A bee
staggers out
    of the peony.

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

A cicada shell;
it sang itself
    utterly away.

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.

Atop the mushroom
who knows from where
a leaf!

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

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

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

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

Bush warbler:
***** 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.

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.

Snowy morning--
one crow
after another.

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

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

O Matsushima!
O Matsushima!
O Matsushima!

Midfield,
attached to nothing,
    the skylark singing.

Moonlight slanting
through the bamboo grove;
    a cuckoo crying.

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

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

Old pond,
frog jumps in
- splash

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

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.

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.

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

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

The summer grasses
All that remains
Of brave soldiers dreams

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.