BASHO
How very noble!
One who finds no satori
in the lightning-flash
Breakfast enjoyed
in the fine company of
morning glories
Traveling this high
mountain trail, delighted
by violets
A solitary
crow on a bare branch-
autumn evening
This first fallen snow
is barely enough to bend
the jonquil leaves
Whore and monk, we sleep
under one roof together,
moon in a field of clover
At the ancient pond
a frog plunges into
the sound of water
Now I see her face,
the old woman, abandoned,
the moon her only companion
Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die
How reluctantly
the bee emerges from the deep
within the peony
The farmer's roadside
hedge provided lunch for
my tired horse
How wild the sea is,
and over Sado Island,
the River of Heaven
Seen in plain daylight
the firefly's nothing but
an insect
Delight, then sorrow,
aboard the cormorant
fishing boat
Exhausted, I sought
a country inn, but found
wisteria in bloom
Among moon gazers
at the ancient temple grounds
not one beautiful face
A cuckoo cries,
and through a thicket of bamboo
the late moon shines
This hot day swept away
into the sea by the
Mogami River
All along this road
not a single soul – only
autumn evening comes
Heard, not seen,
the camellia poured rainwater
when it leaned
The banana tree
blown by winds pours raindrops
into the bucket
With plum blossom scent,
this sudden sun emerges
along a mountain trail
Lead my pony
across this wide moor to where
the cuckoo sings
Wrapping dumplings in
bamboo leaves, with one finger
she tidies her hair
With a warbler for
a soul, it sleeps peacefully,
this mountain willow
This dark autumn
old age settles down on me
like heavy clouds or birds
The morning glories
bloom, securing the gate
in the old fence
From every direction
cherry blossom petals blow
into Lake Biwa
Long conversations
beside blooming irises –
joys of life on the road
On Buddha's birthday
a spotted fawn is born –
just like that
On Buddha's deathday,
wrinkled tough old hands pray –
the prayer beads' sound
Behind Ise Shrine,
unseen, hidden by the fence,
Buddha enters nirvana
This ruined temple
should have its sad tale told only
by a clam digger
Autumn full moon,
the tides slosh and foam
coming in
Crossing half the sky,
on my way to the capital,
big clouds promise snow
Gray hairs being plucked,
and from below my pillow
a cricket singing
Searching storehouse eaves,
rapt in plum blossom smells,
the mosquito hums
Polished and polished
clean, in the holy mirror
snow flowers bloom
Along my journey
through this transitory world,
new year's housecleaning
Through frozen rice fields,
moving slowly on horseback,
my shadow creeps by
The warbler sings
among new shoots of bamboo
of coming old age
A lovely spring night
suddenly vanished while we
viewed cherry blossoms
Come out to view
the truth of flowers blooming
in poverty
Autumn approaches
and the heart begins to dream
of four-tatami rooms
Winter showers,
even the monkey searches
for a raincoat
A weathered skeleton
in windy fields of memory,
piercing like a knife
Chilling autumn rains
curtain Mount Fuji, then make it
more beautiful to see
With dewdrops dripping,
I wish somehow I could wash
this perishing world
Seas slowly darken
and the wild duck's plaintive cry
grows faintly white
Water-drawing rites,
icy sound of monks' getas
echo long and cold
That great blue oak
indifferent to all blossoms
appears more noble
The clouds come and go,
providing a rest for all
the moon viewers
Kannon's* tiled temple
roof floats far away in clouds
of cherry blossoms
*Bodhisattva of
Compassion
This bright harvest moon
keeps me walking all night long
around the little pond
Awakened at midnight
by the sound of the water jar
cracking from the ice
Clouds of cherry blossoms!
Is that temple bell in Ueno
or Asakusa?
Even these long days
are not nearly long enough
for the skylarks to sing
I'm a wanderer
so let that be my name –
the first winter rain
Summer grasses:
all that remains of great soldiers'
imperial dreams
From all these trees –
in salads, soups, everywhere –
cherry blossoms fall
Culture's beginnings:
rice-planting songs from the heart
of the country
Singing, planting rice,
village songs more lovely
than famous city poems
All the fields hands
enjoy a noontime nap after
the harvest moon
Winter seclusion –
sitting propped against
the same worn post
I would like to use
that scarecrow's tattered clothes
in this midnight frost
Lonely silence,
a single cicada's cry
sinking into stone
But for a woodpecker
tapping at a post, no sound
at all in the house
Ungraciously, under
a great soldier's empty helmet,
a cricket sings
Wet with morning dew
and splotched with mud, the melon
looks especially cool
Even in Kyoto,
how I long for Kyoto
when the cuckoo sings
Your song caresses
the depth of loneliness,
O high mountain bird
Tremble, oh my gravemound,
in time my cries will be
only this autumn wind
On New Year's Day
each thought a loneliness
as winter dusk descends
BASHO'S DEATH POEM
Sick on my journey,
only my dreams will wander
these desolate moors
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