the hut only to discover there was nothing in it to steal.

Ryōkan returned and caught him. “You may have come a long way to visit me,” he told the prowler, “and you should not return empty-handed. Please take my clothes as a gift.”

The thief was bewildered. He took the clothes and skunk away.

Ryōkan sat naked, watching the moon. “Poor fellow,” he mused. “I wish I could give him this beautiful moon.”

Some versions of the story feature a cushion instead of clothes, and others have him sleeping while the thief searches for things to steal and waking up to have the conversation, but minor differences aside it is the same story.

If you’ve ever been somewhere without light pollution where you could see the moon in all it’s glory, you may know Ryōkan’s feeling. How can we not be grateful with such beauty just above us? Being grateful for the simple things, such as the beautiful moon, is a common theme not only in haiku but also in Zen Buddhism.

We can read the haiku literally, that the thief didn’t stop to enjoy the wonder of nature, the beautiful sight of the moon. Or we can read it metaphorically, that in his haste to find and steal treasure, the thief failed to recognize that he was in the presence of an enlightened person and had a chance to learn about the secrets of life. The moon is often used as a metaphor for enlightenment. It works well on both levels, so however you choose to read it, it is a great one.

Ryōkan was an interesting guy and we can see how the story may well be true. He became a Zen priest very early in life. After achieving enlightenment, he left the temple and became a hermit for most of the rest of his life. He was a compassionate guy to the extreme and loved helping others even though he had nothing of his own. We could use more like him in this world.

August 15 in Japanese History: Surrender and the Kamikaze Winds

On this day in Japan’s history, two events centuries apart left an indelible mark on the nation’s identity.

The more recent is, of course, August 15, 1945 — when the Shōwa Emperor, Hirohito, spoke directly to the Japanese people over the radio, announcing Japan’s surrender and the end of World War II. Known as the Gyokuon-hōsō (“Jewel Voice Broadcast”), it was the first time most Japanese had ever heard their emperor speak. For many, the day still carries a solemn weight.

But step back nearly 700 years, and we find another dramatic August 15, one that shaped Japan’s medieval history and gave rise to one of its most enduring legends: the kamikaze, or “divine wind.”

The Second Mongol Invasion (1281)

In the summer of 1281, Kublai Khan, grandson of Genghis Khan, launched the second — and the largest — attempt to conquer Japan. His forces were massive: historians estimate a combined armada of around 4,400 ships and more than 140,000 men from China, Korea, and the Mongol Empire.

The Japanese, forewarned by the failed invasion of 1274, had built defensive walls along Hakata Bay in northern Kyūshū. For weeks, fierce fighting raged as the Mongols tried to breach these defenses. The Japanese employed night raids in small boats to harass the enemy, buying time against the overwhelming force.

Then, on August 15, a typhoon struck. Over the course of two days, the winds and waves tore through the anchored Mongol fleet. Ships smashed into each other or were driven onto the rocky coast. Tens of thousands drowned; survivors were hunted down by Japanese forces. The once-invincible Mongol army was shattered.

The storm was seen not as mere weather, but as heaven’s intervention: kamikaze, the divine wind protecting Japan from foreign conquest. This belief would echo through the centuries, resurfacing in the desperate defense of the homeland during World War II.


Here is a poem that may prove fitting on this day.

遺棄死体 数百といひ 数千といふ いのちをふたつ もちしものなし

“Abandoned corpses numbered
in the hundreds,” they say,
“in the thousands“
Not one of us
can live twice  — Zenmaro

(trans Janine Beichman)

A bold anti-war statement from one of the leading tanka poets of his time, written upon hearing of news from Japan’s invasion of China. In wartime Japan, openly opposing the war risked imprisonment, so this work stands as an act of quiet defiance.


From 1281’s tempest to 1945’s broadcast, August 15 remains a day of endings and turning points in Japanese history, moments when the course of the nation shifted in ways still remembered today.

Yamashita’s Gold

I just went back and updated my old post on Yamashita’s Gold, cleaning up some of the text and rewriting a few areas.

The legend of Yamashita’s gold — sometimes called the Yamashita treasure — is a tantalizing narrative that blends history, mystery, and adventure. It’s a story that has given rise to countless treasure hunts, conspiracy theories, and even legal battles.

If you’ve ever dreamed of stumbling across a hidden fortune in the jungle, you’ll want to read this one.

LINK: The Legend of Yamashita’s Gold: A Legendary Cache from WWII

Ransetsu and the Childless Woman

Ransetsu left behind a body of work marked by quiet sorrow and refined restraint. Here he gives us a moment of stillness, spring, and yearning.

うまず女の雛かしづくぞ哀なる
umazume no hina kashizuku zo aware naru[1]

a childless woman
tenderly she touches
the little dolls for sale
—Ransetsu[2]

The Fourth Month: Woman of the Enkyō Era by Mizuno Toshikata
“The Fourth Month: Woman of the Enkyō Era” by Mizuno Toshikata

Ransetsu was a student of Bashō as well as one of his closest disciples. Bashō thought very highly of him and once wrote, “I cannot equal Ransetsu in poetical austerity.”

Childless Woman is perhaps his most famous haiku. You can imagine in your mind the sad woman who was denied the pleasure of having her own kids, looking longingly at the dolls, gently touching them while imagining what it might have been like to have her own baby. It gives us a very poignant image.

It may not be obvious for those unfamiliar with Japanese culture, but the dolls the poem refers to would be Hina dolls for Girl’s Day on March 3rd. It is a spring kigo (season word).

There is more in the archives