Ryōkan Taigu did not compile or publish formal books during his lifetime; he lived as a wandering hermit, writing poems on scraps of paper, giving them away, and leaving them scattered among friends and disciples. Because of this, what is known today as his “collections” are all posthumous efforts, gathered from various sources and arranged by later editors and scholars. In Japanese, his poems, letters, and related writings have been brought together in comprehensive editions such as a complete works collection, which has served as a primary source for subsequent selections. These editions typically organize his output into the classical categories of kanshi, poems written in literary Chinese, and waka, the traditional thirty-one–syllable Japanese form. The very fact that such scholarly collections exist testifies to the enduring resonance of his voice, despite the simplicity and obscurity of his outward life.

For readers of English, several anthologies have become especially well known and have shaped the image of Ryōkan as a Zen poet of great gentleness and depth. One Robe, One Bowl: The Zen Poetry of Ryokan, translated by John Stevens, offers a substantial body of his work and has introduced many to his blend of spiritual insight and human warmth. Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf, also associated with John Stevens, presents additional poems and has been linked with his waka, further illuminating the delicacy and clarity of his verse. Another significant volume is Ryokan: Zen Monk-Poet of Japan, translated by Burton Watson, which has contributed greatly to making his poetry accessible beyond Japan. These collections, though modern and editorial in nature, are now the primary gateways through which his words continue to speak.

Taken together, these posthumous compilations and translations reveal a poet whose life and work resist rigid categorization, even as editors sort his poems into kanshi and waka or gather them into “complete works” and selected volumes. The editorial titles and structures are later frames placed around a body of writing that originally flowed in a more spontaneous, unselfconscious way. Yet through these frames, readers can still sense the texture of his days: the quiet of hermitage, the playfulness with children, the unadorned awareness of impermanence. The collections thus function not merely as literary artifacts, but as windows into a way of being in which poetry, practice, and everyday life are woven into a single, continuous thread.