解説
このページの第40首は「無明とは／誰やの人が／又月の／いづるも入るも／知る人ぞなし」と詠み、批判的口語訳にすれば――「無明（むみょう）ってさ、いったい“誰”がそれをわかってるって言える？ 月が昇るのも沈むのも――ほんとうに“知る”人なんていないんだ」――という趣旨です。ここでの無明は仏教語の avidyā（根本的な〈知らなさ〉）で、経験的知識（暦での月出没）を越えた「存在論的な分からなさ」を指します。また「月の昇降」は和歌伝統の象徴語彙で、月は本性（覚り）の喩とされ、出入りは観る側の相対的現れにすぎないという含意がのる。末句の「ぞ」は係り結びで焦点を強め、本来は連体形「なき」が教科書的形ですが、ここでは「なし」で締めて余情（よいん）を残す語り口が選ばれています。こうした文法メモ（いづる／入るの古典用法、誰やの人のレトリック）まで本ページに丁寧に示されています。
この一句を植芝盛平の六つのプライマーに“糸戻し”すると、プライマーの第一原理〈武＝宇宙原理〉が示す「現象の出入りに振り回されず、根源へ整合する」という座標がまず立ちます。プライマーの第三原理〈心魂一如〉は、観察者（心）と所作（身）のズレをなくす芯、プライマーの第四原理〈和合美化〉は「出る／入る」の対立を美へ収束させるテロス、プライマーの第五原理〈体＝道場、心＝修業者／修行者／学び手〉は毎呼吸・毎一挙が“月の出没”に見立てられるという日常運用、そしてプライマーの第六原理〈「至愛」の源に順う〉が「知る人ぞなし」の前でうぬぼれず、愛に基づく判断に従う倫理を与えます。プライマーの第二原理〈神や人との合気〉の観点では、神や相手や情勢の“出入り”を測るより、出入りを超えた合一の拍を聴く――そんな視座を、この一首は静かに促しています。
直前の三首とも手筋がつながります。第37首〈手綱を緩めるな〉は、無明＝迷いが走り出す前に心の手綱を締める戒め、第38首〈右を陽に、左を陰にして導け〉は、出（陽）／入（陰）の見せ—受けを配電して導く作法、第39首〈言向け勧め、愛の剣に〉は、知らぬ者を呼び覚ます言葉と決断の倫理でした。第40首はそれらの運用の“底”にある認識論――「現れの出没に“本当に知る者”はいない」――を滲ませ、出／入の循環に取り込まれず、合気の“一”へ返す謙虚さを据え直す章だと読めます。
批判的読解に関する注記：この偈文にはナーガールジュナの四難が重ねられている。「月が昇る」は「ある」（अस्ति）に対応する。「月が沈む」は「ない」（नास्ति）に対応する。「昇り沈む」は「両者」（उभय）に対応する。「いずれをも知る者なし」は「いずれでもない」（अनुभव）に対応する。この偈は現象を自我と誤認する無知を鋭く指摘し、第39首の呼びかけと目覚めである。
口語要約のひとこと
「無明ってさ、いったい誰のこと？――月が昇るのも沈むのも、本当に知る人なんていないんだ。」
和歌修辞・音律の補遺――「月」を腰に据える歌
既出の掛詞・係り結び・対句・余韻に加えて、この一首でまず見落としてはならないのは、第一句から第四句までを〈は／が／の／も〉という助詞で止め、統語上の決着を結句まで繰り延べる「助詞止めの連鎖」である。「無明とは」で定義を予告しながら定義せず、「誰やの人が」で主体を立てながら述語を与えず、「又月の」で月を差し出しながらその動きを次句へ送り、「いづるも入るも」で両極を数えながら、なお判断を下さない。句末だけを見れば第四句までほぼ無切れのまま吊られ、全荷重が最後の「知る人ぞなし」へ落ちる。無明は説明される以前に、この〈言い終えられなさ〉そのものとして韻律上に遂行されている。
さらに、〈とは→や→が→の→も／も→ぞ〉と移ってゆく助詞の配電も精密である。「とは」が無明を主題として掲げ、「や」が知者を問う焦点を開き、「が」が候補となる「人」をいったん主語位置へ押し出し、「の」が視線を人から月へ渡し、「も／も」が出と入の双方を同じ平面へ並べ、最後の「ぞ」が判断を強く打ち込む。とりわけ〈や／ぞ〉は、問いの焦点と断定の焦点との呼応を作る。上句で「誰なのか」と開いた空所が、下句で「誰もいない」と閉じられるのであり、通常の係り結びだけでなく、焦点助詞による一首全体の問答構造が働いている。底本どおり〈人が／人ぞなし〉と読む場合には、立てられた主体候補が結句で消去されるという、助詞差そのものによる反転も生じる。
第三句「又月の」は、単なる中継句ではない。短歌の第三句は伝統的に「腰句」と呼ばれるが、ここではまさに「月」が歌の腰へ据えられ、上句の人間的な問いと下句の宇宙的な出入りとを回転させる軸となる。「又」は前方の問いへ「さらに／また」と応じながら、「月の」は後方の「いづる」へ掛かるため、第三句は上句にも下句にも両属する。また〈月の／いづる〉は、音数上の句境を統語単位が越える句跨りである。「の」も、表面上は「月の出現」という連体修飾に聞こえつつ、古典語の主格として「月が出る」とも働く。したがって月は、出入りという現象を「所有するもの」であると同時に、自ら出入りする主体としても立ち上がる。
首尾照応も二重に仕込まれている。歌は文字どおり〈無〉に始まり、〈なし〉に終わる。冒頭の接頭的否定と結末の存在否定とが一首を囲い、月も人も、その否定の額縁の内側で出入りする。さらに第二句の「人」と結句の「人」とが中ほどの「月」を挟み、〈人―月―人〉という環状構成を作る。最初の「人」は「誰」と問われ、最後の「人」は「なし」と消されるため、同語反復でありながら同一地点には戻らない。加えて〈無明〉と〈知る〉も対義的に照応するが、「知る」は直後の「なし」によって打ち消される。つまりこの歌は、無明を定義するのではなく、〈知〉を一度立ち上げてから消すことで無明を構造化している。
縁語には少なくとも二層がある。表層では〈月―出づる―入る〉が、天体とその運行をめぐる明瞭な縁語の鎖を成す。さらに深層では、〈無明―月―知る〉が、光と認識をめぐる潜在的な縁語網を作る。厳密な慣用縁語として断定するより「縁語的な語場」と呼ぶべきだが、月の光は「明」を視覚化し、「知る」は明晰さを認識へ移す。ところが冒頭の「無」と末尾の「なし」が、光と知の双方を外側から消灯する。月が明るいから無明が解かれるのではない。むしろ月が明るく見えるほど、なお「知る者なし」という暗部が露わになる。縁語は意味を飾るだけでなく、相互の照応によって表現効果を増す技法であり、この一首ではその照応が最後に反転している。
〈いづるも入るも〉には、対句以上に「両端提示による全体化」が働く。出現と没入という両端を挙げることで、そのあいだにある月の全運行を含ませる両端法、すなわちメレイズモスである。反復される「も」は、単に「両方」を意味するだけでなく、出ることにも入ることにも優劣を与えず、二項を同じ拍へ載せる。したがって〈出／入〉は、陽／陰、有／無、顕／幽、生／死へ展開しうる一方、結句ではその二分そのものが「知る人ぞなし」によって包み直される。対立を選ぶのでなく、対立の両端を一息に数え、その全体をなお知の外へ返す手筋である。
音律上では、第二・第四・第五句に共通する四・三の内部分節が聴こえる。すなわち〈誰やの｜人が〉、〈いづるも｜入るも〉、〈知る人｜ぞなし〉である。七音句三本に同じ四・三の拍を通すことで、問い、月の運動、否定の裁定が同じ身体的な調子へ揃えられる。また〈いづる／入る／知る〉と、三つの動詞が〈る〉で尾を重ねる同尾反復もある。天体の運動を表す二動詞の脚韻的な響きが、そのまま認識動詞「知る」へ移されるため、月の出入りと心の知・不知とが、意味以前に同じ音の軌道へ入る。聴覚上の見立てとしては、〈いづるも〉四拍から〈入るも〉三拍へ一拍縮む運びも、現れたものが退いてゆく収縮として響く。ただし、これは作者の意図と断定するより、定型が許す音響的な余情として読むのが妥当である。
語彙層の転調も鮮やかである。初句の「無明」は漢語・仏教語として高度に圧縮された抽象概念だが、それ以後は〈誰・人・月・出づ・入る・知る・なし〉というほぼ和語の列へほどかれる。教義語をさらに教義語で説明せず、月の自然像と素朴な問いへ落とすことで、抽象が身体の見聞へ返されるのである。同時に「無明とは」は本来なら〈無明とは何々なり〉と定義を続ける構文であるのに、その述語を省き、問い、月、否定を代わりに置く。さらに「知る」の対象も明示せず、直前の「月の出入り」を読む側に補わせる。この問答法と省筆によって、読む意識は欠けた述語と目的語を自ら埋めようとし、その補填運動そのもののなかで「知ろうとする者」の位置へ誘い込まれる。そして、その位置が結句で取り払われる。
なお本文校訂上は、現行ページが採る〈誰やの人が／又月の〉のほかに、〈誰やの人か／夕月の〉という異文が複数の伝承資料に流通していることを注記すべきである。1977年『合気道奥義（道歌）』系の公開転記は前者を掲げる一方、別系統の道歌一覧や『合気道教範』からの引用とする掲載には後者が見える。後者なら、第二句末の「か」が問いを明確に閉じ、第三句の「夕月」が夕空の具体的景を据え、〈か／ぞ〉による問答の焦点構造もさらに明瞭になる。「夕月」は夕空に見える月を指し、西空にある月にも東空へ昇る月にも用いられるため、〈いづるも入るも〉との結びつきも自然である。ただし、影印または現物との照合なしに一方を原形と断定することは避け、異文として併記するのが批判的には最も堅い。
反対に、この一首には確実な歌枕・枕詞・序詞・体言止めを認める必要はない。特定の名所はなく、一定の被修飾語へ冠する固定句もなく、長い導入部から一語を引き出す序詞構造もなく、結句は体言ではなく形容詞「なし」で閉じる。また、特定の先行歌を同定できない以上、本歌取りと断定することもできない。〈入る／居る〉の掛詞的な聴取は既注のとおり有効だが、〈いづる〉の内部へ〈いづ＝何処〉を聞き取る読みなどは、面白い聴覚的連想ではあっても、形態上の無理があるため正規の掛詞ではなく「掛詞めく残響」に留めるべきである。こうして過剰認定を退けたとき、むしろこの歌の本領――助詞による懸垂、月を中心とする環状構成、否定の首尾照応、縁語の消灯、そして問いそのものを無明の形にする構文――が、いっそう鮮明に立ち上がる。
発話行為理論
発話行為論（Austin, 1962）の語で言えば、この一首の発話内容（locutionary）は、無明を主題化し、「月の出入りを知る者はない」という命題を和歌的圧縮で言い表すところにある。ただし、ここでの意味内容は平板な陳述に尽きない。上句と下句の折り畳みによって、「無明とは／誰やの人が」の懸かりが「いづるも入るも／知る人ぞなし」へ返り、「又月の」が蝶番となって、問いの姿そのものが定義の代役を果たす。とりわけ「や」は厳密には係助詞ながら切れ字的に働き、言いさして宙吊りにすることで、無明が「説明される対象」ではなく「掴み損ねとして現れる相」であることを、内容以前の運びで示している。
そのうえで発話内行為（illocutionary）は、単なる報告ではなく、知解への慢心を折る教戒・警発・招喚にある。「誰やの人が」は情報要求ではなく、知者を名乗る位置そのものを空転させる反語であり、末句の「ぞなし」は、教科書的な「ぞなき」へ収束しきらないぶん、判断の打消しであると同時に、なお尾を引く余韻として響く。「入る」に「居る」の音が重なり、「知る」にも認識・馴致・引き受けの諸義がほの見えるため、言表は現象の出没を述べつつ、出没を見渡す固定的主体の不在まで言外に遂行する。ここに、月の昇降を論じながら「知る者」の足場を消す、ほとんど公案めいた発語内の力がある。
発話媒介行為（perlocutionary）として期待されるのは、暦知の確認ではなく、認識の歩幅をいったん失わせる静かな転位である。「いづるも入るも」と両端を数え上げても、なお「知る人ぞなし」に帰着するため、読む意識は結句で立ち止まり、出／入、有／無、明／無明の対立がそのままでは保てなくなる。折り畳みの再帰性は、説明の外へ逃がすのではなく、説明がほどける現場へ差し戻す。効き目は「理解した」という充足より、分かったと思う手前の手つきが静まることにあり、そこからはじめて、月の不来不去という相が稽古の呼吸のなかに滲み出してくる。
コーダ
月は昇り、月は沈む。しかし、その「出」と「入」は、月そのものの往来なのか、それとも見上げる位置に生じる明滅なのか。この一首は「無明」を定義しない。〈とは〉で掲げ、〈や〉で知者の空所を開き、〈も／も〉で出と入の両端を等しく数え、最後の〈ぞなし〉で「知る者」の足場だけを消す。ゆえに結句に残るのは、知識の不足というより、「知る」と名乗る主体まで含めてほどけてゆく静けさである。月を腰に据えた〈人―月―人〉の環は、最初の人を問い、最後の人を消し、そのあいだを巡る光だけを残す。無明はここで説明されるのではない。説明しようとする心が行き場を失う、その一瞬として遂行される。
第37首の手綱、第38首の陰陽、第39首の言向けを経て、第40首はさらに深いところで稽古を折り返す。迷いを制し、出入りを導き、迷えるものを呼び覚ます以前に、その働きを「知っている」と所有する者はいない。ゆえに合気の「一」は、出る側にも入る側にも、明にも無明にも固定されず、至愛の源へと拍を返しつづける。月の出没を見定めるより、その出没を分けて見ている心そのものが静まるとき、稽古は観察から参与へ、理解から一致へと移る。ならば、月が昇るとき何が現れ、月が沈むとき何が去るのか――そして、その問いをいま「知っている」のは、いったい誰なのだろう。
English Translation
Commentary
Dōka 40 on this page sings: mumyō to wa / tare ya no hito ga / mata tsuki no / izuru mo iru mo / shiru hito zo nashi (無明とは／誰やの人が／又月の／いづるも入るも／知る人ぞなし). Rendered into critically inflected colloquial English, its sense would be: “Avidyā, huh—who exactly can claim to understand it? The moon rises and the moon sets—and there is no one who truly ‘knows.’” Here, mumyō (無明) is the Buddhist term avidyā: fundamental unknowing. It points beyond empirical knowledge—such as calculating moonrise and moonset from an almanac—to an ontological not-knowing concerning existence itself. The moon’s rising and setting also belong to the traditional symbolic vocabulary of waka. The moon may be read as a figure for true nature or awakening, while its coming forth and going in are merely relative appearances arising on the side of the beholder. In the final line, the binding particle zo (ぞ) intensifies the focus. Textbook grammar would ordinarily expect the attributive form naki (なき), yet the poem closes instead with nashi (なし), choosing a spoken cadence that leaves behind a lingering resonance. Such grammatical details—including the classical usages of izuru (いづる) and iru (入る), and the rhetoric of tare ya no hito (誰やの人)—are carefully set out on this page.
When this poem is “threaded back” through Morihei Ueshiba’s Six Primers, Primer One, “Bu = Cosmic Principle” (Bu = Uchū Genri; 武＝宇宙原理), first establishes the governing coordinate: do not become captive to the coming and going of phenomena, but bring oneself into accord with the source. Primer Three, “Heart-mind and Spirit, Inseparable” (Shinkon Ichinyo; 心魂一如), supplies the central axis that removes the discrepancy between observer—mind—and enactment—body. Primer Four, “Harmonization and Beautification” (Wagō Bika; 和合美化), gives the telos by which the opposition of “coming forth/going in” (deru / iru; 出る／入る) is gathered into beauty. Primer Five, “Body = Dōjō; Heart-mind = Practitioner / Ascetic / Learner” (Karada/Tai = Dōjō, Kokoro = Shugyōsha / Shugyōsha / Manabite; 体＝道場、心＝修業者／修行者／学び手), provides the poem’s everyday operation: every breath and every gesture may be regarded as another moonrise or moonset. Primer Six, “Follow the Source of Supreme Love” (Shi’ai no Minamoto ni Shitagau; 「至愛」の源に順う), gives an ethic of refusing conceit before shiru hito zo nashi (知る人ぞなし)—“there is no one who knows”—and of submitting judgment instead to the source of love. From the standpoint of Primer Two, “Aiki with Kami / Another / Others” (Kami ya Hito to no Aiki; 神や人との合気), the poem quietly urges a different orientation: rather than measuring a kami’s, another person’s, or the situation’s “comings and goings,” listen for the single beat of union that lies beyond coming and going altogether.
Its technique also continues directly from the preceding three poems. Dōka 37, “Do not loosen the reins” (tazuna o yurumeru na; 手綱を緩めるな), warns that the reins of the heart must be tightened before avidyā—delusion—can bolt into motion. Dōka 38, “Guide with the right as yang and the left as yin” (migi o yō ni, hidari o in ni shite michibike; 右を陽に、左を陰にして導け), teaches the method of distributing and directing the giving and receiving of emergence—yang—and withdrawal—yin. Dōka 39, “Turn and counsel with words, unto the sword of love” (kotomuke susume, ai no tsurugi ni; 言向け勧め、愛の剣に), concerns the language that awakens the unknowing and the ethics of decisive action. Dōka 40 allows the epistemology underlying all those operations to seep into view: “No one truly knows the appearing and disappearing of appearances.” It is therefore a chapter that resets humility at the foundation of practice, refusing capture by the cycle of emergence and withdrawal and returning both to the one of aiki.
A note on critical interpretation: Nāgārjuna’s fourfold dilemma, or tetralemma, has been superimposed upon this verse. “The moon rises” corresponds to “it is” (asti; अस्ति). “The moon sets” corresponds to “it is not” (nāsti; नास्ति). “It rises and sets” corresponds to “both” (ubhaya; उभय). “There is no one who knows either” corresponds to “neither” (anubhava; अनुभव). The verse incisively exposes the ignorance that mistakes phenomena for a self, and it carries forward the summons and awakening of Dōka 39.
A one-line colloquial summary
“Avidyā, huh—who exactly are we talking about? The moon rises and the moon sets—and there is no one who truly knows.”
Supplement on waka rhetoric and meter: A poem that sets the moon at its waist
Beyond the already noted kakekotoba, kakari-musubi, parallelism, and lingering resonance, the first feature that must not be overlooked is the poem’s “chain of particle-endings.” Each of the first four lines closes upon a particle—wa / ga / no / mo (は／が／の／も)—and thereby postpones syntactic resolution until the final line. With mumyō to wa (無明とは), the poem announces a definition but does not define. With tare ya no hito ga (誰やの人が), it raises a subject but grants that subject no predicate. With mata tsuki no (又月の), it offers the moon but sends the moon’s motion onward into the next line. With izuru mo iru mo (いづるも入るも), it enumerates the two poles and still withholds judgment. Attending to the line endings alone, the poem remains suspended through the fourth line in an almost unbroken flow, until the entire syntactic weight drops into shiru hito zo nashi (知る人ぞなし). Before avidyā is ever explained, it is rhythmically performed as this very inability to finish saying what it is.
The distribution of the particles—to wa → ya → ga → no → mo / mo → zo (とは→や→が→の→も／も→ぞ)—is equally precise. To wa (とは) raises avidyā as the topic. Ya (や) opens the focus of inquiry upon the supposed knower. Ga (が) momentarily pushes the candidate “person” into the position of grammatical subject. No (の) transfers the gaze from that person to the moon. The paired mo / mo (も／も) places rising and setting upon the same plane. Finally, zo (ぞ) drives the judgment home with force. The pairing of ya and zo, in particular, produces a correspondence between the focus of the question and the focus of the declaration. The vacancy opened in the upper verse by “Who is it?” is closed in the lower verse by “There is no one.” Thus, more than ordinary kakari-musubi is at work: the focus particles organize the entire poem as a structure of question and answer. When the text is read exactly as transmitted—hito ga / hito zo nashi (人が／人ぞなし)—the candidate subject first raised by ga is erased in the concluding line by zo nashi. The difference between the particles itself becomes the mechanism of reversal.
The third line, mata tsuki no (又月の), is not merely a line of transmission. The third line of a tanka has traditionally been called its “waist line,” koshi no ku (腰句), and here the moon is quite literally set at the poem’s waist. It becomes the axis upon which the human question of the upper verse turns into the cosmic coming and going of the lower. Mata (又) answers backward toward the preceding question as “furthermore” or “again,” while tsuki no (月の) reaches forward to modify izuru (いづる). The third line therefore belongs to both halves at once. Moreover, tsuki no / izuru (月の／いづる) forms an enjambment in which a syntactic unit crosses the metrical line boundary. On the surface, no may be heard as an attributive genitive—“the moon’s arising”—yet in classical Japanese it may also function nominatively: “the moon arises.” The moon thus emerges both as that which “possesses” the phenomenon of rising and setting and as the subject that itself rises and sets.
The poem’s initial and final correspondence is doubly constructed. It begins, quite literally, with mu (無)—absence or negation—and ends with nashi (なし)—there is none. Prefixal negation at the opening and existential negation at the close frame the entire poem, while both moon and human being rise and set within that frame of negation. The “person” of the second line and the “person” of the final line also enclose the moon at the center, creating a circular structure of “person—moon—person” (hito—tsuki—hito; 人―月―人). The first person is questioned by tare (誰), while the final person is extinguished by nashi (なし). The same word returns, but not to the same place. In addition, mumyō (無明) and shiru (知る) correspond as semantic opposites; yet shiru is immediately cancelled by nashi. The poem therefore does not define avidyā directly. It structures avidyā by first bringing “knowing” into being and then making it disappear.
The poem contains at least two layers of engo, or associatively linked diction. On the surface, tsuki—izuru—iru (月―出づる―入る) forms a clear chain concerning the moon and its motion. At a deeper level, mumyō—tsuki—shiru (無明―月―知る) creates a latent lexical field of light and cognition. Rather than asserting this as a strictly conventional engo, it is more exact to call it an “engo-like semantic field.” Moonlight gives visible form to the “brightness” contained in myō (明), while shiru transfers clarity from sight into cognition. Yet the opening mu (無) and the concluding nashi (なし) switch off both light and knowledge from outside that field. Avidyā is not dispelled merely because the moon appears bright. On the contrary: the more brightly the moon appears, the more clearly the darkness of “there is no one who knows” is disclosed. Engo does not merely ornament meaning; it heightens expression through mutual correspondence. In this poem, that very correspondence is reversed at the end.
More than parallelism is operating in izuru mo iru mo (いづるも入るも). The expression totalizes the whole by presenting its two extremes. By naming emergence and withdrawal, rising and setting, it includes the entirety of the moon’s motion between them. This is merism: the evocation of a whole through its endpoints. The repeated mo does not merely mean “both.” It denies priority to either rising or setting and places the two upon the same beat. “Out/in” may therefore unfold into yang/yin, being/nonbeing, manifest/hidden, life/death; yet in the final line, that binary division itself is gathered back beneath shiru hito zo nashi. Rather than choosing one side of the opposition, the poem counts both extremes in a single breath and then returns the whole beyond the boundary of knowledge.
Metrically, the same internal division of four plus three can be heard in the second, fourth, and fifth lines:
tare ya no | hito ga (誰やの｜人が)
izuru mo | iru mo (いづるも｜入るも)
shiru hito | zo nashi (知る人｜ぞなし)
By sending the same four-three beat through all three seven-mora lines, the poem brings the question, the moon’s motion, and the final negative judgment into the same bodily cadence. There is also a terminal repetition in the three verbs izuru / iru / shiru (いづる／入る／知る), each ending in ru (る). The rhyme-like resonance of the two verbs describing celestial motion passes directly into the verb of cognition. Before meaning has fully intervened, the moon’s rising and setting and the mind’s knowing and not-knowing have already entered the same acoustic orbit. As an auditory mitate, the contraction by one mora from the four-mora izuru mo to the three-mora iru mo may even sound like the withdrawal of something that had appeared. This should not be asserted as demonstrable authorial intent, but it may properly be heard as an acoustic after-resonance permitted by the form.
The modulation of lexical register is equally striking. The opening mumyō (無明) is a highly compressed Sino-Japanese Buddhist abstraction. Everything that follows unfolds almost entirely into native Japanese diction: tare, hito, tsuki, izu, iru, shiru, nashi (誰・人・月・出づ・入る・知る・なし). Rather than explaining one doctrinal term through further doctrinal terminology, the poem releases it into a natural image and a simple question, returning abstraction to bodily seeing and hearing. At the same time, mumyō to wa (無明とは) ordinarily anticipates a definitional predicate of the form “avidyā is such-and-such.” The poem omits that predicate and substitutes a question, the moon, and a negation. The object of shiru is likewise left unstated, requiring the reader to supply “the moon’s rising and setting” from the preceding lines. Through this interrogative method and economy of omission, the reading consciousness attempts to fill the missing predicate and object for itself. In the very act of supplementation, it is drawn into the position of “the one who would know.” The final line then removes that position.
From the standpoint of textual criticism, it should also be noted that, alongside the reading adopted on the present page—tare ya no hito ga / mata tsuki no (誰やの人が／又月の)—a variant, tare ya no hito ka / yūzuki no (誰やの人か／夕月の), circulates in multiple transmitted sources. Public transcriptions belonging to the lineage of the 1977 Aikidō Ōgi (Dōka) (『合気道奥義（道歌）』) present the former, while other collections of the dōka, including postings said to quote from Aikidō Kyōhan (『合気道教範』), give the latter. In the variant, the line-final ka (か) closes the question more explicitly, while yūzuki (夕月), “the evening moon,” establishes a concrete scene in the evening sky. The question-and-response focus produced by ka / zo (か／ぞ) consequently becomes still clearer. Since yūzuki may refer to a moon visible in the evening sky—whether seen in the western sky or rising in the east—its connection with izuru mo iru mo is also entirely natural. Nevertheless, without comparison against a facsimile or an original physical copy, neither version should be declared the definitive original. The most text-critically secure procedure is to record the latter as a variant.
Conversely, there is no need to claim a definite utamakura, makurakotoba, joshi, or taigendome in this poem. No specific celebrated place-name appears; no fixed formula precedes a designated word; no extended prefatory sequence leads into a single term; and the final line ends not upon a noun but upon the adjective nashi. Nor, in the absence of an identifiable earlier poem, can the work be confidently classified as honkadori. The kakekotoba-like hearing of iru as both “to enter or set” (入る) and “to be or dwell” (居る) remains productive, as already noted. By contrast, hearing izu (いづ)—“where?”—within izuru (いづる) may offer an intriguing auditory association, but it strains the morphology too far to qualify as a regular kakekotoba. It should remain a “kakekotoba-like after-echo.” Once such over-attributions are set aside, the poem’s real achievement becomes still more distinct: suspension by particles, a ring structure centered upon the moon, initial-final correspondence through negation, the extinguishing of its associative word-field, and a syntax that gives the question itself the form of avidyā.
Speech Act Theory
In the language of Speech Act Theory (Austin, 1962), the locutionary act of this poem consists in topicalizing mumyō (無明) and expressing, through waka compression, the proposition that no one knows the moon’s coming and going. Yet its locutionary content is not exhausted by a flat declarative statement. Through the fold of the upper and lower verses, the suspended construction of mumyō to wa / tare ya no hito ga (無明とは／誰やの人が) returns into izuru mo iru mo / shiru hito zo nashi (いづるも入るも／知る人ぞなし), while mata tsuki no (又月の) serves as the hinge. The form of the question itself takes the place of the missing definition. In particular, although ya (や) is technically a binding or focus particle, it operates here with the cutting force of a kireji. By breaking off the utterance and suspending it in midair, the poem shows—before its semantic content is complete—that avidyā is not merely an “object to be explained,” but an aspect that appears precisely as failure-to-grasp.
Upon that foundation, the illocutionary act is not mere reporting, but admonition, awakening warning, and summons. Tare ya no hito ga (誰やの人が) is not a genuine request for information. It is a rhetorical question that makes the very position from which one might proclaim oneself a knower revolve emptily. The closing zo nashi (ぞなし), insofar as it does not resolve fully into the textbook form zo naki (ぞなき), sounds simultaneously as the negation of a judgment and as an after-resonance that continues beyond the line. The sound of iru (入る), “to enter or set,” overlaps with iru (居る), “to be or dwell,” while shiru (知る) faintly carries several shades of recognition, intimate familiarization, and taking something upon oneself. Thus, while the utterance speaks of phenomena appearing and disappearing, it also performs—without stating it outright—the absence of any fixed subject that could stand outside those appearances and survey them. Here lies the poem’s almost kōan-like illocutionary force: it discusses the moon’s rising and setting while removing the ground beneath “the one who knows.”
The expected perlocutionary effect is not the confirmation of calendrical knowledge, but a quiet displacement that causes cognition to lose its stride for a moment. Even after both extremes have been counted in izuru mo iru mo (いづるも入るも), the poem still arrives at shiru hito zo nashi (知る人ぞなし). The reading consciousness therefore stops at the final line, and the oppositions of out/in, being/nonbeing, brightness/avidyā can no longer remain intact in their original form. The recursive fold does not permit escape into explanation; it returns consciousness to the very place where explanation comes undone. Its effect lies less in the satisfaction of “I understand” than in the quieting of the gesture that arises immediately before such a claim. Only from there can the moon’s neither-coming-nor-going, furai fuko (不来不去), begin to seep into the breath of practice.
Coda
The moon rises, and the moon sets. Yet are this “out” and “in” truly movements of the moon itself, or are they appearances and disappearances produced by the position from which the moon is watched? This poem does not define mumyō (無明). It raises the topic with to wa (とは), opens the vacant position of the knower with ya (や), counts the two extremes of rising and setting equally with mo / mo (も／も), and then, with zo nashi (ぞなし), removes only the footing of “the one who knows.” What remains in the final line is therefore not so much a deficiency of information as a stillness in which even the subject that calls itself the knower begins to come undone. The ring of “person—moon—person,” with the moon set at its waist, questions the first person, erases the last, and leaves only the light revolving between them. Avidyā is not explained here. It is performed as the instant in which the mind attempting to explain can no longer find anywhere to stand.
After the reins of Dōka 37, the yin and yang of Dōka 38, and the kotomuke of Dōka 39, Dōka 40 folds practice back upon itself at a still deeper level. Before delusion is restrained, before emergence and withdrawal are guided, and before the deluded are summoned into awakening, there is no one who can possess those operations by claiming to “know” them. The one of aiki is therefore fixed neither upon the side that emerges nor upon the side that withdraws, neither upon brightness nor upon avidyā. It continually returns the beat toward the source of Supreme Love. When the mind that divides and observes the moon’s appearances and disappearances falls still, practice moves from observation into participation, from understanding into accord. Then, when the moon rises, what has appeared? When the moon sets, what has gone away? And who, precisely, is the one who “knows” that answer now?
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Appendix I: Change Modification Log
06 SEP 26 - Updated with Primer 2's inclusion of kami.14 AUG 26 - Added additional poetics analysis; updated formatting; added coda to Japanese commentary; added translation of Japanese commentary and coda to English.20 MAY 26 - Phase V Speech Acts (Austin, 1962) analysis added in Japanese; updated citation style.21 DEC 25 - Phaes V styling applied to waka.07 NOV 25 - Phase IV refinement; commentary added. Still a difficult poem to translate for accessibility due to the optimal kami-no-ku to shimo-no-ku folding in working memory managing conceptual attack, sustain, and decay for efficacious transmission.22 OCT 25 - Phase IV complete; translation updated for more punch, upper/lower parallelism, after tone, and allusion to tetralemma (see Nagarjuna, ~200/1995).14 OCT 25 - Phase III completion.14 APR 20 - Initial notes transferred.