The HyperTexts
Matsuo Basho: Modern English Translations of the Japanese Haiku Master
Matsuo Bashō [1644-1694] was an ancient Japanese master of brief,
startlingly clear and concise haiku/hokku and haikai no renga
("comic linked verse") also known as renku. Bashō influenced many Western poets, including
early English/American modernists like Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot. Indeed, one of the
hallmarks of Modernist poetry has been a turn away from highly ornate language toward the clarity and conciseness
of Oriental poetry forms such as haiku and tanka.
compiled by Michael R. Burch
Lightning
shatters the darkness―
the night heron's shriek
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is a brilliant image and metaphor, crackling with life and energy.
The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here the leaves of the jonquil, heavy with snow, seem to bow low in reverence to
the power of winter.
Come, investigate loneliness:
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A single leaf clinging to a tree becomes a symbol of loneliness and isolation.
Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
solemn evangelist
of loneliness
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Basho's poem is a deceptively simple masterpiece; it subtly illuminates
the symbiotic nature of life through a stunning image. The butterfly is
attracted by the perfumed nectar of
flowers; in the process of imbibing the nectar it helps pollinate the flowers.
Basho's poem is an example of art mirroring nature; it's hard to say which
is more lovely: the butterfly fanning the orchid, or the exquisitely wrought poem.
One might even hazard that the poem is suggestive of a boudoir, with the orchid
playing the role of geisha ...
See: whose surviving sons
visit the ancestral graves
white-bearded, with trembling canes?
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Basho speaks with a daunting but compelling truthfulness. The
ancient Greek poets also spoke of death forthrightly. Here's my "interpretation"
of an ancient Greek epitaph (a gravestone inscription) that rivals Basho in
brevity, forthrightness and clarity:
Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gull
in his high, lonely circuits, may tell.
—Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus
Pausing between clouds
the moon rests
in the eyes of its beholders
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This poem demonstrates the simplicity and power of haiku in the hands
of a master. My translation has a slightly different "take" on the poem
than other translations, and I can't say that mine is more
correct or faithful to
the original, but I like it and I think it captures the "idea" of the
original poem, which suggests the connection between the stages of the moon and human life:
both consist of passages and rests. Usually we sleep as the moon floats above. If we
see the moon at night, slipping between clouds, it can seem eerily lovely,
haunting and restful at the same time. When a poet like Basho deftly invokes
the image of the moon, he can appeal to all the things we know (or think we
know) and feel about the moon.
Please note that I call my translations "loose translations" and
"interpretations" because they are not literal word-for-word translations.
I begin with my personal interpretation of a poem and
translate accordingly. To critics who object to variations from the original
texts, my response is that there are often substantial disagreements among even
the most accomplished translators. Variations begin with the
readings because different people get different things from
different poems. And a strict word-for-word translation will seldom, if ever,
result in poetry. In my opinion translation is much closer to an art than a
perfect science and I side with Rabindranath Tagore, who said he needed some
leeway in order to produce poetry in another language when he translated his own
poems into English!
Now here, without comment, are a number of other poems by Matsuo Basho:
Winter in the air:
my neighbor,
how does he fare?
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
An ancient pond sleeps . . .
untroubled . . . until . . .
suddenly a frog leaps!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Big old pond,
the little frog leaps:
Kerplash!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Explosion! Kerplunk!
The frog returns
to its lily pad.
—Michael R. Burch
I get grief from haiku purists about my translations of Basho's famous frog
poem. I have been accused of "adding too much" and "not abiding by the rules." I
plead guilty on both charges. Yes, "the silver plop and gurgle of water" does
vary from the original poem. But when I encountered the poem the first time,
that was the image and sound I heard. Was I, perhaps, inspired by the master?
Did the master Basho reach across space and time, through his poem, to help me
see and hear what happens when a frog leaps suddenly into a still, unsuspecting
pond? But in any case, I don't think my first translation does anyone any harm.
If they prefer other translations, they can ignore mine. But I think a third
line like "the sound of water" falls flat in English, pardon my pun. In my
second translation I focus on the how the pond might "feel" about the frisky
frog. In the third translation and my response, I permit myself a bit of comedy.
I don't think there is anything wrong with "interpreting" other artists, as long
as we don't pretend to be quoting them exactly. It's hard to quote poetry
exactly in translation, but sometimes we can interpret and come up with
something readers will like that isn't too far from the original poet's
intentions.
Dabbed with morning dew
and daubed with mud,
the melon looks wonderfully cool.
—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
The first chill rain:
poor monkey, you too could use
a woven cape of straw
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like a heavy fragrance
snow-flakes settle:
lilies on rocks
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea darkening,
the voices of the wild geese:
my mysterious companions!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Will we remain parted forever?
Here at your grave:
two flowerlike butterflies!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ballet in the air!―
two butterflies, twice white,
meet, mate, unite.
―Matsuo 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
A spring wind
stirs willow leaves
as a butterfly hovers unsteadily.
―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
Scrawny tomcat!
Are you starving for fish and mice
or pining away for love?
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The legs of the cranes
have been shortened
by the summer rains.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
August weeds?
The only remains
of warriors' ambitions ...
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These brown summer grasses?
The only remains
of "invincible" warriors ...
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Spring has come:
the nameless hill
lies shrouded in mist
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Spring!
A nameless hill
stands
shrouded in mist.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Graven images of long-departed gods,
dry spiritless leaves:
companions of the temple porch
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Curious flower,
watching us approach:
meet Death, our famished donkey.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
High-altitude rose petals
falling
falling
falling:
the melody of a waterfall.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The temple bells grow silent
but the blossoms provide their incense―
A perfect evening!
―Matsuo 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
A bee emerging
from deep within the peony’s hairy recesses
flies off heavily, sated
—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
This darkening autumn:
my neighbor,
how does he continue?
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
An empty road
lonelier than abandonment:
this autumn evening
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Autumn darkness
descends
on this road I travel alone
—Matsuo Basho, 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
asagao ni / ware wa meshi kû / otoko kana
The morning glories, alas,
also turned out
not to embrace me
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Morning glories blossom,
reinforcing the old fence gate.
―Matsuo 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
asagao wa / heta no kaku sae / aware nari
Ah me,
I waste my meager breakfast
morning glory gazing!
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I too
have been accused
of morning glory gazing ...
—original haiku by by Michael R. Burch
Fire under the ash
and written on the wall
the shadow of a friend
―Matsuo Basho translation by Cid Corman
Fire levitating ashes:
my companion's shadow
animates the wall ...
―Matsuo Basho loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The year's first day ...
thoughts come, and with them, loneliness;
dusk approaches.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nothing in the cicada's cry
hints that it knows
how soon it must die.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The cicada's cry
contains no hint
of
how soon it must die.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nothing in the cry
of the cicadas
suggests they know how soon they must die.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Among the graffiti
one illuminated name:
Yours.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The moon: glorious its illumination!
Therefore, we give thanks.
Dark clouds cast their shadows on our necks.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
autumn twilight
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
phantom autumn
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
spectral autumn
―Matsuo 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
A raven settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A crow roosts
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightmare
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation 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 I think mine are
better in conveying the eeriness of the scene in English.
Lightning
shatters the darkness―
the night heron's shriek
― Matsuo Basho, loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lightning―
the night heron's shriek
severs the darkness
― Matsuo Basho, loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A flash of lightning―
the night heron's shriek
splits the void
― Matsuo Basho, loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Winter solitude:
a world awash in white,
the sound of the wind
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fever-felled mid-path
my dreams resurrect, to trek
into a hollow land
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
aki o hete / cho mo nameru ya / kiku no tsuyu
Taming the rage
of an unrelenting sun—
autumn breeze.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation 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.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation 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.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
aki chikaki / kokoro no yoru ya / yo jo han
Nothing happened!
Yesterday simply vanished
like the blowfish soup.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
ara nantomo na ya / kino wa sugite / fukuto-jiru
The surging sea crests around Sado ...
and above her?
An ocean of stars.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
ara umi ya / Sado ni yokotau / Ama-no-gawa
Sick of its autumn migration
my spirit drifts
over wilted fields ...
―Matsuo Basho
said to be his death poem, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sick of this autumn migration
in dreams I drift
over flowerless fields ...
―Matsuo Basho
said to be his death poem, loose translation/interpretation 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.
New Basho 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’s hit 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 prostitute 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
The following are links to other translations by Michael R. Burch:
Matsuo Basho's Famous Frog
Poem
Matsuo Basho
Yosa Buson
Fukuda Chiyo-ni
Kobayashi Issa
Ono no Komachi
Oriental Masters/Haiku
Japanese Death Poems
The Love Song of Shu-Sin: The Earth's Oldest Love Poem?
Ancient Greek Epigrams and Epitaphs
Meleager
Sappho
The Seafarer
Wulf and Eadwacer
Sweet Rose of Virtue
How Long the Night
Caedmon's Hymn
Anglo-Saxon Riddles and Kennings
Bede's Death Song
The Wife's Lament
Deor's Lament
Lament for the Makaris
Tegner's Drapa
Whoso List to Hunt
Miklós Radnóti
Bertolt Brecht
Ber Horvitz
Paul Celan
Primo Levi
Wladyslaw Szlengel
Saul Tchernichovsky
Robert Burns: Original Poems and Translations
The Seventh Romantic: Robert Burns
Ahmad Faraz
Allama Iqbal
Sandor Marai
Alexander Pushkin's tender, touching poem "I
Love You" has been translated into English by Michael R. Burch.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Marina Tsvetaeva
Renée Vivien
Free Love Poems by Michael R. Burch
The HyperTexts