The
Haiku and Poems of
Yosa
Buson
(1716
~ 1783)
Buson,
on his deathbed:
winter warbler;
long ago in Wang Wei's
hedge also
A kite floats
At the place in the sky
Where it floated yesterday.
Suzushisa ya
Kane o hanaruru
Kane no koe.
Coolness!
The sound of the bell
Leaving the bell.
Grasses are misty,
The waters silent --
A tranquil evening.
Misty grasses,
Quiet waters,
It's evening.
on the anniversary
of Basho's death
blowing from the west
fallen leaves gather
in the east
The slow day;
a pheasant
settles on the bridge
The sparrow is singing,
its small mouth
open.
Yudachi ya
Kusaba o tsukamu
Mura suzume
Caught in a sudden shower
Huddling sparrows
Vie to get at the grass leaves.
An evening cloudburst
sparrows cling desperately
to trembling bushes
Waterfowls.
One lantern comes out
of the castle.
With the evening breeze,
The water laps against
The heron's legs.
evening wind--
water laps
the heron's legs
Evening breeze -
water is slapping against the legs
of a blue heron.
A gust of wind
Whitens
The water birds.
Tears
For the wild geese of Sosho;
A hazy moon.
a sudden squall
and the bird by the water
is turning white
A painting for sale
-
A swallow lets fall a dropping,
As it flies away.
The thwack of an ax
in the heart of a thicket
and woodpecker's tat-tats!
A flying cuckoo,
over the Heian capital
goes diagonally across the city.
For the cuckoo I wait
Here in the capital
Beneath the vain skies of hoping.
They end their flight
One by one --
Crows at dusk.
A whale!
Down it goes, and more and more
up goes its tail!
Bats flitting here
and there;
The woman across the street
Glances this way.
the first gleam
of a new day
on pilchard’s head
Dawn --
Fish the cormorants haven't caught
Swimming in the shallows.
With the young trout
in the valley
a leaf of the dwarf bamboo floats away.
Leaves some trout,
Knocks, goes on,
The evening gate.
the short night ending
-
close to the water’s edge
a jellyfish
A dog barking
At a peddler:
Peach trees in bloom.
Tilling the field
the man who asked the way
has disappeared
At sunset
The sound of pheasant shootingl
Near the spring mountainside.
Plowing the field.
A immobile cloud has disappeared.
The two plum trees
--
I love their blooming!
One early, one later.
In the white plum blossoms
Night to next day
Just turning.
Darting here and there,
the bat is exploring
the moonlit plum
Tides of the spring
sea,
tide after indolent tide
drifting
on and on...
In the spring sea
Waves undulating and undulating
All day long.
The spring sea rising
And falling, rising
And falling all day.
No bridge
And the sun going down --
Spring currents.
bags of seeds
being wetted
by the spring rain
bags of seed
soaked
by spring rain.
Rape-flowers;
Not visiting the priest,
but passing by.
Hazy moonlight -
someone is standing
among the pear trees.
A woman
Reading a letter by moonlight
Pear blossoms
By flowering pear
and by the lamp of the moon
she reads her letter
The mountain guide
simply takes no notice
of the cherry blossoms.
Not cherry blossoms
but peach blossom sweetness
surrounds this little house
Drinking up the clouds,
It spews out cherry blossoms -
Yoshino Mountain.
With the cherry blossoms
gone
The temple is glimpsed
Through twigs and branches.
shining on the sea...
dazzling sunlight shaking over
hills of cherry-bloom
Pure white plum blossoms
slowly begin to turn
the color of dawn
Plum blossoms in bloom,
in Kitano teahouse,
the master of sumo
Fallen red blossoms
from plum trees burst into flame
among the horse turds
Having reddened the
plum blossoms,
The sunset attacks
Oaks and pines.
By moonlight
The blossoming plum
Is a tree in winter.
Plum-blossoms everywhere,
I should go south,
I should go north.
Plum blossoms here
and there --
It's good to go north,
good to go south.
riverbank plum-tree...
do your reflected blossoms
really flow away?
Spring rain: as yet
the little froglets' bellies
haven't got wet.
These morning airs
--
one can see them stirring
caterpillar hairs!
The year's first poem
done,
with smug self confidence -
a haikai poet.
Longer has become the
daytime;
a pheasant is fluttering down
onto the bridge.
Yearning for the Bygones
Lengthening days, accumulating,
recalling the days of distant past.
Slowly passing days,
with an echo heard here in a corner of Kyoto.
A day slow in going
Echoes
In the corners of Kyoto.
The white elbow of
a priest,
dozing, in the dusk of spring.
Into a nobleman,
a fox has changed himself -
early evening of spring.
The light on a candle
stand
is transferred to another candle -
spring twilight.
Lighting one candle
with another candle;
an evening of spring.
A short nap,
then awakening -- this spring day
has darkened.
Who is it for,
this pillow on the floor,
in the twilight of spring?
The big gateway's
heavy doors, standing
in the dusk of spring.
With no under robes,
bare butt suddenly exposed
a gust of spring wind
treading on the tail
of the copper pheasant
the frost of spring
Springtime rain -
almost dark, and yet
today still lingers.
Springtime rain -
a little shell on a small beach
enough to moisten it.
Springtime rain: together,
intent upon their talking go
straw-raincoat and umbrella.
Springtime rain is falling
as a child's rag ball is soaking wet
on the house roof.
Spring evening.
To the half dying incense
I add it.
The pond and the river
Have become one
In the spring rain.
These lazy spring days
continue but how far away
those times called Long Ago!
Sweet springtime showers
and no words can express
how sad it all is
Only the shoots
of new green leaves, white water,
and yellow barley
Along the roadside
discarded duckweed blossoms
in the evening rain
The camellia tips,
the remains of last night's rain
splashing out
Someone is living there;
smoke leaks through the wall,
in the spring rain.
At sunset
The sound of pheasant shootingl
Near the spring mountainside.
Coming back --
So many pathways
Through the spring grass.
No bridge
And the sun going down --
Spring currents.
in the clear fording
pale feet of the silent girl...
clouding May waters
A dog barking
At a peddler:
Peach trees in bloom.
with
the noon conch blown
those old rice-planting songs
are suddenly gone
immobile fuji...
alone unblanketed by
millions of new leaves
even the ocean
rising and falling all day...
sighing green like trees
In
the moonlight,
The color and scent of the wisteria
Seems far away.
In pale moonlight
the wisteria's scent
comes from far away
Morning haze:
as in a painting of a dream,
men go their ways.
Before the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate
a moment.
The air shimmers.
Whitish flight
Of an unknown insect.
Within the quietness
of a lull in visitors' absence
appears the peony flower!
Peony petals fell
Piling one upon another
In twos and threes.
Peony having scattered
two or three petals lie
on one another.
When a heavy cart
comes rumbling along
peonies tremble
The rain of May -
facing toward the big river, houses,
just two of them.
A summer river being
crossed
how pleasing
with sandals in my hands!
Wild roses in bloom
--
so like a pathway in
or toward, my home village.
With sorrow
while coming upon the hill --
flowering wild roses.
Summer night ending
so soon
while on the river shallows
a sliver of moon remains
The short night --
Broken, in the shallows,
A crescent moon.
Short summer night.
A dewdrop
On the back of a hairy caterpillar
In seasonal rain
along a nameless river
fear too has no name
A long hard journey,
rain beating down the clover
like a wanderer's feet
A lightning flash-
the sound of water drops
falling through bamboo
A flash of lightening!
The sound of drops
Falling among the bamboos
Rain falls on the grass,
filling the ruts left by
the festival cart
struck by a
raindrop, snail
closes up
That snail --
One long horn, one short,
What's on his mind?
White dew --
One drop
On each thorn
fresh young leaves
-
the sound of a waterfall
both far and near
In the summer rain
The path
Has disappeared.
On these southern roads,
on shrine or thatched roof, all the same,
swallows everywhere
A mosquito buzzes
Every time flowers of honeysuckle fall.
buzzing mosquito
each time a honeysuckle flower
falls
At the ancient well,
leaping high for mosquitoes,
that fish-dark sound
An old well -
jumping at a mosquito
the fish's sound is dark
old well
leaping for a mosquito
a dark fish sound
At a roadside shrine,
before the stony buddha
a firefly burns
Butterfly in my hand
--
As if it were a spirit
Unearthly, insubstantial.
Clinging to the bell
he dozes so peacefull
this new butterfly
It pierces me
stepping on the comb of my gone wife
in the bedroom.
More than last year,
I now feel solitude;
autumn twilight.
This being alone
may even be a kind of happy
autumn dusk.
Utter aloneness
another great pleasure
in autumn twilight
Moon in the sky's top,
clearly passes through
this poor town street.
This feeling of sadness
-
a fishing string being blown
by the autumn wind.
Crossing the autumn moor --
I keep hearing
Someone behind me!
In an old pond
A frog ages
While leaves fall.
Harvest moon --
Called at his house,
He was digging potatoes.
buying leeks
then walking home
under bare trees
the peony cut-
nothing remains
in the garden
after falling
its image still stands;
the peony flower
slung over a screen
a dress of silk and gauze;
autumn breeze
autumn breezes
spin small fish hung to dry
from beach house eaves
the late evening crow
of deep autumn longing
suddenly cries out
I go out alone
to visit a man alone
in this autumn dusk
being awake
he says he is already asleep.
autumn chilly night.
Goodbye. I will go
alone down Kiso Road
old as autumn
the harvest moon -
rabbits go scampering
across Lake Suwa
Light of the moon
Moves west, flowers' shadows
Creep eastward.
calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
the moon seals it
escaped the nets,
escaped the ropes--
the moon on the water
head pillowed on arm,
such affection for myself!
and this smoky moon
moon in midsky
high over the village hovels
wandering on
The moon shines at
the zenith.
I pass poor quarters.
With a woman friend
bowing at the Great Palace
a pale hazy moon
four or five men dance
in a circle
above them the moon
about to drop
on the mountain crests
a line of wild geese
and the moon’s seal
the beginning of autumn:
what is the fortune teller
looking so surprised at?
Mushroom hunting —
raising my head
the moon over the peak.
winter rain on moss
soundlessly recalls those
happy bygone days
rain on moss
recalling those happy days
of long ago
that handsaw marks
time
with the sound of poverty
late on a winter night
a handsaw is sounding
as if from a poor one
midnight in this winter
Blow of an ax,
Pine scent,
The winter woods.
Going home
the horse stumbles
in the winter wind.
Priestly poverty
he carves a wooden buddha
through a long cold night
Cover my head
Or my feet?
The winter quilt.
In a bitter wind
a solitary monk bends
to words cut in stone
Bamboo hat, straw coat
the very essence of Basho
falling winter rain
Light winter rain
like scampering rat's-feet
over my koto
Walking on dishes
the rat's feet make the music
of shivering cold
The ferry departs
as the tardy man stands in
the first winter rain
Nobly, the great priest
deposits his daily stool
in bleak winter fields
This cold winter night,
that old wooden-head buddha
would make a nice fire
The winter moon:
A temple without a gate,-
How high the sky!
With a runny nose
sitting alone at the Go board,
a long cold night
A flying squirrel
munches a small bird's bones
in a bare winter field
the angler -
his dreadful intensity
in the evening rain!
Not quite dark yet
And the stars shining
Above the withered fields.
Let myself go to bed;
New Year's Day is only a matter
for tomorrow.
Camphor tree roots
are quietly getting wet,
in the winter rainy air.
Old man's love affair;
in trying to forget it,
a winter rainfall.
In an old pond,
a straw sandal is sinking -
it is sleeting.
New Year's first poem
written, now self-satisfied,
O haiku poet!
The mountain stonecutter's
chisel
being cooled in the clear water.
the stonecutter's chisel
in clear water
cooling
grasses wet in the
rain,
just after the festival cart
passed by.
to my eyes
how delightful the fan of my beloved is
in complete white.
Young bamboo trees
-
at Hashimoto, the courtesan,
is she still there or not?
The owner of the field
Goes to see how his scarecrow is
And comes back.
The old calendar
Fills me with gratitude
Like a sutra.
Hiroo Saga's work on Yosa Bosun