1644-1694
Basho, the Japanese poet and diarist, was born in Iga-ueno near Kyoto. He spent his youth as a companion to the son of the local lord, and with him he studied the writing of seventeen-syllable verse known as haiku. In 1667 he moved to Edo (now Tokyo) where he continued to write verse. He eventually became a recluse, living in the outskirts of Edo in a hut. When he traveled he relied entirely on the hospitality of temples and fellow-poets. In his writings he was strongly influenced by the Zen sect of Buddhism.
Haikus translated by Robert Hass unless mentioned otherwise.
A bee
staggers out
of the peony.
A caterpillar,
this deep in fall –
still not a butterfly.
At a hermitage:
A cool fall night –
getting dinner, we peeled
eggplants, cucumbers.
A field of cotton –
as if the moon
had flowered.
A monk sips morning tea,
it’s quiet,
the chrysanthemum’s flowering.
A snowy morning –
by myself,
chewing on dried salmon.
Autumn moonlight –
a worm digs silently
into the chestnut.
Awake at night –
the sound of the water jar
cracking in the cold.
Bitter-tasting ice –
just enough to wet the throat
of a sewer rat.
Blowing stones
along the road on Mount Asama,
the autumn wind.
Bush warbler
shits on the rice cakes
on the porch rail.
Cold night: the wild duck,
sick, falls from the sky
and sleeps awhile.
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.
First snow
falling
on the half-finished bridge.
First winter rain –
even the monkey
seems to want a raincoat.
Fleas, lice,
a horse peeing
near my pillow.
Heat waves shimmering
one or two inches
above the dead grass.
How admirable!
to see lightning and not think
life is fleeting.
Midfield,
attached to nothing,
the skylark singing.
Moonlight slanting
through the bamboo grove;
a cuckoo crying.
Spring rain
leaking through the roof
dripping from the wasps’ nest.
Staying at an inn
where prostitutes are also sleeping –
bush clover and the moon.
Stillness –
the cicada’s cry
drills into the rocks.
Taking a nap,
feet planted
against a cool wall.
Teeth sensitive to the sand
in salad greens –
I’m getting old.
The dragonfly
can’t quite land
on that blade of grass.
The morning glory also
turns out
not to be my friend.
The oak tree:
not interested
in cherry blossoms.
The squid seller’s call
mingles with the voice
of the cuckoo.
This old village –
not a single house
without persimmon trees.
What fish feel,
birds feel, I don’t know –
the year ending.
When the winter chrysanthemums go,
there’s nothing to write about
but radishes.
Winter garden,
the moon thinned to a thread,
insects singing.
Winter solitude –
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.
Wrapping the rice cakes
with one hand
she fingers back her hair.
The old pond –
a frog jumps in,
sound of water.
Old pond
leap – splash
a frog. (Lucien Stryck)
A cicada shell;
it sang itself
utterly away. (R.H. Blyth)
Four Haikus (Geoffrey Bownas and Anthony Thwaite)
Spring:
a hill without a name
veiled in morning mist.
The beginning of autumn:
sea and emerald paddy
both the same green.
The winds of autumn
blow: yet still green
the chestnut husks.
A flash of lightning:
into the gloom
goes the heron’s cry.
Collection of six haikus
Waking in the night;
the lamp is low,
the oil freezing.
It has rained enough
to turn the stubble on the field
black.
Winter rain
falls on the cow-shed;
a cock crows
The leeks
newly washed white –
how cold it is!
The sea darkens;
the voices of the wild ducks
are faintly white.
Ill on a journey;
my dreams wander
over a withered moor.