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Collected Haiku of Yosa Buson by Yosa Buson
Washing the ***--
ripples on the water;
    far off, wild ducks.
The old man
cutting barley--
bent like a sickle.
The behavior of the pigeon
is beyond reproach,
but the mountain cuckoo?
White blossoms of the pear
and a woman in moonlight
    reading a letter.
Lighting one candle
with another candle--
    spring evening.
Blown from the west,
fallen leaves gather
    in the east.
Before the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate
    a moment.
Calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
    the moon seals it.
Early summer rain--
houses facing the river,
    two of them
fish the cormorants haven't caught
swimming in the shallows.
Ploughing the land--
not even a bird singing
in the mountain's shadow.
Below are eleven Buson haiku
beginning with the phrase
'The short night--'

The short night--
on the hairy caterpillar
beads of dew.

The short night--
washing in the river.

The short night--
bubbles of crab froth
among the river reeds.

The short night--
a broom thrown away
on the beach.

The short night--
the Oi River
has sunk two feet.

The short night--
on the outskirts of the village
a small shop opening.

The short night--
broken, in the shallows,
a crescent moon.

The short night--
the peony
has opened.

The short night--
waves beating in,
an abandoned fire.

The short night--
near the pillow
a screen turning silver.

The short night--
shallow footprints
on the beach at Yui.

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The short night-
a watery moon
stands alone over the hill


The short night--
just as I'm falling asleep
my wife's waking up

     Larry Bole
Evening wind:
water laps
    the heron's legs.
Listening to the moon,
gazing at the croaking of frogs
in a field of ripe rice.
My arm for a pillow,
I really like myself
under the hazy moon.
The spring sea rising
and falling, rising
    and falling all day.
His Holiness the Abbot
is *******
in the withered fields.
the sound of the bell
    as it leaves the bell.
The willow leaves fallen,
the spring gone dry,
    rocks here and there.
Harvest moon--
called at his house,
he was digging potatoes.
The winter river;
down it come floating
flowers offered to Buddha.
Old well
Old well,
a fish leaps--
    dark sound.
He's on the porch,
to escape the wife and kids--
how hot it is!
Blow of an ax,
pine scent,
the winter woods.
Not quite dark yet
and the stars shining
above the withered fields.
Straw sandal half sunk
in an old pond
    in the sleety snow.
Buying leeks
and walking home
    under the bare trees.
The end of spring--
the poet is brooding
    about editors.
They end their flight
one by one---
crows at dusk.
A bat flits
in moonlight
above the plum blossoms.
Sparrow singing--
its tiny mouth

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