Ryōkan Taigu’s poetry arises from a Zen vision in which the most ordinary moments of life are seen as complete in themselves. His verses dwell on simple activities—begging for alms, sweeping the floor, playing with children, watching the seasons change—and reveal them as sites of direct spiritual insight rather than as symbols pointing elsewhere. This reflects a commitment to immediate, unfiltered experience, where reality is met before it is overlaid with concepts or judgments. In such a perspective, there is no hard line between sacred and mundane; a falling leaf, the sound of rain, or the laughter of children already embodies the Dharma when seen with an undivided mind.

At the heart of this poetic vision lies a deep embrace of simplicity and voluntary poverty. Ryōkan’s chosen life of seclusion, few possessions, and a leaking hut is not portrayed as deprivation but as a path to inner freedom. By needing little, he discovers contentment in whatever arises, and his poems often express a quiet joy in having nothing to protect or defend. This stance embodies non-attachment to material goods and social status, allowing a naturalness and spontaneity to shine through his language and behavior. The plain, unornamented style of his poetry mirrors this inner poverty, avoiding intellectual display in favor of directness and authenticity.

His work also reflects core Mahāyāna insights into impermanence and emptiness. Aging, loss, loneliness, and the ceaseless change of the seasons appear again and again, not as causes for despair but as reminders that all phenomena are transient and lack fixed, independent essence. Emotions and experiences are allowed to come and go like passing clouds, without being solidified into a rigid story of self. This understanding of emptiness does not negate the world; rather, it opens a space in which interconnectedness with nature and other beings can be felt more intimately. Human experience and natural phenomena often merge in his verses, suggesting that self and world are not two separate realms.

Despite his hermit’s life, Ryōkan’s poetry is suffused with compassion and warmth. He is portrayed as gentle and vulnerable, sharing what little he has and engaging playfully with children, whose presence evokes a kind of childlike wonder and “beginner’s mind.” This tenderness does not deny the realities of solitude, melancholy, or regret; instead, such feelings are acknowledged honestly and held within a broader field of acceptance. The result is a body of work in which Zen realization is not distant or austere, but expressed in deeply human terms—simple, compassionate, and rooted in the unadorned suchness of everyday life.