basho.txt

Cedar umbrellas, off
to Mount Yoshimo for
the cherry blossoms. 

Cold night: the wild duck,
sick, falls from the sky
and sleeps awhile.

Cold as it was
We felt secure sleeping together
In the same room. 

Waking in the night; 
the lamp is low, 
the oil freezing. 

It has rained enough 
to turn the stubble on the field 
black. 

Clouds -
a chance to dodge
moonviewing. 

Spring: 
A hill without a name 
Veiled in morning mist. 

The beginning of autumn: 
Sea and emerald paddy 
Both the same green. 

Heat waves shimmering
one or two inches
above the dead grass.

Now the swinging bridge
is quieted with creepers
like our tendrilled life 

How wild the sea is, 
and over Sado Island, 
the River of Heaven 

The oak tree:
not interested
in cherry blossoms.

An orphaned blossom
returning to its bough, somehow?
No, a solitary butterfly. 

Lightning
shatters the darkness―
the night heron's shriek 

While you decline to cry,
high on the mountainside
a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.

Behind this door
Now buried in deep grass
A different generation will celebrate
The Festival of Dolls. 

husking rice
a child squints up
to view the moon 

The petals tremble
on the yellow mountain rose –
roar of the rapids 

The shallows –
a crane’s thighs splashed
in cool waves 

The passing spring
Birds mourn,
Fishes weep
With tearful eyes. 

the whole family
all with white hair and canes
visiting graves 

The squid seller's call
mingles with the voice
of the cuckoo.

the warbler sings
among new shoots of bamboo
of coming old age 

The she cat -
Grown thin
From love and barley. 

The old pond- 
a frog jumps in,
sound of water.

None is travelling
Here along this way but I,
This autumn evening.

The first day of the year:
thoughts come - and there is loneliness;
the autumn dusk is here.

What fish feel,
birds feel, I don't know--
the year ending.

With a warbler for 
a soul, it sleeps peacefully, 
this mountain willow

Wrapping dumplings in 
bamboo leaves, with one finger 
she tidies her hair 

With every gust of wind,
the butterfly changes its place
on the willow.  

Wrapping the rice cakes,
with one hand
she fingers back her hair.

Year’s end, all 
corners of this 
floating world, swept.

Won't you come and see
loneliness? Just one leaf
from the kiri tree. 

An old pond
A frog jumps in -
Splash!

Winter seclusion – 
sitting propped against 
the same worn post 

Winter garden,
the moon thinned to a thread,
insects singing.

Winter solitude--
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.

Winter downpour - 
even the monkey 
needs a raincoat. 

When the winter chrysanthemums go,
there's nothing to write about
but radishes.

This old village--
not a single house
without persimmon trees.

The summer grasses
All that remains
Of brave soldiers dreams 

Ungraciously, under 
a great soldier's empty helmet, 
a cricket sings 

under my tree-roof
slanting lines of april rain
separate to drops 

Tremble, oh my gravemound, 
in time my cries will be 
only this autumn wind 

The clouds come and go, 
providing a rest for all 
the moon viewers 

Spring rain
leaking through the roof
dripping from the wasps' nest.

The first snow
the leaves of the daffodil
bending together 

The dragonfly
can't quite land 
on that blade of grass.

Staying at an inn
where prostitutes are also sleeping--
bush clover and the moon.

The banana tree 
blown by winds pours raindrops 
into the bucket 

The butterfly is perfuming
It's wings in the scent
Of the orchid. 

Teeth sensitive to the sand 
in salad greens--
I'm getting old.

Temple bells die out.
The fragrant blossoms remain.
A perfect evening! 

Taking a nap,
feet planted
against a cool wall.

Stillness--
the cicada's cry
drills into the rocks.

On this road
where nobody else travels
autumn nightfall 

Passing through the world
Indeed this is just
Sogi's rain shelter 

souls' festival
today also there is smoke
from the crematory 

shaking the grave
my weeping voice
autumn wind 

Sleep on horseback,
The far moon in a continuing dream,
Steam of roasting tea. 

Scarecrow in the hillock
Paddy field --
How unaware! How useful. 

On the white poppy,
a butterfly’s torn wing
is a keepsake 

Petals of the mountain rose
Fall now and then,
To the sound of the waterfall? 

On the cow shed
A hard winter rain;
Cock crowing. 

On New Year's Day 
each thought a loneliness
as winter dusk descends 

On Buddha's death day, 
wrinkled tough old hands pray – 
the prayer beads' sound 

Lightening -
Heron's cry
Stabs the darkness

Clouds come from time to time -
and bring to men a chance to rest
from looking at the moon.

In the cicada's cry
There's no sign that can foretell
How soon it must die.

Poverty's child -
he starts to grind the rice,
and gazes at the moon.

Won't you come and see
loneliness? Just one leaf
from the kiri tree.

Temple bells die out.
The fragrant blossoms remain.
A perfect evening! 


Morning and evening
Someone waits at Matsushima!
One-sided love 

Midfield,
attached to nothing,
the skylark singing.

Moonlight slanting
through the bamboo grove;
a cuckoo crying.

The winds of autumn 
Blow: yet still green 
The chestnut husks. 

Long conversations 
beside blooming irises – 
joys of life on the road 

How admirable!
to see lightning and not think
life is fleeting.

A flash of lightning: 
Into the gloom 
Goes the heron's cry. 

scent of plum blossoms
on the misty mountain path
a big rising sun 

From time to time
The clouds give rest
To the moon beholders..

Winter rain 
falls on the cow-shed; 
a cock crows. 

Coolness of the melons
flecked with mud
in the morning dew.

Don't imitate me;
it's as boring
as the two halves of a melon.

First day of spring--
I keep thinking about
the end of autumn.

Eaten alive by
lice and fleas -- now the horse
beside my pillow pees 

Even that old horse
is something to see this
snow-covered morning

The leeks 
newly washed white,- 
how cold it is! 

Deep into autumn
and this caterpillar
still not a butterfly 

Crossing long fields, 
frozen in its saddle, 
my shadow creeps by 

The sea darkens; 
the voices of the wild ducks 
are faintly white.

Ill on a journey; 
my dreams wander 
over a withered moor. 

Toward those short trees
We saw a hawk descending
On a day in spring.

The lamp once out
Cool stars enter
The window frame.

In the twilight rain
these brilliant-hued hibiscus -
A lovely sunset

First autumn morning
the mirror I stare into
shows my father's face.

No one travels
Along this way but I,
This autumn evening.

My grumbling wife -
if only she were here!
this moon tonight...

A lovely thing to see:
through the paper window's hole,
the Galaxy.

The first firefly...
But he got away and I...
Air in my fingers.

In this world 
we walk on the roof of hell,
gazing at flowers.

After killing
a spider, how lonely I feel
in the cold of night!

Sparrow's child
out of the way, out of the way!
the stallion's coming through

Don’t weep, insects
Lovers, stars themselves,
Must part.

Night; and once again,
the while I wait for you, cold wind
turns into rain.

I want to sleep
Swat the flies
Softly, please.

When I turned my head
That traveller I'd just passed...
Melted in the mist.

Summer night 
even the stars
are whispering to each other.

I kill an ant
and realize my three children
have been watching.

Over the wintry
forest, winds howl in rage
with no leaves to blow.

The wren
Earns his living
Noiselessly.

My life,
How much more of it remains?
The night is brief.

Winter seclusion -
Listening, that evening,
To the rain in the mountain.

Blowing from the west
Fallen leaves gather
In the east.

Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt.

In the cicada's cry
No sign can foretell
How soon it must die.

Consider me
As one who loved poetry
And persimmons.

Over the wintry
forest, winds howl in  rage
with no leaves to blow.



Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still...
Iris, blue each spring.

From time to time
The clouds give rest
To the moon-beholders.

A firefly flitted by:
"Look!" I almost said
but I was alone.

moon in the cold -
only my own footsteps
on the bridge.

Experimenting...
I hung the moon on various
branches of the pine