The dragonfly
can't quite land
    on that blade of grass.

O Matsushima!
O Matsushima!
O Matsushima!

Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:

Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

        -- Basho



Literal Translation

Fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya,
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping into)
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound)






    The old pond--
a frog jumps in,
    sound of water.


Translated by Robert Hass



Old pond...
a frog jumps in
water's sound.


Translated by William J. Higginson



An old silent pond...
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.


Translated by Harry Behn



There is the old pond!
Lo, into it jumps a frog:
hark, water's music!


Translated by John Bryan



The silent old pond
a mirror of ancient calm,
a frog-leaps-in splash.


Translated by Dion O'Donnol



old pond
frog leaping
splash


Translated by Cid Corman



Antic pond--
frantic frog jumps in--
gigantic sound.


Translated by Bernard Lionel Einbond



MAFIA HIT MAN POET: NOTE FOUND PINNED TO LAPEL
OF DROWNED VICTIM'S DOUBLE-BREASTED SUIT!!!

'Dere wasa dis frogg
Gone jumpa offa da logg
Now he inna bogg.'

        -- Anonymous
        

Translated by George M. Young, Jr.



Old pond
leap -- splash
a frog.


Translated by Lucien Stryck



The old pond,
A frog jumps in:.
Plop!


Translated by Allan Watts



The old pond, yes, and
A frog is jumping into
The water, and splash.

Translated by G.S. Fraser

The pine tree of Shiogoshi
Trickles all night long
Shiny drops of moonlight.

Autumn moonlight--
  a worm digs silently
    into the chestnut.

Atop the mushroom
who knows from where
a leaf!

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.

A bee
staggers out
    of the peony.

Wrapping the rice cakes,
with one hand
    she fingers back her hair.

When the winter chrysanthemums go,
there's nothing to write about
    but radishes.

This old village--
not a single house
    without persimmon trees.

A cicada shell;
it sang itself
    utterly away.

A monk sips morning tea,
it's quiet,
    the chrysanthemum's flowering.

Moonlight slanting
through the bamboo grove;
    a cuckoo crying.

Stillness--
the cicada's cry
    drills into the rocks.

How admirable!
to see lightning and not think
    life is fleeting.

Don't imitate me;
it's as boring
    as the two halves of a melon.

Teeth sensitive to the sand
in salad greens--
    I'm getting old.

scent of plum blossoms
on the misty mountain path
a big rising sun

The oak tree:
not interested
    in cherry blossoms.

The squid seller's call
mingles with the voice
    of the cuckoo.

Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die

Spring rain
leaking through the roof
    dripping from the wasps' nest.

A snowy morning--
by myself,
    chewing on dried salmon.

A caterpillar,
this deep in fall--
    still not a butterfly.

Fleas, lice,
a horse peeing
    near my pillow.

At a hermitage:

    A cool fall night--
getting dinner, we peeled
    eggplants, cucumbers.

First winter rain--
even the monkey
    seems to want a raincoat.

Awake at night--
the sound of the water jar
    cracking in the cold.

Coolness of the melons
flecked with mud
    in the morning dew.

Oh bush warblers!
Now you've **** all over
my rice cake on the porch

Old pond,
frog jumps in
- splash

Winter solitude--
in a world of one color
    the sound of wind.

Awakened at midnight
by the sound of the water jar
cracking from the ice

Bush warbler:
***** on the rice cakes
    on the porch rail.

First day of spring--
I keep thinking about
    the end of autumn.

Cold night: the wild duck,
sick, falls from the sky
    and sleeps awhile.

A field of cotton--
as if the moon
    had flowered.

Staying at an inn
where prostitutes are also sleeping--
    bush clover and the moon.

Taking a nap,
feet planted
    against a cool wall.

Winter garden,
the moon thinned to a thread,
    insects singing.

Heat waves shimmering
one or two inches
    above the dead grass.

The summer grasses
All that remains
Of brave soldiers dreams

Snowy morning--
one crow
after another.

Midfield,
attached to nothing,
    the skylark singing.

First snow
falling
    on the half-finished bridge.

What fish feel,
birds feel, I don't know--
    the year ending.

The morning glory also
turns out
    not to be my friend.

Blowing stones
along the road on Mount Asama,
    the autumn wind.