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                    BUSON 

 

                              New Year's first poem 
                               written, now self-satisfied, 
                               O haiku poet! 

                               A lightning flash- 
                               the sound of water drops 
                               falling through bamboo 

                               With a woman friend, 
                               bowing at the Great Palace 
                               a pale , hazy moon 

                               Rain falls on the grass, 
                               filling the ruts left by 
                        the festival cart 

                        Priestly poverty 
                               he carves a wooden buddha 
                              through a long cold night 

                               At the ancient well, 
                               leaping high for mosquitoes, 
                               that fish-dark sound 

                               I go out alone 
                               to visit a man alone 
                               in this autumn dusk 

                               Moon in midsky, high 
                               over the village hovels 
                               and wandering on 

                               Goodbye. I will go 
                               alone down Kiso Road 
                               old as autumn 

                               With no underrobes, 
                               bare butt suddenly exposed 
                               a gust of spring wind 

                               Sweet springtime showers 
                               and no words can express 
                               how sad it all is 

                               With a runny nose 
                               sitting alone at the Go board, 
                               a long cold night 

                               On these southern roads, 
                               on shrine or thatched roof, all the same, 
                               swallows everywhere 

                               An evening cloudburst 
                               sparrows cling desperately 
                               to trembling bushes 

                               At a roadside shrine, 
                               before the stony buddha 
                               a firefly burns 

                               These lazy spring days 
                               continue but how far away 
                               those times called Long Ago! 

                               A long hard journey, 
                               rain beating down the clover 
                               like a wanderer's feet 

                               The late evening crow 
                               of deep autumn longing 
                               suddenly cries out 

                               In a bitter wind 
                               a solitary monk bends 
                               to words cut in stone 

                               Nobly, the great priest 
                               deposits his daily stool 
                               in bleak winter fields 

                               Walking on dishes 
                               the rat's feet make the music 
                               of shivering cold 

                               Utter aloneness 
                               another great pleasure 
                               in autumn twilight 

                               The thwack of an ax 
                               in the heart of a thicket 
                               and woodpecker's tat-tats! 

                               With the noon conch blown 
                               those old rice-planting songs 
                               are suddenly gone 

                               This cold winter night, 
                               that old wooden-head buddha 
                               would make a nice fire 

                               The ferry departs 
                               as the tardy man stands in 
                               the first winter rain 

                               Not cherry blossoms 
                               but peach blossom sweetness 
                               surrounds this little house 

                               By flowering pear 
                               and by the lamp of the moon 
                               she reads her letter 

                               Autumn breezes 
                               spin small fish hung to dry 
                               from beach house eaves 

                               Head pillowed on arm, 
                               such affection for myself! 
                               and this smoky moon 

                               Clinging to the bell 
                               he dozes so peacefully, 
                               this new butterfly 

                               Fallen red blossoms 
                               from plum trees burst into flame 
                               among the horse turds 

                               Light winter rain 
                               like scampering rat's-feet 
                               over my koto 

                               Bamboo hat, straw coat 
                               the very essence of Basho 
                               falling winter rain 

                               A flying squirrel 
                               munches a small bird's bones 
                               in a bare winter field 

                               Along the roadside 
                               discarded duckweed blossoms 
                               in the evening rain 

                               In seasonal rain 
                               along a nameless river 
                               fear too has no name 

                               Pure white plum blossoms 
                               slowly begin to turn 
                               the color of dawn 

                               Plum blossoms in bloom, 
                               in Kitano teahouse, 
                               the master of sumo 

                               Only the shoots 
                               of new green leaves, white water, 
                               and yellow barley 

                               In pale moonlight 
                               the wisteria's scent 
                               comes from far away 

                               Slung over a screen, 
                               a dress of silk and gauze. 
                               The autumn wind. 

                               The camellia tips, 
                               the remains of last night's rain 
                               splashing out 

                               When a heavy cart 
                               comes rumbling along 
                               peonies tremble 

                               That handsaw marks time 
                               with the sound of poverty 
                               late on a winter night 

                               Darting here and there, 
                               the bat is exploring 
                               the moonlit plum 

                              ON THE ANNIVERSARY 
                              OF THE DEATH OF BASHO 

                               Winter rain on moss 
                               soundlessly recalls those 
                               happy bygone days