Matsuo Basho Translations

There are my English translations of haiku by Matsuo Basho...

My Personal Favorites

The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Come, investigate loneliness:
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
solemn evangelist
of loneliness
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkening,
the voices of the wild geese:
my mysterious companions!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The first chill rain:
poor monkey, you too could use
a woven cape of straw
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

I wish I could wash
this perishing earth
in its shimmering dew
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Dabbed with morning dew
and splashed with mud,
the melon looks wonderfully cool.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Butterflies

The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Will we remain parted forever?
Here at your grave:
two flowerlike butterflies!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Ballet in the air! ―
two butterflies, twice white,
meet, mate, unite.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A spring wind
stirs willow leaves
as a butterfly hovers unsteadily.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aki o hete / cho mo nameru ya / kiku no tsuyu

Come, butterfly,
it's late
and we've a long way to go!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Dusk-gliding swallow,
please spare my small friends
flitting among the flowers!
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Famous Frog Poem

An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

An ancient pond sleeps...
untroubled by sound or movement...until...
suddenly a frog leaps!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Explosion!
The frog returns
to its lily pad.
—Michael R. Burch original haiku



Basho's Heron

Lightning
shatters the darkness—
the night heron's shriek
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning―
the night heron's shriek
severs the darkness
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A flash of lightning―
the night heron's shriek
splits the void
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Flowers

Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Like a heavy fragrance
snowflakes settle:
lilies on rocks
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

High-altitude rose petals
falling
falling
falling:
the melody of a waterfall.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Revered figure!
I bow low
to the rabbit-eared Iris.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Cold white azalea—
a lone nun
in her thatched straw hut.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Glimpsed on this high mountain trail,
delighting my heart—
wild violets
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Disdaining grass,
the firefly nibbles nettles—
this is who I am.
—Takarai Kikaku translation by Michael R. Burch

A simple man,
content to breakfast with the morning glories—
this is who I am.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
This is Basho's response to the Takarai Kikaku haiku above
asagao ni / ware wa meshi kû / otoko kana

Ah me,
I waste my meager breakfast
morning glory gazing!
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories blossom,
reinforcing the old fence gate.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories, alas,
also turned out
not to embrace me
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories bloom,
mending chinks
in the old fence
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories,
however poorly painted,
still engage us
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
asagao wa / heta no kaku sae / aware nari

I too
have been accused
of morning glory gazing...
—original haiku by by Michael R. Burch

Curious flower,
watching us approach:
meet Death, our famished donkey.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Poems about Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter

Spring has come:
the nameless hill
lies shrouded in mist
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring!
A nameless hill
stands shrouded in mist.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The legs of the cranes
have been shortened
by the summer rains.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

These brown summer grasses?
The only remains
of "invincible" warriors...
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

An empty road
lonelier than abandonment:
this autumn evening
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Autumn darkness
descends
on this road I travel alone
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Taming the rage
of an unrelenting sun—
autumn breeze.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aka aka to / hi wa tsurenaku mo / aki no kaze

The sun sets,
relentlessly red,
yet autumn's in the wind.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aka aka to / hi wa tsurenaku mo / aki no kaze

As autumn draws near,
so too our hearts
in this small tea room.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aki chikaki / kokoro no yoru ya / yo jo han

Late autumn:
my neighbor,
how does he continue?
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter in the air:
my neighbor,
how does he fare?
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter solitude:
a world awash in white,
the sound of the wind
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The year's first day...
thoughts come, and with them, loneliness;
dusk approaches.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Temple Poems

Graven images of long-departed gods,
dry spiritless leaves:
companions of the temple porch
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bells grow silent
but the blossoms provide their incense―
A perfect evening!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

See: whose surviving sons
visit the ancestral graves
white-bearded, with trembling canes?
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Like a glorious shrine—
on these green, budding leaves,
the sun's intense radiance.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
ara toto / aoba wakaba no / hi no hikar



Basho's Birds

A raven settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A crow has settled
on a naked branch—
autumn nightfall
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
autumn twilight
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
phantom autumn
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A crow roosts
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightmare
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

NOTE: There has been a debate about the meaning of aki-no kure, which may mean one of the following: autumn evening, autumn dusk, the end of autumn. Or it seems possible that Basho may have intentionally invoked the ideas of both the end of an autumn day and the end of the season as well. In my translations I have tried to create an image of solitary crow clinging to a branch that seems like a harbinger of approaching winter and death. In the first translation I went with the least light possible: autumn twilight. In the second translation, I attempted something more ghostly. Phrases I considered include: spectral autumn, skeletal autumn, autumnal skeleton, phantom autumn, autumn nocturne, autumn nightfall, autumn nightmare, dismal autumn. In the third and fourth translations I focused on the color of the bird and its resemblance to night falling. While literalists will no doubt object, my goal is to create an image and a feeling that convey in English what I take Basho to have been trying to convey in Japanese. Readers will have to decide whether they prefer my translations to the many others that exist, but mine are trying to convey the eeriness of the scene in English.

Except for a woodpecker
tapping at a post,
the house is silent.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Swallow flitting in the dusk,
please spare my small friends
buzzing among the flowers!
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch




Basho's Insects

A bee emerging
from deep within the peony's hairy recesses
flies off heavily, sated
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

That dying cricket,
how he goes on about his life!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The cicada's cry
contains no hint
of how soon it must die.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing in the cicada's cry
hints that it knows
how soon it must die.
—Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The cicada's cry
contains no hint
of how soon it must die.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch




Basho's Moon and Stars

Pausing between clouds
the moon rests
in the eyes of its beholders
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The moon: glorious its illumination!
Therefore, we give thanks.
Dark clouds cast their shadows on our necks.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The surging sea crests around Sado...
and above her?
An ocean of stars.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
ara umi ya / Sado ni yokotau / Ama-no-gawa



Basho's Companions

Fire levitating ashes:
my companion's shadow
animates the wall...
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Among the graffiti
one illuminated name:
Yours.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Scrawny tomcat!
Are you starving for fish and mice
or pining away for love?
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's End of Life and Death Poems

Nothing happened!
Yesterday simply vanished
like the blowfish soup.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
ara nantomo na ya / kino wa sugite / fukuto-jiru

Fever-felled mid-path
my dreams resurrect, to trek
into a hollow land
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Sick of its autumn migration
my spirit drifts
over wilted fields...
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Sick of this autumn migration
in dreams I drift
over flowerless fields...
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

NOTE: While literalists will no doubt object to "flowerless" in the translation above ― along with other word choices in my other translations ― this is my preferred version. I think Basho's meaning still comes through. But "wilted" is probably closer to what he meant. If only we could consult him, to ask whether he preferred strictly literal prose translations of his poems, or more poetic interpretations! My guess is that most poets would prefer for their poems to remain poetry in the second language. In my opinion the differences are minor and astute readers will grok both Basho's meaning and his emotion.

Too ill to travel,
now only my autumn dreams
survey these withering fields
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



New Haiku Translations, Added 10/6/2020

Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Denied transformation
into a butterfly,
autumn worsens for the worm
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dusk-gliding swallow,
please spare my small friends
flitting among the flowers!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright!
Let’***** the road again,
Companion Butterfly!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Higher than a skylark,
resting on the breast of heaven:
mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Farewell,
my cloud-parting friend!
Wild goose migrating.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

A crow settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An exciting struggle
with such a sad ending:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly,
by the light of the moon,
a worm bores into a chestnut.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

This strange flower
investigated by butterflies and birds:
the autumn sky
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Where’s the moon tonight?
Like the temple bell:
lost at sea.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Spring departs;
birds wail;
the pale eyes of fish moisten.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon still appears,
though far from home:
summer vagrant.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Cooling the pitiless sun’s
bright red flames:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Saying farewell to others
while being told farewell:
departing autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  
Traveling this road alone:
autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Thin from its journey
and not yet recovered:
late harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Occasional clouds
bless tired eyes with rest
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The farmboy
rests from husking rice
to reach for the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon aside,
no one here
has such a lovely face.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon having set,
all that remains
are the four corners of his desk.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon so bright
a wandering monk carries it
lightly on his shoulder.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls
is obscured
by smoke from the crematory.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls!
Smoke from the crematory?
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Family reunion:
those with white hair and canes
visiting graves.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

One who is no more
left embroidered clothes
for a summer airing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

What am I doing,
writing haiku on the threshold of death?
Hush, a bird’s song!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Fallen ill on a final tour,
in dreams I go roving
earth’s flowerless moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Stricken ill on a senseless tour,
still in dreams I go roving
earth’s withered moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Stricken ill on a journey,
in dreams I go wandering
withered moors.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch


New Haiku Translations, Added 10/6/2020

Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Denied transformation
into a butterfly,
autumn worsens for the worm
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dusk-gliding swallow,
please spare my small friends
flitting among the flowers!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright!
Let’***** the road again,
Companion Butterfly!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Higher than a skylark,
resting on the breast of heaven:
mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Farewell,
my cloud-parting friend!
Wild goose migrating.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

A crow settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An exciting struggle
with such a sad ending:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly,
by the light of the moon,
a worm bores into a chestnut.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

This strange flower
investigated by butterflies and birds:
the autumn sky
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Where’s the moon tonight?
Like the temple bell:
lost at sea.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Spring departs;
birds wail;
the pale eyes of fish moisten.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon still appears,
though far from home:
summer vagrant.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Cooling the pitiless sun’s
bright red flames:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Saying farewell to others
while being told farewell:
departing autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  
Traveling this road alone:
autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Thin from its journey
and not yet recovered:
late harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Occasional clouds
bless tired eyes with rest
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The farmboy
rests from husking rice
to reach for the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon aside,
no one here
has such a lovely face.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon having set,
all that remains
are the four corners of his desk.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon so bright
a wandering monk carries it
lightly on his shoulder.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls
is obscured
by smoke from the crematory.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls!
Smoke from the crematory?
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Family reunion:
those with white hair and canes
visiting graves.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

One who is no more
left embroidered clothes
for a summer airing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

What am I doing,
writing haiku on the threshold of death?
Hush, a bird’s song!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Fallen ill on a final tour,
in dreams I go roving
earth’s flowerless moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Striken ill on a senseless tour,
still in dreams I go roving
earth’s withered moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Stricken ill on a journey,
in dreams I go wandering
withered moors.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch




NEW BASHO TRANSLATIONS 06-19-2025

SPRING

Blame the rainy season
for my absence,
old friend Moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

For yet a little while,
the pale moon
floating among blossoms...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Moon past full:
darkness
increasing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring rains
so heavy
they overflow the waterfall.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ll catch up
about cascading waterfall blossoms
when I drink with Li Bai.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fluttering rose petals
fall
into the river’s gurgling waters.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring rains
overwhelming the falls,
overflowing...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rainy season downpour
sours even the ears
of ripening plums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flood!
Stars will soon sleep
atop a rock.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ll dare drenching
my paper robes
to nab a sprig of spring blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where is that handsome man
no long with us:
the rain-hidden moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So much harsher
than other mouths,
the wind devours newborn blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So taken by their beauty,
I long to take
the maiden flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Trembling, feeble,
heavy with dew:
the maiden flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Other flowers bloom,
the camellias
remain indifferent.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An orchid’s
lingering fragrance
veils the bedchamber.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The boy’s bangs
retain the scent
of youthful grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring winds
tickle the flowers
till they burst out in laughter.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Falling to the ground,
returning to its roots,
the flower’s farewell.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So many things
recur in memory:
spring blossoms reopen.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing them naked
almost makes me caress
the ******* flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As temple bells fade
flowers strike their fragrance
into the silence.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bat also emerges
into the birds’
world of flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When planting,
please handle the infant cherry tree tenderly,
gently, like a baby.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How can one fret
during cherry blossom time?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How I envy them,
growing high above our transient world,
the mountain cherries.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Curiosity:
a butterfly alights
on nectarless grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary butterfly
hovers over
its own shadow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary butterfly
flutters above
its own shadow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since spring showers insist,
the eggplant seeds
commence sprouting.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Never belittle
the tiniest seeds:
the spunky pepper reddens.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once green,
behold!
The red pepper.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After spring rains
mugwort shoots up
in grassy lanes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Higher than the larks,
resting amid the blue,
this mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The blossom-filled day
makes the tree’s sadness
seem all the darker.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Goodbye, old friend:
no longer beckoning
miscanthus plumes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spying plum blossoms
the infatuated ox
bellows, “Yes!”
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The day-lily,
dripping water
into the grasses’ forgetfulness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Scooped up by my hands,
the springwater
shocks my teeth with its iciness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cats’ noisy mating subsides;
now into our bedroom
creeps the quiet moonlight.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here at Wakanoura
I’m finally in step
with fleeting and fleeing spring.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A bell-less village?
Who will ring in
the end of spring?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bell unheeded?
Unheard?
Still, spring is fleeting.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sun’s about to set:
the spring’s last shimmering heat ray.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

SUMMER

Such coolness
when shouldered:
the summer’s first melon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A wicker basket
shields the coolness
of the first melon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Morning dew:
the muddy melon
exudes coolness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Early summer rain:
the green spikemoss,
how long to remain?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Timidly the willow
refrains from touching
deutzia blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An oiled paper umbrella
attempts to push aside
unobliging willows.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The ancient river
ogles
the slender willow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So like life:
this small patch of shade
beneath a wicker hat.

Still alive
despite the slightness of my hat,
I cherish its shade.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This summer world
floats in the lake’s
silver waves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A weary horse
collapsing in barley:
traveler’s rest.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the distant plain
the deer’s voice
seems an inch tall.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How sad, the bellowing of bucks,
The bleatings of does,
at night.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even woodpeckers
hold this old hut sacred,
still standing in the summer grove.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Toppling from the topmost bough,
emptiness aloft:
the cicada’s husk.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hollyhock
leans sunward
in the summer rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ah, the splendid resplendence
of sunlight
on tender evergreen leaves!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fragrance of oranges...
In whose farmyard
is the cuckoo calling?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Temple bells reverberate:
cicadas singing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Shouldering hay bales,
someone left enough straw
to mark our way.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fireflies
turn our trees
into well-lit lodges.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A noontime firefly,
dim by daylight,
hides behind a pillar.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Firefly watching,
the tipsy boatman
rocks the boat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rising above fields of rice and barley,
the cry of the summer cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tedious life!
Plowing the rice field
back and forth...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lying in the summer grass,
discarded like a king’s robe,
the snakeskin.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The shrubby bush-clover?
How impudent
her appearance!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Glistening dew
sways without spilling
from the bush-clover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I bow low
to the venerable
rabbit-eared Iris.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rabbit-eared Iris,
pausing to chit-chat,
one joy of my journey.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rabbit-eared iris
inspires
another hokku.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rabbit-eared Iris,
admiring your reflection?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Inside Uchiyama,
unknown to outsiders,
blossoms full-bloom.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Uchiyama was a temple little-known to the outside world. In fact, uchi means “inside.”

AUTUMN

First of autumn:
the sea and the rice fields
the same green hue.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The autumn wind
like a ventriloquist
projects its piercing voice.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Voices in the reeds?
Ventriloquism
of the autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

East and West
united by the autumn wind
into a single melancholy.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing a friend off,
his hunched back
lonely in the autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Illuminating
sawn-off tree trunks:
the harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After pausing
for harvest moon viewing,
we must be on our way.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Our moon-viewing interrupted
on Asamutsu Bridge,
dark yields to dawn.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Consider lonesomeness
surpassing even Suma’s:
this deserted autumn beach.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bell
drowned in the sea,
and where is the moon?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My humble take on the world?
Withered leaves
at autumn’s end.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Withering flowers:
out of such sadness
seeds emerge.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Red on red on red,
the sun relentless,
yet autumn’s unimpressed.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This lusciously cool autumn day
we peel
aubergine melons.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cling to your leaves,
peach trees!
Autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This whiteness,
whiter than mountain quartz:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Shocking the grave,
my grief-filled cry:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spider,
to whom do you cry?
Autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How to reach safe haven?
An insect adrift
on a leaf.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reverential tears:
the falling leaves
bid their trees goodbye.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plates and bowls
gleaming dimly in the darkness:
evening coolness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Twice the pity:
beneath the headless helmet,
a chirping cricket.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly
by moonlight
weevils bore chestnuts.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cranes on stilts
surveying the rice paddies:
autumn village.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Thankfulness:
someone else harvests rice
for me.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How touching
to survive the storm,
chrysanthemum.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Slender again,
somehow the chrysanthemum
will yet again bud.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

His loosened jacket collar
invites the cool breeze.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Butterfly wings:
how many times have they soared
over human roofs?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mosquitos drone
with dusky voices
deep within the cattle shed.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho leaves shred in the gale;
the basin collects raindrips;
all night I listen, alone in my hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dew drips, drop-by-drop...
I’d rinse this world clean,
if I could.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fire’s banked ashes
extinguish
your tears’ hisses.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Turn to face me,
for I am also lonesome
this autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plucking white hairs
while beneath my pillow
a cricket creaks.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Everything that blossoms
dies in the end:
wilted pampas grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn departs,
shivering
I scrunch under too-small bedding.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It seems, to dullard me,
that hell must be like this:
late autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

WINTER

The year’s first snowfall;
such happiness to be
at home in my hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fire-making friend,
let me show you something grand:
a huge snowball!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Written for Basho’s dear friend Sora, who visited Basho’s hut to feed the fire, cook, break ice and make tea.

Come, children,
let’s frolic in the snowstorm,
dodge the hail.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Farewell for now,
we’re off to find snow
until we tumble into it.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let’s get up
until we fall into
the snow we seek.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Yesteryear’s snows,
have they fallen anew?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter drizzle;
irate, I await
snow adorning the pines.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Practicing bowing,
the bamboo
anticipates snow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bowing low,
the upside-down world
of snow-laden bamboo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Melancholic flowers
shrivel
in the frost.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hailstones
stitching
the silken snow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oars slapping waves,
the stomach a-shiver,
these nighttime tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Icefish
shoaling through seaweed
swim into my hands.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sunrise:
one-inch sliver
of the whitefish’s iciness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alive
but congealed into one:
the frozen sea cucumbers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Somehow alive
yet congealed into a single solid mass:
the frozen sea cucumbers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water so cold,
rocks so hard,
where will the seagull sleep?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plovers depart
as evening deepens
windward toward Hiei.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Crying in the darkness,
unable to locate its nest,
the homeless plover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The plovers cry:
“Be watchful of the darkness
at Star Cape!”
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mushroom-gathering,
rushing to beat
cold evening rains.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ceremonious
hailstones
assail my hinoki hat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Caught hatless
in a winter shower?
So it goes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How many frosts
have tested
this pine’s mettle?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A winter drizzle
obscures
the field’s freshcut stubble.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The drinkers’ faces
paler than the snow:
a flash of lightning.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The polished mirror
clear as snowflake petals.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The relentless wind
sharpens rocks and stones,
topples cedars.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cold fear
desolate as a deserted
frost-crusted shack.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How marvelous,
the winter snow
will return as rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Children come running,
dodging jewels:
hailstones.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At least the world has left,
unblemished and unbegrimed,
a single wooden bowl.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bowl in question had been left by Rotsu in Osaka, and was returned undamaged seven years later. Rotsu was a Basho disciple.

The mud snail’s closed lid:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Inside my hut,
watching my own breath:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So weary of Kyoto,
of the withering wind
and winter life.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will soon be included
among the fortunate ones:
beyond winter.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

VARIOUS

As clouds drift apart,
so we two separate:
wild geese departing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The old nest deserted,
how empty now
my next-door neighbor’s hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday?
Departed,
like the blowfish soup.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Exciting,
but with a sad conclusion:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The one who died:
her delicate kimono
hung out to dry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Behind the veiling curtain,
the wife in her bedchamber:
plum blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See her slim figure:
the ingenue moon
not yet ripened.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clouds now and then
offer intermissions
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Drinking
alone with the moon,
my shadow makes three.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon and the blossoms
lack only a man
drinking sake, alone.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unbar the door,
allow moonlight
to enter Ukimido.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ukimido was a temple Basho visited in 1691.

Drinking morning tea,
the monks
silent amid chrysanthemums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Its fragrance whiter
than the peach blossoms’ whiteness:
the narcissus.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The narcissus
reflects the whiteness
of a paper screen.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hibiscus flowers
garland
an otherwise naked child.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The overproud
pink begonia
thinks it’s a watermelon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Echo my lonesomeness,
mountain cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cuckoo’s lone voice
lingers
over the inlet.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Solitary hawk,
a heavenly vision
over Cape Irago.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At Cape Irago
the incomparable cry
of the hawk.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Better than any dream,
the thrilling reality
of a hawk’s cry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hawk’s eye narrows
at the quail’s call.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Naptime!
But my drowsiness is nixed
by busybody warblers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Carolers:
the sparrows smile
at their warbling.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Giving thanks to the flowers
for brightening my visit:
farewell.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Melancholy nub!
The bamboo bud’s
sad end.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This lightning flash
the hand receives in darkness:
a candle.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Carrying a candle
into the dark outhouse:
the moonflowers’ whiteness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing a moonflower,
I poke my sake-addled face
through a hole in the window.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nighttime folly:
grabbing a thorn,
expecting a firefly.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

More nighttime weirdness:
a fox stalking
a melon?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s better to become a beggar
than a critic.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No rest:
the carpenter
hangs his own shelf.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Blowing away
the volcano’s molars:
the typhoon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What decays
have you endured,
watchful tomb ferns?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A disgusting smell
slimed on waterweeds:
pale chub entrails.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A country boy
shucking husks
gazes at the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The poet’s heart?
Will we ever really understand
ume blossoms?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

For at least today
let all the poets be
melodious as winter rains.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I believe the haiku above was written during a gathering of poets.

What tree blossoms here?
I do not know
its mysterious aroma.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will lodge here
until the tender goosefoot
matures into a walking stick.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’d compare a flower
to a delicate child
but the field is barren.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho wrote the poem above for a friend, Rakugo, who had lost a child.

Even a poorly-painted
morning glory
pleases.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories
ignore our drinking,
drunk on themselves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Slender glistener!
Each dewdrop a burden
for the maiden flower.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon absent,
treetops cling
to the nighttime rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

May you tumble safely
onto sand or snow,
sake-addled horse rider.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I miss my mother and father
so much:
the kiji’s cry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The kiji is a green pheasant but also a metaphor for the love of one’s family and kiji is also a homophone for “orphaned child.”

I pause from my journey
to observe the fleeting world
going about its housecleaning.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No simile!
Nothing compares
to the crescent moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The overstaying moon
and I
linger in Sarawhina.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Her ascent easy
and yet still hesitant,
the cloud-veiled moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A cuckoo flying,
cawing, crying and cajoling:
busybody.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What’s all the ado
about this busybody crow?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Art begins
with ancient rice-planting chants
drifting on the wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Today’s words
vanish tomorrow:
evaporating dew.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho may have proved himself wrong with the poem above, since so many of his poems are still being read, studied and translated.

Unregarded by the high-minded
the lowly chestnut
blossoms by the eaves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clinging for dear life
to the bridge,
these winding vines.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This swinging bridge:
hard to imagine
horses crossing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even in Kyoto,
a longing for Kyoto,
the cuckoo calling.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cuckoo symbolizes nostalgia. Here Basho seems to be in Kyoto but longing for the Kyoto of his past.

Rock azaleas
dyed red
by the cuckoo’s tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In Japan the cuckoo is said to shed tears of blood.

I would wipe away the tears
brimming in your eyes
with these tender leaves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reincarnation?
The fawn’s first dawn
falls on Buddha’s birthday.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Forbidden to speak
of holy Yudono,
my sleeves wet with tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let us learn
from the travails
of these ancient pilgrims.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The samurai’s
overlong discourse:
the tang of bitter daikon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tender-horned snail,
point those tiny tips
toward distant mountains!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A dragonfly
clings tentatively to the air,
hovering above waving grasses.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tiny river crab
creeping up my leg?
Back to the water!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The windblown butterfly
is unable to settle
in the waving grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even the wild boar
is blown about
by buffeting winds.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The boat
comes to rest
on a beach of peach blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning
does not enlighten,
of what value?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A banked fire,
the shadow
of a guest.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Remember:
the thicket
guards plum blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t chortle with glee:
through the leaves of the silk tree
stars wink at me.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Kiyotaki’s unblemished waves
gently dispersing
still-green pine needles.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is said to have been Basho’s last haiku. Kiyotaki means “clear” and is the name of a river.

Immaculate white chrysanthemums:
no matter how closely investigated,
without a blemish.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I suspect the two poems above are related because the first poem in one version had “without a blemish” or “nary a blemish.”

Faint
in a trace of water:
floating chrysanthemums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

OTHER POETS

Observe:
see how the wild violets bloom
within the forbidden fences!
—Shida Yaba (1663-1740), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When no wind at all
ruffles the Kiri tree
leaves fall of their own free will.
—Nozawa Boncho (1640-1714), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Keywords/Tags: Basho, haiku, translation, Japan, Japanese, Oriental, Orient Occident, nature, season, seasons, waka, tanka, life and death, compassion, empathy, mrbhaiku, mrbbasho

1273

That sacred Closet when you sweep—
Entitled “Memory”—
Select a reverential Broom—
And do it silently.

’Twill be a Labor of surprise—
Besides Identity
Of other Interlocutors
A probability—

August the Dust of that Domain—
Unchallenged—let it lie—
You cannot supersede itself
But it can silence you—

1
if and when I'm retired

I'd expect the world to be kind
and reverential:
so I'd expect when I drive

all people get off the road 

when they see me approach;

and at the bank 
for all to step aside

for a man whose daily 3-time meals

is nothing but baked beans


2
I'd expect the world to be in awe, and to admire
so the women would say: *
”My, look at this retiree
in his psychedelic shirt and rainbow hat
and his bell-bottoms – real cool, baby”
and the men would concur, dazzled:
“Owww - this guy, what planet is he from?”


3
and 
of course I'd expect
 the govt
to send me my cheque
 weekly –
no, wait - EFT
will be the way to go;

and the Minister for the Retired
should call me every 30th

to ask if I’d like a raise

4
Also I’d expect
to wake up each morning
to find a cup of coffee ready on my table
and I’d turn to my wife and say:
“All our lives, you always put the ****** salt
in the coffee”
And I’d expect her to say
(cos that’s always been the way):
“If you want sugar in your coffee
fix your ****** coffee yourself!”*

5
And  all these things I expect
of the world (except of my wife)
to be kind 
and reverential
if and when I’m retired -
but then again, I might just die
at my table at work
after a coffee I fixed myself

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.
             Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi.

“O Cæsar, we who are about to die
Salute you!” was the gladiators’ cry
In the arena, standing face to face
With death and with the Roman populace.

O ye familiar scenes,—ye groves of pine,
That once were mine and are no longer mine,—
Thou river, widening through the meadows green
To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen,—
Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose

Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose
And vanished,—we who are about to die,
Salute you; earth and air and sea and sky,
And the Imperial Sun that scatters down
His sovereign splendors upon grove and town.

Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear!
We are forgotten; and in your austere
And calm indifference, ye little care
Whether we come or go, or whence or where.
What passing generations fill these halls,
What passing voices echo from these walls,
Ye heed not; we are only as the blast,
A moment heard, and then forever past.

Not so the teachers who in earlier days
Led our bewildered feet through learning’s maze;
They answer us—alas! what have I said?
What greetings come there from the voiceless dead?
What salutation, welcome, or reply?
What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie?
They are no longer here; they all are gone
Into the land of shadows,—all save one.
Honor and reverence, and the good repute
That follows faithful service as its fruit,
Be unto him, whom living we salute.

The great Italian poet, when he made
His dreadful journey to the realms of shade,
Met there the old instructor of his youth,
And cried in tones of pity and of ruth:
“Oh, never from the memory of my heart

Your dear, paternal image shall depart,
Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised,
Taught me how mortals are immortalized;
How grateful am I for that patient care
All my life long my language shall declare.”

To-day we make the poet’s words our own,
And utter them in plaintive undertone;
Nor to the living only be they said,
But to the other living called the dead,
Whose dear, paternal images appear
Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here;
Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw,
Were part and parcel of great Nature’s law;
Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid,
“Here is thy talent in a napkin laid,”
But labored in their sphere, as men who live
In the delight that work alone can give.
Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest,
And the fulfilment of the great behest:
“Ye have been faithful over a few things,
Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings.”

And ye who fill the places we once filled,
And follow in the furrows that we tilled,
Young men, whose generous hearts are beating high,
We who are old, and are about to die,
Salute you; hail you; take your hands in ours,
And crown you with our welcome as with flowers!

How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams
With its illusions, aspirations, dreams!
Book of Beginnings, Story without End,
Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!
Aladdin’s Lamp, and Fortunatus’ Purse,
That holds the treasures of the universe!
All possibilities are in its hands,
No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands;
In its sublime audacity of faith,
“Be thou removed!” it to the mountain saith,
And with ambitious feet, secure and proud,
Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud!

As ancient Priam at the Scæan gate
Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state
With the old men, too old and weak to fight,
Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight
To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield,
Of Trojans and Achaians in the field;
So from the snowy summits of our years
We see you in the plain, as each appears,
And question of you; asking, “Who is he
That towers above the others? Which may be
Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus,
Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus?”

Let him not boast who puts his armor on
As he who puts it off, the battle done.
Study yourselves; and most of all note well
Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel.
Not every blossom ripens into fruit;
Minerva, the inventress of the flute,
Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed
Distorted in a fountain as she played;
The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate
Was one to make the bravest hesitate.

Write on your doors the saying wise and old,
“Be bold! be bold!” and everywhere, “Be bold;
Be not too bold!” Yet better the excess
Than the defect; better the more than less;
Better like Hector in the field to die,
Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly.

And now, my classmates; ye remaining few
That number not the half of those we knew,
Ye, against whose familiar names not yet
The fatal asterisk of death is set,
Ye I salute! The horologe of Time
Strikes the half-century with a solemn chime,
And summons us together once again,
The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain.

Where are the others? Voices from the deep
Caverns of darkness answer me: “They sleep!”
I name no names; instinctively I feel
Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel,
And from the inscription wipe the weeds and moss,
For every heart best knoweth its own loss.
I see their scattered gravestones gleaming white
Through the pale dusk of the impending night;
O’er all alike the impartial sunset throws
Its golden lilies mingled with the rose;
We give to each a tender thought, and pass
Out of the graveyards with their tangled grass,
Unto these scenes frequented by our feet
When we were young, and life was fresh and sweet.

What shall I say to you? What can I say
Better than silence is? When I survey
This throng of faces turned to meet my own,
Friendly and fair, and yet to me unknown,
Transformed the very landscape seems to be;
It is the same, yet not the same to me.
So many memories crowd upon my brain,
So many ghosts are in the wooded plain,
I fain would steal away, with noiseless tread,
As from a house where some one lieth dead.
I cannot go;—I pause;—I hesitate;
My feet reluctant linger at the gate;
As one who struggles in a troubled dream
To speak and cannot, to myself I seem.

Vanish the dream! Vanish the idle fears!
Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years!
Whatever time or space may intervene,
I will not be a stranger in this scene.
Here every doubt, all indecision, ends;
Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, friends!

Ah me! the fifty years since last we met
Seem to me fifty folios bound and set
By Time, the great transcriber, on his shelves,
Wherein are written the histories of ourselves.
What tragedies, what comedies, are there;
What joy and grief, what rapture and despair!
What chronicles of triumph and defeat,
Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat!
What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears!
What pages blotted, blistered by our tears!
What lovely landscapes on the margin shine,
What sweet, angelic faces, what divine
And holy images of love and trust,
Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or dust!
Whose hand shall dare to open and explore
These volumes, closed and clasped forevermore?
Not mine. With reverential feet I pass;
I hear a voice that cries, “Alas! alas!
Whatever hath been written shall remain,
Nor be erased nor written o’er again;
The unwritten only still belongs to thee:
Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be.”

As children frightened by a thunder-cloud
Are reassured if some one reads aloud
A tale of wonder, with enchantment fraught,
Or wild adventure, that diverts their thought,
Let me endeavor with a tale to chase
The gathering shadows of the time and place,
And banish what we all too deeply feel
Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal.

In mediæval Rome, I know not where,
There stood an image with its arm in air,
And on its lifted finger, shining clear,
A golden ring with the device, “Strike here!”
Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed
The meaning that these words but half expressed,
Until a learned clerk, who at noonday
With downcast eyes was passing on his way,
Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it well,
Whereon the shadow of the finger fell;
And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found
A secret stairway leading underground.
Down this he passed into a spacious hall,
Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall;
And opposite, in threatening attitude,
With bow and shaft a brazen statue stood.
Upon its forehead, like a coronet,
Were these mysterious words of menace set:
“That which I am, I am; my fatal aim
None can escape, not even yon luminous flame!”

Midway the hall was a fair table placed,
With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased
With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold,
And gold the bread and viands manifold.
Around it, silent, motionless, and sad,
Were seated gallant knights in armor clad,
And ladies beautiful with plume and zone,
But they were stone, their hearts within were stone;
And the vast hall was filled in every part
With silent crowds, stony in face and heart.

Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed
The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed;
Then from the table, by his greed made bold,
He seized a goblet and a knife of gold,
And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang,
The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang,
The archer sped his arrow, at their call,
Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall,
And all was dark around and overhead;—
Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead!

The writer of this legend then records
Its ghostly application in these words:
The image is the Adversary old,
Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold;
Our lusts and passions are the downward stair
That leads the soul from a diviner air;
The archer, Death; the flaming jewel, Life;
Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife;
The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone
By avarice have been hardened into stone;
The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf
Tempts from his books and from his nobler self.

The scholar and the world! The endless strife,
The discord in the harmonies of life!
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks,
And all the sweet serenity of books;
The market-place, the eager love of gain,
Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!

But why, you ask me, should this tale be told
To men grown old, or who are growing old?
It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles
Wrote his grand Oedipus, and Simonides
Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers,
When each had numbered more than fourscore years,
And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten,
Had but begun his “Characters of Men.”
Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales,
At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales;
Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last,
Completed Faust when eighty years were past.
These are indeed exceptions; but they show
How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow
Into the arctic regions of our lives,
Where little else than life itself survives.

As the barometer foretells the storm
While still the skies are clear, the weather warm
So something in us, as old age draws near,
Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere.
The nimble mercury, ere we are aware,
Descends the elastic ladder of the air;
The telltale blood in artery and vein
Sinks from its higher levels in the brain;
Whatever poet, orator, or sage
May say of it, old age is still old age.
It is the waning, not the crescent moon;
The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon;
It is not strength, but weakness; not desire,
But its surcease; not the fierce heat of fire,
The burning and consuming element,
But that of ashes and of embers spent,
In which some living sparks we still discern,
Enough to warm, but not enough to burn.

What then? Shall we sit idly down and say
The night hath come; it is no longer day?
The night hath not yet come; we are not quite
Cut off from labor by the failing light;
Something remains for us to do or dare;
Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear;
Not Oedipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode,
Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode
Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn,
But other something, would we but begin;
For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

932

My best Acquaintances are those
With Whom I spoke no Word—
The Stars that stated come to Town
Esteemed Me never rude
Although to their Celestial Call
I failed to make reply—
My constant—reverential Face
Sufficient Courtesy.

You grow wild yet reverential
Your bowed white heads
Gathered in prayer groups
Dotting the well-kept lawn of the dead.

Do the residents tend to you?
Do their icy-white greenfingers
- reanimated by the winter moon -
Awaken you with a deathly touch?

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees;
But silently, by slow degrees,
My spirit I to Love compose,
In humble trust mine eyelids close,
With reverential resignation,
No wish conceived, no thought expressed,
Only a sense of supplication;
A sense o’er all my soul impressed
That I am weak, yet not unblessed,
Since in me, round me, every where
Eternal strength and wisdom are.

But yester-night I prayed aloud
In anguish and in agony,
Up-starting from the fiendish crowd
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me:
A lurid light, a trampling throng,
Sense of intolerable wrong,
And whom I scorned, those only strong!
Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
Still baffled, and yet burning still!
Desire with loathing strangely mixed
On wild or hateful objects fixed.
Fantastic passions! maddening brawl!
And shame and terror over all!
Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
Which all confused I could not know
Whether I suffered, or I did:
For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe,
My own or others still the same
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.

So two nights passed: the night’s dismay
Saddened and stunned the coming day.
Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me
Distemper’s worst calamity.
The third night, when my own loud scream
Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
O’ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
I wept as I had been a child;
And having thus by tears subdued
My anguish to a milder mood,
Such punishments, I said, were due
To natures deepliest stained with sin,—
For aye entempesting anew
The unfathomable hell within
The horror of their deeds to view,
To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
Such griefs with such men well agree,
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?
To be beloved is all I need,
And whom I love, I love indeed.

Now thou hast loved me one whole day,
Tomorrow when thou leav’st, what wilt thou say?
Wilt thou then antedate some new made vow?
      Or say that now
We are not just those persons, which we were?
Or, that oaths made in reverential fear
Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear?
Or, as true deaths, true marriages untie,
So lovers’ contracts, images of those,
Bind but till sleep, death’s image, them unloose?
      Or, your own end to justify,
For having purposed change, and falsehood, you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true?
Vain lunatic, against these ’scapes I could
      Dispute, and conquer, if I would,
      Which I abstain to do,
For by tomorrow, I may think so too.

These are English translations Haiku by the Japanese Masters of the form, including Matsuo Basho, Yosa Buson, Fukuda Chiyo-ni, Kobayashi Issa, Yamaguchi Seishi and Hisajo Sugita.

Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Come, investigate loneliness!
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning
shatters the darkness―
the night heron's shriek
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

One apple, alone
in the abandoned orchard
reddens for winter
― Patrick Blanche, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is by a French poet; it illustrates how the poetry of Oriental masters like Basho has influenced poets around the world.



I remove my beautiful kimono:
its varied braids
surround and entwine my body
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This day of chrysanthemums
I shake and comb my wet hair,
as their petals shed rain
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This sheer kimono—
how the moon peers through
to my naked skin!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

These festive flowery robes—
though quickly undressed,
how their colored cords still continue to cling!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Chrysanthemum petals
reveal their pale curves
shyly to the moon.
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Loneliness —
reading the Bible
as the rain deflowers cherry blossoms.
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

How deep this valley,
how elevated the butterfly's flight!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

How lowly this valley,
how lofty the butterfly's flight!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Echoes from the hills—
the mountain cuckoo sings as it will,
trill upon trill
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



This darkening autumn:
my neighbor,
how does he continue?
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Pausing between clouds
the moon rests
in the eyes of its beholders
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first chill rain:
poor monkey, you too could use
a woven cape of straw
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Like a heavy fragrance
snow-flakes settle:
lilies on the rocks
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
solemn evangelist
of loneliness
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkening,
the voices of the wild ducks:
my mysterious companions!
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Will we meet again?
Here at your flowering grave:
two white butterflies
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Fever-felled mid-path
my dreams resurrect, to trek
into a hollow land
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Too ill to travel,
now only my autumn dreams
survey these withering fields
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch; this has been called Basho's death poem

These brown summer grasses?
The only remains
of "invincible" warriors...
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Graven images of long-departed gods,
dry spiritless leaves:
companions of the temple porch
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

See: whose surviving sons
visit the ancestral graves
white-bearded, with trembling canes?
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An empty road
lonelier than abandonment:
this autumn evening
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring has come:
the nameless hill
lies shrouded in mist
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



The Oldest Haiku

These are my translations of some of the oldest Japanese waka, which evolved into poetic forms such as tanka, renga and haiku over time. My translations are excerpts from the Kojiki (the "Record of Ancient Matters"), a book composed around 711-712 A.D. by the historian and poet Ō no Yasumaro. The Kojiki relates Japan’s mythological beginnings and the history of its imperial line. Like Virgil's Aeneid, the Kojiki seeks to legitimize rulers by recounting their roots. These are lines from one of the oldest Japanese poems, found in the oldest Japanese book:

While you decline to cry,
high on the mountainside
a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here's another excerpt, with a humorous twist, from the Kojiki:

Hush, cawing crows; what rackets you make!
Heaven's indignant messengers,
you remind me of wordsmiths!
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here's another, this one a poem of love and longing:

Onyx, this gem-black night.
Downcast, I await your return
like the rising sun, unrivaled in splendor.
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



More Haiku by Various Poets

Right at my feet!
When did you arrive here,
snail?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Our world of dew
is a world of dew indeed;
and yet, and yet...
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, brilliant moon
can it be true that even you
must rush off, like us, tardy?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Standing unsteadily,
I am the scarecrow’s
skinny surrogate
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Autumn wind ...
She always wanted to pluck
the reddest roses
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Issa wrote the haiku above after the death of his daughter Sato with the note: “Sato, girl, 35th day, at the grave.”



The childless woman,
how tenderly she caresses
homeless dolls ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clinging
to the plum tree:
one blossom's worth of warmth
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

One leaf falls, enlightenment!
Another leaf falls,
swept away by the wind ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This has been called Ransetsu’s “death poem.” In The Classic Tradition of Haiku, Faubion Bowers says in a footnote to this haiku: “Just as ‘blossom’, when not modified, means ‘cherry flower’ in haiku, ‘one leaf’ is code for ‘kiri’. Kiri ... is the Pawlonia ... The leaves drop throughout the year. They shrivel, turn yellow, and yield to gravity. Their falling symbolizes loneliness and connotes the past. The large purple flowers ... are deeply associated with haiku because the three prongs hold 5, 7 and 5 buds ... ‘Totsu’ is an exclamation supposedly uttered when a Zen student achieves enlightenment. The sound also imitates the dry crackle the pawlonia leaf makes as it scratches the ground upon falling.”



This world?
Moonlit dew
flicked from a crane's bill.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen (1200-1253) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seventy-one?
How long
can a dewdrop last?
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dewdrops beading grass-blades
die before dawn;
may an untimely wind not hasten their departure!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dewdrops beading blades of grass
have so little time to shine before dawn;
let the autumn wind not rush too quickly through the field!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Outside my window the plums, blossoming,
within their curled buds, contain the spring;
the moon is reflected in the cup-like whorls
of the lovely flowers I gather and twirl.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Disdaining grass,
the firefly nibbles nettles—
this is who I am.
—Takarai Kikaku (1661-1707), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A simple man,
content to breakfast with the morning glories—
this is who I am.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is Basho’s response to the Takarai Kikaku haiku above

The morning glories, alas,
also turned out
not to embrace me
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories bloom,
mending chinks
in the old fence
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories,
however poorly painted,
still engage us
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I too
have been accused
of morning glory gazing ...
—original haiku by by Michael R. Burch

Taming the rage
of an unrelenting sun—
autumn breeze.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sun sets,
relentlessly red,
yet autumn’s in the wind.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn draws near,
so too our hearts
in this small tea room.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing happened!
Yesterday simply vanished
like the blowfish soup.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The surging sea crests around Sado ...
and above her?
An ocean of stars.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Revered figure!
I bow low
to the rabbit-eared Iris.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, butterfly,
it’s late
and we’ve a long way to go!
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing in the cry
of the cicadas
suggests they know they soon must die.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I wish I could wash
this perishing earth
in its shimmering dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dabbed with morning dew
and splashed with mud,
the melon looks wonderfully cool.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cold white azalea—
a lone nun
in her thatched straw hut.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Glimpsed on this high mountain trail,
delighting my heart—
wild violets
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bee emerging
from deep within the peony’s hairy recesses
flies off heavily, sated
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A crow has settled
on a naked branch—
autumn nightfall
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Except for a woodpecker
tapping at a post,
the house is silent.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That dying cricket,
how he goes on about his life!
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Like a glorious shrine—
on these green, budding leaves,
the sun’s intense radiance.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Yosa Buson haiku translations

On the temple’s great bronze gong
a butterfly
snoozes.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hard to describe:
this light sensation of being pinched
by a butterfly!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not to worry spiders,
I clean house ... sparingly.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Among the fallen leaves,
an elderly frog.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In an ancient well
fish leap for mosquitoes,
a dark sound.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flowers with thorns
remind me of my hometown ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reaching the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Picking autumn plums
my wrinkled hands
once again grow fragrant
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A silk robe, casually discarded,
exudes fragrance
into the darkening evening
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Whose delicate clothes
still decorate the clothesline?
Late autumn wind.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is an example of a translation in which I interpreted the poem before translating it. In the original poem the clothes were thin (suggesting suggestive garments). In Japanese poetry an autumn wind can represent loneliness. So I interpreted the poem to be about an aging woman who still wears enticing clothes but is increasingly lonely. Since in the West we don't normally drape clothes on screens, I moved the clothes to a clothesline, which works well with the wind. For me it's a sad poem about something that happens all too often to people as they age.

An evening breeze:
water lapping the heron’s legs.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

gills puffing,
a hooked fish:
the patient
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The stirred morning air
ruffles the hair
of a caterpillar.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Intruder!
This white plum tree
was once outside our fence!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tender grass
forgetful of its roots
the willow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I believe the poem above can be taken as commentary on ungrateful children. It reminds me of Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays."―MRB

Since I'm left here alone,
I'll make friends with the moon.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hood-wearer
in his self-created darkness
misses the harvest moon
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

White blossoms of the pear tree―
a young woman reading his moonlit letter
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The pear tree flowers whitely:
a young woman reading his letter
by moonlight
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On adjacent branches
the plum tree blossoms
bloom petal by petal―love!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A misty spring moon ...
I entice a woman
to pay it our respects
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Courtesans
purchasing kimonos:
plum trees blossoming
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring sea
rocks all day long:
rising and falling, ebbing and flowing ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the whale
    dives
its tail gets taller!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

While tilling the field
the motionless cloud
vanished.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even lonelier than last year:
this autumn evening.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My thoughts return to my Mother and Father:
late autumn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Late autumn:
my thoughts return to my Mother and Father
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This roaring winter wind:
the cataract grates on its rocks.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

While snow lingers
in creases and recesses:
flowers of the plum
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plowing,
not a single bird sings
in the mountain's shadow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the lingering heat
of an abandoned cowbarn
only the sound of the mosquitoes is dark.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The red plum's fallen petals
seem to ignite horse ****.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dawn!
The brilliant sun illuminates
sardine heads.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The abandoned willow shines
between bright rains
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dew-damp grass:
the setting sun’s tears
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dew-damp grass
weeps silently
in the setting sun
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

White plum blossoms―
though the hour grows late,
a glimpse of dawn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is believed to be Buson's jisei (death poem) and he is said to have died before dawn.

Lately the nights
dawn
plum-blossom white.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is a second interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem).

In the deepening night
I saw by the light
of the white plum blossoms

―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is a third interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem).

Our life here on earth:
to what shall we compare it?
Perhaps to a rowboat
departing at daybreak,
leaving no trace of us in its wake?
—Takaha Shugyo or Yosa Buson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



I thought I felt a dewdrop
plop
on me as I lay in bed!
― Masaoka Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

We cannot see the moon
and yet the waves still rise
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first morning of autumn:
the mirror I investigate
reflects my father’s face
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Wild geese pass
leaving the emptiness of heaven
revealed
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Inside the cracked shell
of a walnut:
one empty room.
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Bring me an icicle
sparkling with the stars
of the deep north
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Seen from the skyscraper
the trees' fresh greenery:
parsley sprigs
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Are the geese flying south?
The candle continues to flicker ...
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Still clad in its clown's costume—
the dead ladybird.
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A single tree,
a heart carved into its trunk,
blossoms prematurely
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Silently observing
the bottomless mountain lake:
water lilies
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Cranes
flapping ceaselessly
test the sky's upper limits
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Falling snowflakes'
glitter
tinsels the sea
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Blizzards here on earth,
blizzards of stars
in the sky
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Completely encircled
in emerald:
the glittering swamp!
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The new calendar!:
as if tomorrow
is assured...
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because morning glories
hold my well-bucket hostage
I go begging for water
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Spring
stirs the clouds
in the sky's teabowl
― Kikusha-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight I saw
how the peony crumples
in the fire's embers
― Katoh Shuhson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

It fills me with anger,
this moon; it fills me
and makes me whole
― Takeshita Shizunojo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

War
stood at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
― Watanabe Hakusen, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because he is slow to wrath,
I tackle him, then wring his neck
in the long grass
― Shimazu Ryoh, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Pale mountain sky:
cherry petals play
as they tumble earthward
― Kusama Tokihiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The frozen moon,
the frozen lake:
two oval mirrors reflecting each other.
― Hashimoto Takako, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The bitter winter wind
ends here
with the frozen sea
― Ikenishi Gonsui, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, bitter winter wind,
why bellow so
when there's no leaves to fell?
― Natsume Sôseki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter waves
roil
their own shadows
― Tominaga Fûsei, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

No sky,
no land:
just snow eternally falling...
― Kajiwara Hashin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Along with spring leaves
my child's teeth
take root, blossom
― Nakamura Kusatao, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Stillness:
a single chestnut leaf glides
on brilliant water
― Ryuin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As thunder recedes
a lone tree stands illuminated in sunlight:
applauded by cicadas
― Masaoka Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The snake slipped away
but his eyes, having held mine,
still stare in the grass
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Girls gather sprouts of rice:
reflections of the water flicker
on the backs of their hats
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Murmurs follow the hay cart
this blossoming summer day
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The wet nurse
paused to consider a bucket of sea urchins
then walked away
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

May I be with my mother
wearing her summer kimono
by the morning window
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The hands of a woman exist
to remove the insides of the spring cuttlefish
― Sekitei Hara, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The moon
hovering above the snow-capped mountains
rained down hailstones
― Sekitei Hara, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly:
a puff of white snow
cresting mountains
― Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring snow
cascades over fences
in white waves
― Suju Takano, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Tanka and Waka translations:

If fields of autumn flowers
can shed their blossoms, shameless,
why can’t I also frolic here —
as fearless, and as blameless?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Submit to you —
is that what you advise?
The way the ripples do
whenever ill winds arise?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Watching wan moonlight
illuminate trees,
my heart also brims,
overflowing with autumn.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I had thought to pluck
the flower of forgetfulness
only to find it
already blossoming in his heart.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

That which men call "love" —
is it not merely the chain
preventing our escape
from this world of pain?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Once-colorful flowers faded,
while in my drab cell
life’s impulse also abated
as the long rains fell.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I set off at the shore
of the seaside of Tago,
where I saw the high, illuminated peak
of Fuji―white, aglow―
through flakes of drifting downy snow.
― Akahito Yamabe, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



New Haiku Translations, added 6/27/2022

As the monks sip their morning tea,
chrysanthemums quietly blossom.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fragrance of plum blossoms
on a foggy path:
the sun rising.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkens ...
yet still faintly white
the wild duck protests.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pear tree blossoms
whitened by moonlight:
a young woman reading a letter.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Outlined in the moonlight ...
who is that standing
among the pear trees?
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your coolness:
the sound of the bell
departing the bell.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the moon flies west
the flowers' shadows
creep eastward.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By such pale moonlight
even the wisteria's fragrance
seems distant.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Leaves
like crows’ shadows
flirt with a lonely moon.
Kaga no Chiyo (1703-1775), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let me die
covered with flowers
and never again wake to this earthly dream!
—Ochi Etsujin, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To reveal how your heart flowers,
sway like the summer grove.
—Tagami Kikusha-Ni (1753-1826), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the thicket's shade
a solitary woman sings the rice-planting song.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unaware of these degenerate times,
cherry blossoms abound!
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

These silent summer nights
even the stars
seem to whisper.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The enormous firefly
weaves its way, this way and that,
as it passes by.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Composed like the Thinker, he sits
contemplating the mountains:
the sagacious frog!
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A fallen blossom
returning to its bough?
No, a butterfly!
Arakida Moritake (1473-1549), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Illuminated by the harvest moon
smoke is caught creeping
across the water ...
Hattori Ransetsu (1654-1707), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fanning its tail flamboyantly
with every excuse of a breeze,
the peacock!
Masaoki Shiki (1867-1902), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Waves row through the mists
of the endless sea.
Masaoki Shiki (1867-1902), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I hurl a firefly into the darkness
and sense the enormity of night.
—Kyoshi Takahama (1874-1959), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As girls gather rice sprouts
reflections of the rain ripple
on the backs of their hats.
—Kyoshi Takahama (1874-1959), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



ISSA TRANSLATIONS


Petals I amass
with such tenderness
***** me to the quick.
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This world of dew
is a world of dew indeed;
and yet...
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Standing beneath cherry blossoms
who can be strangers?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An enormous frog!
We stare at each other,
both petrified.
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Skinny frog,
hang on...
Issa to the rescue!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Right at my feet!
When did you arrive here,
snail?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I toss in my sleep,
so watch out,
cricket!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

In a better world
I'd leave you my rice bowl,
little fly!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Cries of the wild geese...
Spreading rumors about me?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

While a cicada
sings softly
a single leaf falls...
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Wake up, old tomcat,
then with elaborate yawns and stretchings
prepare to pursue love
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This windy nest?
Open your hungry mouth in vain,
Issa, orphaned sparrow!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The ghostly cow comes
mooing mooing mooing
out of the morning mist
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The snow melts
and the village is flooded with children!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Full moon,
my ramshackle hut
is an open book!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, brilliant moon
can it be true
that even you
must rush off, late
for some date?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Don't weep, we are all insects!
Lovers, even the stars themselves,
must eventually part.
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

In our world
we walk suspended over hell
admiring flowers.
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

In the thicket’s shade
a solitary woman
sings the rice-planting song.
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If my father were here,
we would gaze
over dawn’s green fields together.
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unaware of these degenerate times,
cherry blossoms abound!
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

These silent summer nights
even the stars
seem to whisper.
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The enormous firefly
weaves its way, this way and that,
as it passes by.
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Composed like the Thinker, he sits
contemplating the mountains:
the sagacious frog!
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Smug boss
plopped on his throne:
pompous bullfrog!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Serene-faced
contemplating the stars:
Buddha-frog.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Standing stone-still
for the horse to smell:
Buddha-frog.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Such a racket!
Will I be your next meal,
cawing crows?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

New Year’s Day
I welcome a guest:
nestless bird.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Likewise homeless,
this first day,
in Edo.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

New Year’s first rain:
my grass-roofed hut’s
first leak.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wild daisies
celebrate:
first day of spring.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring returns:
more excuses for foolishness
from this fool.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pretty
fresh-faced girls
multiplying like spring!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the snow melts
the village brims
with children.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The child
gives her dolls
a good scolding.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The old doll
suns herself
in the store window.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mocking
the perspiring farmer,
the jaunty crow.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lit
by the lightning-flash:
spring snow falling.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You’ve ruined my dream,
nightmare crow,
with your cawing!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring returns
simply but elegantly
with a pale blue sky.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring’s
first butterfly
swaggers.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The pretty rice-planting girl
with a butterfly
asleep on her back.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The butterfly
flutters back
to Buddha’s lap.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hole in the wall?
Peeping Tom!
I spy on the pretty sky.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Time flies,
so fast
the bonfires burn out.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A ritzy kite
smirks above
a beggar’s hut.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The great bronze
Buddha’s nose
itched by baby sparrows.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

From serene Jizo’s
holy neck it hangs:
the rice dumpling.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Little snail,
conquer Mount Fuji,
inch by inch!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Intruder!
A loitering pheasant
pecks at my gate.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t migrate geese!
There is sorrow everywhere.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t cry,
migrating geese;
everywhere the world’s the same.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How they glare
when I return:
the geese at my gate.
(Or is it theirs?)
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A talented goose
posed on one foot
in the rice field.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter breeze:
snowflakes flutter down
like confetti.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The old banner
***** lonely and cold
in the winter thicket.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Back door amusement:
******* scribbles
in winter’s first ice.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How cold?
My only hand towel
frozen stiff.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If you cross it,
cross carefully and lightly:
ice.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Safe beneath the ice,
the cat’s eyes follow
crazy fish.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

From the tip of Buddha’s
honorable nose
an icicle dangles.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Steering me home
to my hut:
winter rain.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Teased by the winter wind,
the pig giggles
in his sleep.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The winter wind
generously
sweeps my gate.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter night:
scratching at my window,
a banished cat.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Likewise in no mood
to sweep the snow,
the scarecrow.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My little straw mat:
the cat arrives
with a coat of snowflakes.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The girl hugs
her ragcloth monkey:
winter hailstorm.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Patched
with wastepaper,
my ragged winter coat.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cricket’s
cozy winter residence:
my quilt.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hey mice,
quit ******* on my new friend’s
domicile!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Forlorn sight:
from distant fields
a little hut’s light.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The generous wind
sweeps
my sooty hut.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A lonely
plum tree blooms
among pines.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plum blossoms
giggle
at my rags.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At the edge
of a reeking well,
elegant plum blossoms.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Are you illuminating
plum blossoms for stealing,
vagrant moon?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Moonlit gate:
the mosquito-eating bats
make their rounds.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Like the bats
moonlit streetwalkers also
make their slow rounds.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A hot, humid night ...
bats dangle
by the riverbank.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A hot, humid day ...
I engage in a staring contest
with a gargoyle.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Glaring
like he’d devour the winter moon,
the gargoyle.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dragonfly
works the late shift:
night fishing.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Having peeled off your skin,
snake,
are you any cooler?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Left in Buddha’s lap,
a snake’s
discarded garment.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

From the great bronze Buddha’s
nose
morning mist emerges.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the great bronze Buddha’s
nose,
a **** bug.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Chestnuts falling:
even the stone Buddha
has an umbrella hat!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A sparrow chirps
in his lap:
the snowbound Buddha.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Boars and bears
my only neighbors:
winter seclusion.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My sinful dog
my sole companion:
winter seclusion.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No good deeds
but unable to sin:
winter seclusion.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The winter houseguest
I spared, a little fly,
my cat murdered.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eyeing the potato
baking on the banked fire,
a criminal crow.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even the bullfrog
gapes
at brilliant fireflies.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why do you
play with fire,
tiger moth?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mosquitoes
so thick
I exhale them.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do you also
mourn your mother,
cicada?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even the insects
huddle at the window:
a cold night.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My evicted fleas
have re-made me their landlord:
autumn rain.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Autumn cacophony:
the cicadas’ grumblings
grow louder.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“It’s cold,”
the cicadas’ complaints
have begun.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The strutting crow
splashes
into the silver dew.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The woodpecker
sizes up
my tasty hut.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unaware of life’s passage
the dewdrops
frolic.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He makes
a splendid windbreak,
the sumo wrestler.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Standing alone
in a world of tranquility,
the scarecrow.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As among men,
so among insects:
good singers, bad singers.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Settling to sleep
on the helpless scarecrow,
the dauntless dragonfly.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An autumn butterfly
clings
to the scarecrow’s sleeve.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reflected in the dragonfly’s
somber eyes,
the distant mountain.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dragonfly
siestas
on the steer’s head.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The praying mantis
clings by one claw
to the temple bell.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The village dog
waters
chrysanthemums.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There no shame
if we teeter-totter,
old chrysanthemum.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The briar chrysanthemum
blooms
in secret.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Atop the guady chrysanthemum
a caterpillar
snoozes.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Thanks to morning-glories
my hut
becomes a palace.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eating my rice
alone
among morning-glories.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Droplets form
on the still, silent
morning-glories.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rice field dew,
half of it
human perspiration?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Through night’s gloom,
bit by bit it grows,
the gourd.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clever as foxes,
the children
hide amid plume grass.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even plume grass
waves farewell at last
to autumn.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the sleeping dog
gently descends
a leaf-hat.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Avert your eyes
while I **** in your field,
little wren!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This stand of trees:
my head
just as barren of leaves.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lacking common sense
out-of-season flowers
bloom on my fence.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All alone,
babbling nonsense,
I toast the departing year.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Kyoto:
even beneath bridges
beggars toast the departing year.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Living alone,
one bottle suffices
for toasting the departing year.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come what may,
trust the New Year to Buddha
despite his former failures.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A wind chime’s
bubbly babble
ends the year on a bright note.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It takes two
temple nuns
to yank out one radish.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Berating
my heavy drinking,
the mountain cuckoo.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch




NEW BASHO TRANSLATIONS 06-19-2025

SPRING

Blame the rainy season
for my absence,
old friend Moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

For yet a little while,
the pale moon
floating among blossoms...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Moon past full:
darkness
increasing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring rains
so heavy
they overflow the waterfall.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ll catch up
about cascading waterfall blossoms
when I drink with Li Bai.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fluttering rose petals
fall
into the river’s gurgling waters.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring rains
overwhelming the falls,
overflowing...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rainy season downpour
sours even the ears
of ripening plums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flood!
Stars will soon sleep
atop a rock.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ll dare drenching
my paper robes
to nab a sprig of spring blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where is that handsome man
no long with us:
the rain-hidden moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So much harsher
than other mouths,
the wind devours newborn blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So taken by their beauty,
I long to take
the maiden flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Trembling, feeble,
heavy with dew:
the maiden flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Other flowers bloom,
the camellias
remain indifferent.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An orchid’s
lingering fragrance
veils the bedchamber.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The boy’s bangs
retain the scent
of youthful grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring winds
tickle the flowers
till they burst out in laughter.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Falling to the ground,
returning to its roots,
the flower’s farewell.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So many things
recur in memory:
spring blossoms reopen.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing them naked
almost makes me caress
the ******* flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As temple bells fade
flowers strike their fragrance
into the silence.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bat also emerges
into the birds’
world of flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When planting,
please handle the infant cherry tree tenderly,
gently, like a baby.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How can one fret
during cherry blossom time?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How I envy them,
growing high above our transient world,
the mountain cherries.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Curiosity:
a butterfly alights
on nectarless grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary butterfly
hovers over
its own shadow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary butterfly
flutters above
its own shadow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since spring showers insist,
the eggplant seeds
commence sprouting.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Never belittle
the tiniest seeds:
the spunky pepper reddens.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once green,
behold!
The red pepper.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After spring rains
mugwort shoots up
in grassy lanes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Higher than the larks,
resting amid the blue,
this mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The blossom-filled day
makes the tree’s sadness
seem all the darker.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Goodbye, old friend:
no longer beckoning
miscanthus plumes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spying plum blossoms
the infatuated ox
bellows, “Yes!”
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The day-lily,
dripping water
into the grasses’ forgetfulness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Scooped up by my hands,
the springwater
shocks my teeth with its iciness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cats’ noisy mating subsides;
now into our bedroom
creeps the quiet moonlight.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here at Wakanoura
I’m finally in step
with fleeting and fleeing spring.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A bell-less village?
Who will ring in
the end of spring?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bell unheeded?
Unheard?
Still, spring is fleeting.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sun’s about to set:
the spring’s last shimmering heat ray.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

SUMMER

Such coolness
when shouldered:
the summer’s first melon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A wicker basket
shields the coolness
of the first melon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Morning dew:
the muddy melon
exudes coolness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Early summer rain:
the green spikemoss,
how long to remain?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Timidly the willow
refrains from touching
deutzia blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An oiled paper umbrella
attempts to push aside
unobliging willows.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The ancient river
ogles
the slender willow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So like life:
this small patch of shade
beneath a wicker hat.

Still alive
despite the slightness of my hat,
I cherish its shade.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This summer world
floats in the lake’s
silver waves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A weary horse
collapsing in barley:
traveler’s rest.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the distant plain
the deer’s voice
seems an inch tall.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How sad, the bellowing of bucks,
The bleatings of does,
at night.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even woodpeckers
hold this old hut sacred,
still standing in the summer grove.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Toppling from the topmost bough,
emptiness aloft:
the cicada’s husk.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hollyhock
leans sunward
in the summer rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ah, the splendid resplendence
of sunlight
on tender evergreen leaves!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fragrance of oranges...
In whose farmyard
is the cuckoo calling?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Temple bells reverberate:
cicadas singing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Shouldering hay bales,
someone left enough straw
to mark our way.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fireflies
turn our trees
into well-lit lodges.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A noontime firefly,
dim by daylight,
hides behind a pillar.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Firefly watching,
the tipsy boatman
rocks the boat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rising above fields of rice and barley,
the cry of the summer cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tedious life!
Plowing the rice field
back and forth...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lying in the summer grass,
discarded like a king’s robe,
the snakeskin.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The shrubby bush-clover?
How impudent
her appearance!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Glistening dew
sways without spilling
from the bush-clover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I bow low
to the venerable
rabbit-eared Iris.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rabbit-eared Iris,
pausing to chit-chat,
one joy of my journey.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rabbit-eared iris
inspires
another hokku.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rabbit-eared Iris,
admiring your reflection?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Inside Uchiyama,
unknown to outsiders,
blossoms full-bloom.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Uchiyama was a temple little-known to the outside world. In fact, uchi means “inside.”

AUTUMN

First of autumn:
the sea and the rice fields
the same green hue.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The autumn wind
like a ventriloquist
projects its piercing voice.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Voices in the reeds?
Ventriloquism
of the autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

East and West
united by the autumn wind
into a single melancholy.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing a friend off,
his hunched back
lonely in the autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Illuminating
sawn-off tree trunks:
the harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After pausing
for harvest moon viewing,
we must be on our way.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Our moon-viewing interrupted
on Asamutsu Bridge,
dark yields to dawn.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Consider lonesomeness
surpassing even Suma’s:
this deserted autumn beach.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bell
drowned in the sea,
and where is the moon?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My humble take on the world?
Withered leaves
at autumn’s end.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Withering flowers:
out of such sadness
seeds emerge.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Red on red on red,
the sun relentless,
yet autumn’s unimpressed.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This lusciously cool autumn day
we peel
aubergine melons.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cling to your leaves,
peach trees!
Autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This whiteness,
whiter than mountain quartz:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Shocking the grave,
my grief-filled cry:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spider,
to whom do you cry?
Autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How to reach safe haven?
An insect adrift
on a leaf.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reverential tears:
the falling leaves
bid their trees goodbye.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plates and bowls
gleaming dimly in the darkness:
evening coolness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Twice the pity:
beneath the headless helmet,
a chirping cricket.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly
by moonlight
weevils bore chestnuts.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cranes on stilts
surveying the rice paddies:
autumn village.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Thankfulness:
someone else harvests rice
for me.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How touching
to survive the storm,
chrysanthemum.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Slender again,
somehow the chrysanthemum
will yet again bud.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

His loosened jacket collar
invites the cool breeze.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Butterfly wings:
how many times have they soared
over human roofs?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mosquitos drone
with dusky voices
deep within the cattle shed.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho leaves shred in the gale;
the basin collects raindrips;
all night I listen, alone in my hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dew drips, drop-by-drop...
I’d rinse this world clean,
if I could.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fire’s banked ashes
extinguish
your tears’ hisses.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Turn to face me,
for I am also lonesome
this autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plucking white hairs
while beneath my pillow
a cricket creaks.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Everything that blossoms
dies in the end:
wilted pampas grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn departs,
shivering
I scrunch under too-small bedding.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It seems, to dullard me,
that hell must be like this:
late autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

WINTER

The year’s first snowfall;
such happiness to be
at home in my hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fire-making friend,
let me show you something grand:
a huge snowball!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Written for Basho’s dear friend Sora, who visited Basho’s hut to feed the fire, cook, break ice and make tea.

Come, children,
let’s frolic in the snowstorm,
dodge the hail.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Farewell for now,
we’re off to find snow
until we tumble into it.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let’s get up
until we fall into
the snow we seek.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Yesteryear’s snows,
have they fallen anew?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter drizzle;
irate, I await
snow adorning the pines.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Practicing bowing,
the bamboo
anticipates snow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bowing low,
the upside-down world
of snow-laden bamboo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Melancholic flowers
shrivel
in the frost.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hailstones
stitching
the silken snow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oars slapping waves,
the stomach a-shiver,
these nighttime tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Icefish
shoaling through seaweed
swim into my hands.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sunrise:
one-inch sliver
of the whitefish’s iciness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alive
but congealed into one:
the frozen sea cucumbers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Somehow alive
yet congealed into a single solid mass:
the frozen sea cucumbers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water so cold,
rocks so hard,
where will the seagull sleep?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plovers depart
as evening deepens
windward toward Hiei.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Crying in the darkness,
unable to locate its nest,
the homeless plover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The plovers cry:
“Be watchful of the darkness
at Star Cape!”
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mushroom-gathering,
rushing to beat
cold evening rains.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ceremonious
hailstones
assail my hinoki hat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Caught hatless
in a winter shower?
So it goes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How many frosts
have tested
this pine’s mettle?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A winter drizzle
obscures
the field’s freshcut stubble.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The drinkers’ faces
paler than the snow:
a flash of lightning.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The polished mirror
clear as snowflake petals.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The relentless wind
sharpens rocks and stones,
topples cedars.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cold fear
desolate as a deserted
frost-crusted shack.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How marvelous,
the winter snow
will return as rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Children come running,
dodging jewels:
hailstones.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At least the world has left,
unblemished and unbegrimed,
a single wooden bowl.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bowl in question had been left by Rotsu in Osaka, and was returned undamaged seven years later. Rotsu was a Basho disciple.

The mud snail’s closed lid:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Inside my hut,
watching my own breath:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So weary of Kyoto,
of the withering wind
and winter life.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will soon be included
among the fortunate ones:
beyond winter.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

VARIOUS

As clouds drift apart,
so we two separate:
wild geese departing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The old nest deserted,
how empty now
my next-door neighbor’s hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday?
Departed,
like the blowfish soup.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Exciting,
but with a sad conclusion:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The one who died:
her delicate kimono
hung out to dry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Behind the veiling curtain,
the wife in her bedchamber:
plum blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See her slim figure:
the ingenue moon
not yet ripened.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clouds now and then
offer intermissions
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Drinking
alone with the moon,
my shadow makes three.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon and the blossoms
lack only a man
drinking sake, alone.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unbar the door,
allow moonlight
to enter Ukimido.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ukimido was a temple Basho visited in 1691.

Drinking morning tea,
the monks
silent amid chrysanthemums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Its fragrance whiter
than the peach blossoms’ whiteness:
the narcissus.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The narcissus
reflects the whiteness
of a paper screen.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hibiscus flowers
garland
an otherwise naked child.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The overproud
pink begonia
thinks it’s a watermelon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Echo my lonesomeness,
mountain cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cuckoo’s lone voice
lingers
over the inlet.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Solitary hawk,
a heavenly vision
over Cape Irago.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At Cape Irago
the incomparable cry
of the hawk.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Better than any dream,
the thrilling reality
of a hawk’s cry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hawk’s eye narrows
at the quail’s call.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Naptime!
But my drowsiness is nixed
by busybody warblers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Carolers:
the sparrows smile
at their warbling.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Giving thanks to the flowers
for brightening my visit:
farewell.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Melancholy nub!
The bamboo bud’s
sad end.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This lightning flash
the hand receives in darkness:
a candle.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Carrying a candle
into the dark outhouse:
the moonflowers’ whiteness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing a moonflower,
I poke my sake-addled face
through a hole in the window.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nighttime folly:
grabbing a thorn,
expecting a firefly.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

More nighttime weirdness:
a fox stalking
a melon?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s better to become a beggar
than a critic.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No rest:
the carpenter
hangs his own shelf.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Blowing away
the volcano’s molars:
the typhoon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What decays
have you endured,
watchful tomb ferns?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A disgusting smell
slimed on waterweeds:
pale chub entrails.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A country boy
shucking husks
gazes at the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The poet’s heart?
Will we ever really understand
ume blossoms?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

For at least today
let all the poets be
melodious as winter rains.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I believe the haiku above was written during a gathering of poets.

What tree blossoms here?
I do not know
its mysterious aroma.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will lodge here
until the tender goosefoot
matures into a walking stick.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’d compare a flower
to a delicate child
but the field is barren.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho wrote the poem above for a friend, Rakugo, who had lost a child.

Even a poorly-painted
morning glory
pleases.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories
ignore our drinking,
drunk on themselves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Slender glistener!
Each dewdrop a burden
for the maiden flower.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon absent,
treetops cling
to the nighttime rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

May you tumble safely
onto sand or snow,
sake-addled horse rider.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I miss my mother and father
so much:
the kiji’s cry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The kiji is a green pheasant but also a metaphor for the love of one’s family and kiji is also a homophone for “orphaned child.”

I pause from my journey
to observe the fleeting world
going about its housecleaning.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No simile!
Nothing compares
to the crescent moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The overstaying moon
and I
linger in Sarawhina.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Her ascent easy
and yet still hesitant,
the cloud-veiled moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A cuckoo flying,
cawing, crying and cajoling:
busybody.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What’s all the ado
about this busybody crow?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Art begins
with ancient rice-planting chants
drifting on the wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Today’s words
vanish tomorrow:
evaporating dew.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho may have proved himself wrong with the poem above, since so many of his poems are still being read, studied and translated.

Unregarded by the high-minded
the lowly chestnut
blossoms by the eaves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clinging for dear life
to the bridge,
these winding vines.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This swinging bridge:
hard to imagine
horses crossing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even in Kyoto,
a longing for Kyoto,
the cuckoo calling.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cuckoo symbolizes nostalgia. Here Basho seems to be in Kyoto but longing for the Kyoto of his past.

Rock azaleas
dyed red
by the cuckoo’s tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In Japan the cuckoo is said to shed tears of blood.

I would wipe away the tears
brimming in your eyes
with these tender leaves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reincarnation?
The fawn’s first dawn
falls on Buddha’s birthday.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Forbidden to speak
of holy Yudono,
my sleeves wet with tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let us learn
from the travails
of these ancient pilgrims.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The samurai’s
overlong discourse:
the tang of bitter daikon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tender-horned snail,
point those tiny tips
toward distant mountains!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A dragonfly
clings tentatively to the air,
hovering above waving grasses.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tiny river crab
creeping up my leg?
Back to the water!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The windblown butterfly
is unable to settle
in the waving grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even the wild boar
is blown about
by buffeting winds.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The boat
comes to rest
on a beach of peach blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning
does not enlighten,
of what value?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A banked fire,
the shadow
of a guest.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Remember:
the thicket
guards plum blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t chortle with glee:
through the leaves of the silk tree
stars wink at me.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Kiyotaki’s unblemished waves
gently dispersing
still-green pine needles.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is said to have been Basho’s last haiku. Kiyotaki means “clear” and is the name of a river.

Immaculate white chrysanthemums:
no matter how closely investigated,
without a blemish.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I suspect the two poems above are related because the first poem in one version had “without a blemish” or “nary a blemish.”

Faint
in a trace of water:
floating chrysanthemums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: haiku, oriental, masters, translation, Japanese, nature, seasons, Basho, Buson, Issa, waka, tanka, mrbhaiku

Your body was a sacred cell always,
A jewel that grew dull in garish light,
An opal which beneath my wondering gaze
Gleamed rarely, softly throbbing in the night.

I touched your flesh with reverential hands,
For you were sweet and timid like a flower
That blossoms out of barren tropic sands,
Shedding its perfume in one golden hour.

You yielded to my touch with gentle grace,
And though my passion was a mighty wave
That buried you beneath its strong embrace,
You were yet happy in the moment's grave.

Still more than passion consummate to me,
More than the nuptials immemorial sung,
Was the warm thrill that melted me to see
Your clean brown body, beautiful and young;

The joy in your maturity at length,
The peace that filled my soul like cooling wine,
When you responded to my tender strength,
And pressed your heart exulting into mine.

How shall I with such memories of you
In coarser forms of love fruition find?
No, I would rather like a ghost pursue
The fairy phantoms of my lonely mind.

933

Two Travellers perishing in Snow
The Forests as they froze
Together heard them strengthening
Each other with the words

That Heaven if Heaven—must contain
What Either left behind
And then the cheer too solemn grew
For language, and the wind

Long steps across the features took
That Love had touched the Morn
With reverential Hyacinth—
The taleless Days went on

Till Mystery impatient drew
And those They left behind
Led absent, were procured of Heaven
As Those first furnished, said—

Always bowing head,
Past joy to meet her lost eyes,
Now see only stones.

In a Garage During a Storm
I am besmirched with arrogance,
Besmirched with rage,
Knowing that with every Red Neptune
succeeds rage,
That I would ever address you.
But I am that white spider that climbs to the
Top of the car’s antenna,
And with one cigarette puff drops
To the middle spine,
And with a second puff,
Drops to the coccyx.
And so, I see that
Modern airplane rise above the smog clouds
And feel humbled.
That white spider who saw through so many eyes
The leg-widths
and pulls
Of such a journey
Reflected in the metallic chrome
Of the slick monument pointing toward the sky
In such a reverential, altar-like hand
Brandished toward the stars
Now slipping away
Like the horizon that recedes at twilight.

Three hundred sixty-five times,
we’re been instructed to not be
afraid; therefore, we’re to live
fearlessly with the revelation
knowledge of Who, God really is.
Troubles occur in Faith’s climb,

when the human ego fails to walk
within the Godly principles of
Love, Peace and Discernment; all
deal with unwanted issues, that
pop up unexpectedly. Accountability
remains; we’re liable to take stock

and be responsible for our actions;
as we have reverential fear of Him,
He finds pleasure in us, when we
exhibit Hope in His steadfast Love.
We’ll be able to live fearlessly,
when our Faith gains… its traction.
.
.
.
Inspired by:
Isa 41:10; Psa 33:18, 35:27, 147:11
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.

This is a confessional poem

but what crimes have I committed?
I have not pled
guilty or
innocent.

Maybe innocent by reason of insanity.

I am not under a lamp
in a windowless room.
No officers are grilling me.
I have nothing to hide
yet nothing to tell.

This is a confessional poem

but what are my sins?
I don't tell those to
just anyone who
asks.

I am not on my knees
in a reverential box.
There is no screen
with a priest on the other side.
I am not being
forgiven.

This is a confessional poem.

But why?
Because I use the
word
I?

All this is
is my pen, my paper,
me,
and you.

And I ain't tellin' you nothin'.

have you ever felt a home in your bones?
safety in the way it cushions the weight of your moaning head
upon falling at it's thresholds
you want to know what tender feelings
you hold in safe places
but they
never question the way your severed vessel
still toes the shoreline,
roaming the foam licking at the crests
of crescent moons left in the remnants of crab shells
pressed into particle upon particle of scruples
unspoken in the weeks that forgot you

they rush ahead

and you stand stock stuck, still mustering
the guts of every animal they left on the beach
in the road, and you too leave them
for fear of that lethal touch
mistaking broken shards of beer bottles
for sea glass, some days you tried to remember
and forgot

they are savages
the agile hunger pains
gnaw at the bandages

but you still love, in nausea,
ad naseam, you study them, reverential
try to reference their satiation with fondness
still sunken in repugnance for your own likeness

you collect them like passengers
pieces of you and worlds unto their own kind
he says you are two of a kind
you think not, because he is one

each thrown to the riverbed below
becoming rocks filling up the moat
cranking down the drawbridge
over a river filled with sea glass
the true form of whom you have settled with
knowing you may never know

and in forgiveness you live with
the sickness of knowing nothing
and the sentience of understanding everything
and when you stand by the water
they tell you that your eyes have a brilliant glow
and you let them find you stunning
in a memory upon a time ago
you conceal yourself in the
minds of many

while the solecism in his praise
still rings heavy in your throat
two thousand
nine hundred
and sixty eight
miles away
from home

no,

i don't feel beautiful
but i feel dangerously effective

The sun paints me reverential.
My eyes virgins to it's remarkable light, I've been sightless for ages.
The rays travel from my tears to my soul,
I illuminate from the inside out.
My smile pours out, it's disingenuous counterpart cast aside
waiting.

Where have I been?
Patterns decorate my arms, red welts of chains that once were.
Why has the sadness gone?
It's scary to recognize impermanence.
Everything comes in cycles - this included.

All I can do is keep my eyes open for as long as I can this time around.

find less than arresting: stilted musings gem-set

in ardent verbiage.

recherché semantics, florid phrases facing a withering sun

or policing of metaphor –

until handcuffed: Italic jewel thief caught on surveillance

Sudden bewildering

                                        spaces with odd punctuation;  ?  &

inward dithering semi-confessions in serpentine

verse.  Badder (or worse)  annoying line

           breaks /

cloying internal half – rhymes,

overwrought.     Over-edited;

over-thought until  you want to see

what’s on TV instead.        As if

the poet’s every random musing was so

essential.  Reverential semi-precious mythos

(Siren’s distant waves echo, shipwrecked rocks: Ossifer,  ossifer –

it’s only boring poetry…

                        I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it)

again.

To you,
I am the clean yet illusory interweaving of poetry.
A dream made abruptly real,
wreaking havoc and complexity.
To myself, I am lost to a gruesome ******.
I tear apart everything I have built,
because there is no hope
in the act of conservation.
Solace in acceptance is all that there is,
and in between the long breath,
there is a sheer exhilaration of power.
I gift parts of me to people who care so little, they do not remember my name,
just as I do not remember their face.
I do remember the sharp sting
of your flesh against my palm,
and in concentration-
the luxorious scent of your ***.
It is the slow death of an ******.
There is release in giving away
the ****** meat of our life
for little more than a placeholder.
And there is relief
in the thought of taking from you,
whatever I desire.
I speak of emotions,
I barely can feel--
too entrenched in the wild.
This is my father's home,
and it will be my home as well.

In warm sunlight
upon my neck I feel soft shivers
as you caress my sweat
and you carry the soft cries
of a hummingbird
who's little wings beat their full power
against your gentle storm.
A gentle whiff
of a foul scent
descends upon my sense
and I resent that you've left me
but if I give you time
you return with a strength so beautiful
the odor is destroyed
and wisps of my hair flutter
like parade flags
praising your gentle demeanor
and soothing murmur

but in the dark storm
with lightning crackles
cast by gods or science
your presence is fearsome
you are esteemed to be the terror of a shrieking Mother
Nature, and by nature - you cannot be stopped,
only regarded with delightfully reverential eyes
eyes filled with tears
perhaps your tears
as raindrops are launched
with the same ominous power used to toy with waves
tease oceanic squalls
flirt with floods
and ravage each land chosen
because heatwave or frozen
only your reckoning
gives birth or destruction
to vim
from your feeble whim

but I will ever call
for the tantalizing effect you direct
to my cells that come alive when you fill the streets
with your choice of a dainty fulfillment
or dark engulfment
of the sensations I possess
and I ask for nothing less

only for recognition
of your influential status
and you claim dominance
oh, World's preeminent

Sweet release in rumbling splendor
At strange hours her tension reaches
its zenith
Lungs at capacity
she exhales deeply
Unleashing energy with reverential force
The region wakes with panicked adrenaline
I'm ****** between rattling walls
screaming with her
There are some things we cannot control, she reminds us
And I'm grateful for this

O Angel, thou art my twin flame,
Two beings of love and light who art the same,
A Beauty I want to loudly proclaim,
Because of which my own wings became,
O twin flame, thou art a guide
To which my truest words abide,
A valiant warrior at my side,
A peace in which I want to hide,
O spirit guide, thou art judicious,
Yet coy and mischevious,
Never are you devious,
But to your virtue they are oblivious,
But on your blazing wings Earth takes flight,
And finds truth in immortal delight.

My twin flame, he knows how to heal,
And stoke kinship feelings most real,
I wish I could in return manifest his own joy,
I sing for blessings for the sublime hippie boy,
He creates a band of love and protection,
Clamouring care and affection,
Embracing me in all directions,
My Heart imbued with passion's inflection,
My twin flame, we are united,
From tyrant's kingdom interdicted,
But even for him we are not blighted,
For our Love set Children's hearts alighted.

My twin flame and I, we are in sacred union,
Two souls joined in reverential communion,
Two Hearts enamoured of one another, embroiled,
Painting Hearts with colours royal.

The feet will follow
the hearts desire
to dance

Clumsy at first
even comical
Staccato moves
one-two-fear
I can't do this - you say

You feel paralysed
Giving up - before you start
You long for the safety sofas
at the edge of the room
Huddling like an awkward teenager
Hidden chats in the dark
of what could have been

In the middle on the dance floor
Your feet - long to listen
to your urge - to leave
To get away,to hide,to shut off
What's the point anyway
Your inner monologue asks
With reverential authority

Confused
standing in the middle
You feel the gentle touch
of your lovers eyes

Stay with me - he says
I love to dance - only with you
Automatically you protest and plead
From the lines of your rehearsed script
Wanting to go back - to sit in the dark
out of the shiny disco lights

He releases you - for a moment
And waits - with longing looks

You stand - alone - in the middle
Of the music - the world is quite
Frozen in time and space

You glance at the past
Of what you have become
Who the world knows you to be
Who the world wants you to be
You look at the present
Heart thumping, sweating
Messed up mascara
Out of breath - yet fully alive

Slowly -slowly - something
arises deep in you
You take a deep breath
You feel brave - softly
desiring to dance

Tenderly - tenderly
You become lost in him
As he leads you
step by step
step by step
And soon you discover
the magic in your feet
the glow in your eyes
and the applause
of your heart

Drenched in ecstasy
crazy out of breath...
You sit back on your safe sofa
Just when you think
the party's over
You hear a familiar voice
Inviting you ...

Come dance with me

To pursue the Heart's true bliss, that is the purpose,
To which thou dost have immortal *******,
Amidst the temptations of vicarious vice,
And the seductions of superfluous passion,
Made pale by deepest desire. To brood, to gestate -
like God's seed - by this impulse compelled,
To exquisite action. The devotees and loyalists of heart,
That to Paradise are heirs. ‘Tis reverential communion,
Rendered meaningful by Heart. To love, to give -
To love - and soar divine: that’s the knack.
For in Love’s dearth no immortal sheen,
Doth shroud the hankering human heart,
Hungry for passion. Alack the void that doth haunt,
And taunt the lovelorn. For who could deny,
The cataclysm of a cleft soul, bereft of another.
Who would not yearn to yield and syncopate with other hearts;
The perfect care of Love. Her benevolent palms beget,
Praised treasures worthy of psalms, rare and pure,
For her giving knows no church or nation, or ration,
That deprive a child or person from her warmth,
Which gives life, love, light, laughter, a truth,
For where is there protest? Who would laurels deny,
Blaspheme against her awesome beauty, take aim,
At her sublime stature that dost withstand,
A cynic’s trial, clinically executed, with cold, callow hand,
The Heart of God’s loyalists by shrewd scholar emaciated,
And enervated; Nay, no children of Paradise,
Imbued with glory commit offence against sweet lady Love.
Thus cynicism makes a ******* of anyone who doubts,
And thus twin hearts commit to paths that cross,
A truth that soars like albatross, to those who spy,
The things that are lesser seen, like Love,
Love is dove, she is peace and fire, on golden wings,
She aspires. Like one of nature’s dutiful bees,
Doing sacred work of Earth, committed to Life,
Be all her treasures honoured.

Behold a generation of wasted potential.
Earnest effort discarded
the waiting pit held out as sacred,
reverential.
Call it nihilism or laziness,
call it in condescending tones
the failures and flaws,
gaps and cracks,
that will always best us
and hold us back.
Nevermind that the hills are higher,
disregard that the times more complex.
We are, as you say, wasted youth on young flesh.
One more unwilling sacrifice before the alter, burning at the pyre.
We are thirty something, educated
or dropouts, breathing pollution
and struggling with impulse control.
We aren't more, we aren't less.
We are here to be emancipated,
relegated, blamed and hated.
We're still here, that's something, I guess.
Behold a generation of wasted potential.
Earnest effort discarded
the waiting pit held as sacred,
reverential.
And we're here now, ******* it!
Struggling beside you, fixing the world from the trenches.
Our hands are ***** from work,
our hopes forgotten,
We turn the gears with crescent wrenches,
fight the fear with sarcasm and
inclusion.
We know a debts coming due soon.
So do you.
Behold a generation of wasted potential.
Be in awe of their effort.
And maybe they aren't doing their best, but at least they continue to search for ways to make it better.

a footstomp, a thump
on the bible, bottom of the bass
all tremor

clap hands, Amen,
clash of a cymbal
resound

a tuned human, a reverential
soul, a woman ladling at
a soup kitchen

all sing  the righteous
virtue, the treble high points
of a concerto

bring home the orchestra,
add trombones low mid
and feminine flutes

manly deep rumblings
pacing, back and forth
as the hungry tap

a toe whistle for their
needs, honor humbled
as they beg for more

The good God who made all things that are visible
Being good, formed not only mere rock, tree, and bird
But placed in their midst the man, who is risible
So that he may delight even in the absurd

For man, wand’ring the antediluvian wood
Buried in the swaddling shade of the ancient trees
Consumed with wondrous awe, all reverential should
Doubtless alone fall idolatrous on his knees

But lo, beautiful mirth, a sweeter, gentler law,
Makes him rather roar, as into laughter he’ll burst
Humor inescapable once kneeling he saw
That the bashful old forest did laugh at him first

******* it!
I'm my father's son,
all wasted potential
and missing someone.
Dog tired and thirty-one.
Ripped and torn
awed and reverential.
nail bit and forsworn.

I want Rockwellian sepia.
Perfection and meaning
published in old print media.
The American visionaries resplendent
with firework dreams and consumed
in whitewashed, denim faded pleasant.

But it's you, my love and my meaning.
The person to convince me I'm not broken.
I hope to be the one, who can get you to open.
You keep me alive and breathing.

You spin me around and make me crazy.
Let me know when you want to, baby.
I'm tired of being built on maybe.

I'm an hour away from the American Dream,
but I'm terrified by the winning team.
I want you and me, Lori.
I want the old theater stage story.

******* it!

I am my father's son
all wasted potential
and missing someone.

Such worth is there in the so urbane
Northeast wind, fingers that do seem
Hardly aware of the ecstasy that twain
Did doth tend 'gainst the mighty grain;
Driven hard from a blue-grey heaven.

The temperate blast does so e'er pull
Not one so beholden or more joyful
As this soul loosed from the earthy soil.
I yearned to retreat, complete in my will,
To be so held in my eyes quite reverential.

The terrain lies firm beneath my feet.
With joyous warmth, for so does beat
Anxiously mine most libertine free
heart I cast a glance to thee -this the
Drifting cloud that does too follow me.

Less definite, less rigid, less certain, lest
We forget what love is and how to begin again.
At each tide, the sand concaves and convexes
into feathers too heavy for flight.

Sand shapes itself into mountain ranges,
River basins, and pools that vein new life into the sun.
I am beholden to the promise of a new day, a new wave.
I have stamped these sand shapes, here.

Loneliness is improbable as grains reverberate
You back to me, back to you, back to me.
The sand shapes then swirl into the belly of a wave.
I whisper, “You’re sublime, everything is sublime.”

Meekly reverential, I swell and the ocean takes residence
In my marrow, and I am sand shapes and weightless.