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

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

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

Atop the mushroom
who knows from where
a leaf!

A bee
staggers out
    of the peony.

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

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.

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.

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

Moonlight slanting
through the bamboo grove;
    a cuckoo crying.

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.

The oak tree:
not interested
    in cherry blossoms.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Old pond,
frog jumps in
- splash

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The summer grasses
All that remains
Of brave soldiers dreams

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

Snowy morning--
one crow
after another.

Midfield,
attached to nothing,
    the skylark singing.

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

First snow
falling
    on the half-finished bridge.

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

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