It seems that some of Dogen’s advanced students had artists paint his portrait and then asked Dogen to add a poem to the paintings. These poems may be seen as Dogen’s self-image as well as encouragement for his students and dharma descendants.
Splattering salt and soy sauce,
I try to cook.
Satisfied with gruel and rice,
I wash my bowls.
May it remain so.
Do not say heaven and earth are just one finger,
or myriad things just one horse.
How is it after all?
Wherever the eye reaches is a fist
crushing the empty sky, dripping blood.
Wherever the fist reaches is an eye
seeing through its surroundings—
its muscle is long.
Sun face, moon face is the way.
Buddha face, ancestor face is the way.
Encountering is expression—
expression encountering.
Right here is clarity itself,
the top of the head just here from the beginning.
The way and the painting emerge together,
realization and the morning sky are one enlightenment.
Who speaks of a harmonious mind?
Simply say, “Just this!”
For thousands of yards, the cold lake soaks up the color of the sky.
Evening quiet: a fish of brocade scales reaches the bottom,
then flits this way and that; an arrow notch splits.
Endless water surface, moonlight brilliant.
This autumn, a fresh clear spirit covers the old mountain man.
The donkey stares at the sky ceiling; a floating moon glows white.
Nothing approaches. Nothing else included.
Buoyant, I let myself go—filled with gruel, filled with rice.
Lively flapping from head to tail,
sky above, sky beneath; cloud self, water origin.
If you call me not knowing and not understanding,
that is correct.
If you don’t call me not knowing and not understanding,
that is not correct.
How do you call me? Say it now.
Just call me a child of Tiantong.