Hello suicide!
Its been awhile
Remember me?
Yer ol' buddy Kyle?
I need your assistance
To escape from this trial
Forgive me friend
If I'm unable to smile

Ah, yes! Kyle, of course!
Forgive me bud
If my voice does sound hoarse

I've been hanging around
Don't you see?
I'm glad you've swung by
To console in me
For my first recommendation
Is hanging
Yes, in fact
This is my plea
Might I suggest a rafter
Or perhaps a nice tree?
This ones on the house
Yeah, this one is free

Ah, yes! A hanging
Indeed!
But if I were to do that
A rope I would need
Not only that
But I could be rescued
And freed
Do you have another?
Please forgive me suicide
Forgive me for my greed
What else can I do?
Please consider my plead!

Ah, yes! I can do one more
But I'm growing tired and weak
And my neck is still sore

Take a handful of pills
And overdose
This I know you've tried
And you came really close
But you can't be easily rescued
And you don't need a rope
Do it! Destroy your dreams!
And trample your hopes!

Excellent! This one sounds great
For sure!
I do have a decease
And pills might be the cure
But what if I live
What if my body endures?
But this option has potential
And it has great allure
I'll consider this option
To you, I ensure

Well, well, well!
Look what we have here!
Looks like I'm successful
As if a death is near
Theree no need to panic
Theres no need to fear
However, I do need payment
So start paying in tears!
Now RIP my good friend
Its been fun mate, cheers!

As opposed to human beings and snakes and other beasts that carry their poison in their mouths, the scorpions keep it in their tails, which means that one cannot consider them entirely responsible for the repercussions the poison might have, just as one cannot, for example, consider drivers completely responsible for accidents caused by their back wheels.
     Is this not a good reason to respect the scorpion in comparison with human beings and snakes and other beasts that carry their poison in their mouths?

This is fact:
The pig is a filthy animal.
Stewing in a self-created defecation so foul,
the stench will turn your stomach
and stick to your clean, human skin for hours.

Now consider:
A sow's ****** can last up to 30 minutes.

The conclusion:
Filthy sounds good to me.

-Numbers 1 to 9-

I am happy to be here,
Where I can find numbers each morning.
Sun shining through my window,
I walk barefoot downstairs,
Even though my bones crack
I am quiet as a cat.

With warm coffee I can sit,
And as I nibble on the food
I fill out all the blanks.
My pen is black in color
Just like the ink on paper,
They both match each other.

I recall my resolutions
I made a list just days past,
But writing is so much fun.
I write numbers one to nine,
When they are correct I feel fine,
But some numbers I cannot find.

I have finished all my food,
So I go out to sit in the sunshine.
I cover up my face,
Place the paper on the grass,
I let the noise fade at last,
But I must consider every remark.

With criticism one can be better
But then why are these tears around?
I can’t find seven and eight.
I need those numbers,
I need to make them match,
I need to complete these lines.

I stand in knee deep water
cold and quickly flowing
I cast my fly back and forth
where the water lillie's growing

Strip the line a few times
no bites so cast again
Take a few steps downstream
and simply rebegin

Fish for a while
no nibbles so change the fly
cast over a stump
bite knocks my bait in the sky

Cast back across
the old rotten stump
strip a few feet of line
and feel a little bump

The fight is on
not much but its fun
a green warmouth
catching fish in the sun

My little yellow fly
really does its job
so many little warmouths
on the stump, in a mob

I caught quite a few
not big enough to eat
so I move along
on a rock, I take a seat

Cool water flowing by
I relax in the sun
cast my lure to a point
I consider being done

One final cast
on the edge of some moss
Twitch my wooly ******
gets hammered by a hoss

she goes on a run
fly line is peeling
I can see the backing
drag is loudly squealing

The fight is truly on
I turn her and begin to reel
flashes or silver and green
she has fight left in her still

Tired out she finally gives up
I reel her to my side
an 8-pound bass, selfie
and I let her go in stride

I didn't catch a lot
but had a blue clear sky
If anybody asks if I caught
I'll say, I went didn't I

Now that I've got your attention,
Did I forget to mention?;
I dance with the devil;
We meet at midnight, and dance until sunrise
Around a blazing fire
In the fire we throw
The past
We let it go
when he calls I don't say no
something about dancing with fire
awakens your soul
naturally though, you lose control
you let your inhibitions go
see your desire, raging in the fire
and you'll dance, you'll dance
to a tune of
heartbreak and emotion,
until the flames light up your veins
were told the devil's bad news
perhaps he just reveals you to
the truth
the painful, the bitter,
listen you've got to consider
where does the devil reside?
In the mind.
but when you're no longer dancing
your bodys blazing with passion
you will never stop asking
when the next dance is

I was invited to jive
with the most dangerous being alive
but nowhere did I sign
instead of losing, it was myself I did find
because the music and the monster and the fire
revealed me to my own desire
took me into a journey into my own mind
to see.. that my own devil was me
when you lay blame outwards, you are blind

it all rings through me like tinnitus.
this is why I don't come home. every
where else hosts a myriad of other w
orlds to become intermingled with - p
laces to lead myself away from the so
ur crystal of my mind. now it's dim a
nd no one expresses love to me. I am a
lone, gazing at the facebook dash like
an approval ***** - unaccepted. loiter
ing around in other peoples lives and th
ey don't really want me. i don't want m
e either. i become afraid to bring it up -
that i enter my room and see your smile
slice through the darkness in recognition
  
                                                                ­                                 that

these are the same sheets we lay on toget
her. i begin to contemplate your words i
have fallen out of love with you and i de
serve it. i still consider suicide an option as
i think of everything you did to dice my so
ul into smaller portions you could swallow,
digest, and **** out like they all meant noth
ing. i gave you everything, i gave you every
inch of my darkness on a white fine dine ch
ina plate and it was because you were more
than my lover - you were my best friend an
d significant other. i shared it all with you - t
urned over every single rock and illuminated
every nook and cranny only to understand th
e shattering honesty of love. *you hold my ver
y essence to my temple like a pistol and strip e
very inch of me bare but it's only because i let y
ou and it's only because i deserve it and every w
ord you uttered makes me gaze in the mirror wi
th disgust and the thought that silence lies where
silence rides and it's where the *ride is over.

Patristic Excerpt
John where made Patristic delays on the island in Christian times by building numerous panagias decorated with mosaics. They enter the port of the island walking in wild revelry after being greeted at the port. At dusk they arrive in Jorió finding the Venetian castle of the knights of the Order of Saint John, completely covered in blue olive oil (a phenomenon that had been caused by the previous visit of Etrestles and his entourage) In the same way, they make an antechamber to the northeast finding the Grotto of the Seven Virgins or Nymphs, whose satire succumbed to some incredulous neighbors, hiding some of their minor daughters after denying its consummation. This is not a minor legend told of how seven young girls disappeared into the cave when fleeing from some pirates, noting if it could be so, also the clues to find Etréstles that he had recently been here in frank search for his ghosts. “Behold, all this paraphernalia of bilocation was accentuated by the god Spílaiaus creating immediacy with all the times that they wanted from the present, and the future that is exclusive to the Itheoi gods” Petrobus the Pelican goes back to the colonies of his ancestors, he wore gold rings around his neck, and had no contact with his native colony since the last day they helped the fields with water due to the lack of fresh water. It is worth noting their property of converting salt water into fresh water but even more the quality of Petrobus in addition to where they step on its paws, everyone will shine and rejuvenate. It off-centers its wings with allotropic dyes that made it turn colors in addition to strengthening and lightening its body during long periods of flight, and lifts its angular bag and takes vertical flight to meet Reader and Vernarth again in the Early Christian Necropolis of the burial chapels, here they meditate with the god Azofar who levitated above them offering their submission to the wind that flows with great power under the catacombs pulling and moving spirits that wish to relocate with their placebo presiding over their doubts. They leave the port boarding a Triaconter that would take them to Kinaros before the night falls and is seized by the coastal fog, not resisting the rope that holds a ship, whatever it was many times these ships were maneuvered by rowing sailors but this time it was only consigned for them, it would only move without anyone intervening, only the eternal wind that kind will take them to the island of Reader's progenitors. On the transparent waters sailing in the Triaconter were the three, Vernarth in the Petrobus bow on the main mast of the sail, and Raeder beside him a few meters away remembering his parents when they emigrated from this island? The name of the ship that was named as “Eurydice” in every certain space of advance they approached the macaroon to empty the tears that this Nymph emanated through her half-open eyes, she would take a rag of the holy cocoon and wipe away the effusions that must have been more for some reason that he would want to know…? Upon arriving in the vicinity of Kinaros, a rainy cyclone hit them which lifted them above the surface of the island when they were less than 5 km from arriving. Vernarth takes the Xiphos's sword from him and cuts the ropes then Raeder noticing that they were at serious risk of being shipwrecked, tells Vernarth to get out of the ship and quickly runs to the bow covering the eyes of the Mask of the Eurydice and leaves the ship.

With an epic metaphysical tendency, he acclaims his magical steed Alikanto..., he flies over the ship and picks them up, and Reader takes hold of the rings on Petrobus's legs reaching the mainland consecutively. Kinaros is a land of fishermen and farmers, a long-lived land and ancient inhabitants who do not age; here there are no cemeteries or monuments, there is only eternal spring for those who can be grateful for a place that gives them peace, and melancholy love for those who do not live there. Here from this bountiful land come the Raeder Parents, they migrated to Kalymnos; being this land the one that saw his birth and immortalizes him so he remembers…: “In the islands of the Dodecanese, subdued by the carmine dew that falls at dawn on its crystalline waters, important archaeological remains and cenacles appear on the sand or gravel beaches to compete in athletic leisure, Raeder ran naked after the outfits of which his mother had made him. He was permeated by crystalline Byzantine, architectural and medieval monuments due to long Venetian dominations in his mannerisms what unite them to these islands is their history, and their occupations: that of the knights of the crusades to that of the Turks, the Italian occupation to the Greek annexation with their volatile outfits useless to dress up, Patmos is very popular among pilgrims from the moment his work was raised in one of the caves on the island of San Juan Evangelista, the disciple of Christ writing the Book of Revelations. Astypalea is the westernmost island of the archipelago and has Dodecanese Cycladic architectural features it is also related here in the Novel of Etréstles of Kalavrita matter of his victorious boast to Patmos when he resorts after the reverie with the Laziko Dance that was held by the little finger and circulated in commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with the Sousta del Dodecanese. These dances were engendered in the infra-ocean floor of the Ionian Sea, generating the power of the ethereal emanation of Etrestles from Kalavrita by daring to put Eclectic confrontation to the invisible portal of the Evangelist Saint John in his sacred basaltic cavern in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 - page 114. Editorial Palibrio-USA) (Koumeterium Messolonghi Chapter 16 - page 114 Editorial Palibrio-USA) It is also related here in the Novel of Etréstles of Kalavrita matter of his victorious boast to Patmos when he resorts after the reverie with the Laziko Dance that was held by the little finger and circulated in the commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with the Dodecanese´s Sousta. It is also related here in the Novel of Etréstles of Kalavrita matter of his victorious boast to Patmos when he resorts after the reverie with the Laziko Dance that was held by the little finger and circulated in commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with La Sousta del Dodecanese.

In the Chapel of Ministers: They were seconded by the high representatives of Kalymnos, among them the curious immortal serpentine Raeder son of native Kinaros farmers belonging to a clan group of six small islands and six small families. Some islets used to boast the genealogical beams and challenges of Antigone, and documented inspirations found between Leros and Kálymnos in the east and the Cyclades islands of Amorgós in the west. Raeder always got up before dawn on his window sill there always appeared a petite blue bonsai Pelican he called Petrobus, in the mornings he would run beating this Olympic bird in a fast dispute sometimes he was not able to say goodbye to his bird friend because he ran so fast that the days used to be weeks in a row, while Petrobus puffed through the Ouranos with his Hellenic Artificial Intelligence elytra, with his hyper exhalation he moved great rocky crags even moving and disorganizing the geographical nomenclature of these twelve polygon islands between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. The lesser known and immaculate islands are Leros or Pserimos, while Rhodes and Kos the largest and most cosmopolitan islands are the goal of the migrated Blue Pelicans throughout the year. Before returning to his house, Raeder stretched out on grasses sheared by the heels of Petrobus's migrates and his henchmen in this grass dancer I could feel the dances with the gag dance bread vibrate through his arms in all the rumps of the maidens in the Sousta dance running after Petrobus with his golden mask and hanging from the wings or legs of his bird (Wings Mate), the art of flying with golden magical birds and his Ancient Mama Antigone to Raeder when sometimes he was flying by the legs of Petrobus, he thought...:

“My land… a thousand times I will lift you up with my arms, do not doubt it, my arms believe it… Oh, my venerated Ionian I will do apnea to please you a thousand times to become your Ionian molecule… Wind of Kalimnos himself…, I will make the flute an Ode that runs through twelve perforated epitaphs with my ancestors in the Dodecanese sleeping paroxysm in the panagia where I was baptized for the ninth time! And in the fatuous lavish fire, I will put the ceremonial ribbon of the Sousta Dance in the nap in the new migration of my transparent Pelicans….”

Raeder tells a visibly emotional Petrobus about imagining crying with his imagined friend. "Little Raeder of the Dodecanese" he utters to his magical imaginary friend; Petrobus, what else was missing from ground breadcrumb paste for next winter…? Petrobus, distracted and not looking at him tells him…, only placing his web-footed Hellenophile leg on his other equal…: “Fear nothing Raeder, God does not coexist! ...Now He and you are the same. With your arms you will be able to lift the sphere of the bare earth and reconvert it into a Healthy Earth of Milk and mead of our Kalymnos that runs like a quagmire through the mountains of your Life converted into a new House dressed in a new house” when Raeder finishes thinking…, Vernarth tells him that they had to sail to Patmos, curiously Eurydice's ship was in the bay, they believed that this ship had capsized and sank somewhere in the wide open sea of ​​the Aegean.
The three on boards the ship Eurydice, Alikanto stays in Kinaros batoning very well guarded by peasants who took great affection for him later he would join him on Patmos for service and trades pantry to Saint John the Evangelist. Alikanto will take a great contribution and role in the prophecies of Vernarth on the Isle of Patmos, just on board the Eurydice and surround themselves with a climate of seclusion and peace on the ship, not so far behind were the Cyclades and part of the Dodecanese he was full of vitality, he completely covered the Triaconter it was late and the moon was beginning to dress the deck with phosphorescence, Raeder and his little Petrobus were clearly exhausted deciding to sleep right there on the deck. He was also relieved of emotions after so much experimenting on the islands, as well as not being able to find his brother Etréstles to prepare to rest in her poetry, almost falling asleep he sees that from the bow a very quiet female figure approaches him with her lost gaze, and stands up seeing that it was Eurydice who was in front of him. She had her bandage on her eyes still approaching her and says Eurydice: “Can you remove the tape…? Only you can do that! Although due to this subtlety of yours in attention to me I tried..., of course, I must be able to recover my subsistence and its mobility as an indissoluble watercolor. Vernarth says; “In my narrative we know that Eurydice was a dryad, being the wife of Orpheus as a poet and musician. After evading Aristaeus´s harassment, she would now take refuge in a shipyard in Amphipolis and hide on a ship. She escapes with great speed and fear, as her heart only belongs to Orpheus, as she flees, Eurydice is bitten by a snake and dies, Orpheus, disconsolate, cries for her and her desperation finds no consolation, so he makes the risky decision to go in search of his sweet and beloved wife to Hades, the land of the dead. Vernarth longs to revive her in her comparative fable to her sweet song and her poetry, Orpheus managed to move Charon who lets him cross the River Styx, the boundary between the world of the living and the dead. Later, also with his artistic abilities, Orpheus manages to convince Persephone and Hades to allow him to take Eurydice. The subterranean divinities agree to be taken away but Orpheus must promise that he will not attempt to see his wife until he has brought her into the sunlight, so as agreed, Eurydice followed Orpheus on the way to the light, and at the moment when they were about to leave the dark depths, Orpheus had doubts thus, he began to think about the possibility that Persephone had deceived him and that Eurydice did not come after him, so he could not bear her temptation and turned to look at her and confirm that she was coming with him. When this happened, Eurydice was dragged by an irresistible force back to Hades. Orpheus, desperate tries to go again to rescue his beloved but this time Charon does not allow it, at this moment the god of the Genus Itheoi Aiónius clings to the purity of the distilled water pretending that Eurydice was going to the underworld, but the mirror flash of Ibico 1 would bring Eurydice from the darkness to the parallel world of Orpheus and Vernarth. Here Kaitelka and Borker (Semi Itheoi, concur in total harmony with Demeter, Persephone, and Hestia bringing from the labyrinths the rusty chains of Prometheus and Vertnarth that were wandering through infinity) Orpheus when he doubts is more than divine doubt, it is submithological human doubt that cracks the recondite doubts and trigger the valleys of perdition in the jungle dense in roads without being able to follow, especially if I personalize it in myself, said Vernarth. According to Vernarth giving ears in this magnanimous moment of what was narrated by herself, it represented Eurydice fearing being left unattended under hell, fleeing to Thrace to the port of Amphipolis, then boarding a ship stealthily entering being discovered by a captain later. She runs strong escaping from the officer and jumps overboard, the officer searches for her vehemently for several days, remaining buried in the holistic totally under a complication plot since a sailor had recapitulated her in a passage of this mythology that could take live life and action on your boat. Days go by and this Triaconter ship is whipped by the Persians on a disastrous day, everything frolicked from large figures to consider as well as fleeing from the Persians before an impartial and just intensified attack from the enemies the Triaconter is adrift. Eurydice follows in the footsteps of this ill-fated boat and then boards it again. “In the eighth month of navigating fully, she is discovered by Aristeo, She takes the start of a terrifying heart because she feared what could be born from the ship; perhaps become a subjective fear! She realized that it was not real and she understood that it was an anxiety of profuse delirium”. But it was too late for she hid in the bowsprit on her way to the bowsprit, with the decaying line to the figurehead she stays silent, tries to remove her feet and can't remain thus captive of the ship bound to the figurehead, provoked only by herself not by her as a divine Nymph but by the fear that haunted her like a viral fear in her own and her delusional fears. Vernarth, hates himself and tells Eurydice: “If you wish, I will jump overboard and be swallowed by the sea, and so I can find the oppressors who harass your persecution. Just tell me and I'll jump to save your reckless shattered fate. Only the existence that is nothing more than Bravery will combine the power to relieve you and free you from your chains.”

A phantom throb
Through a pumping vessel
And I wait

Wait

Wait for the surge
But it doesn't come
It's only the ghost of what was

And the unborn fetus of what is to be
But in this moment
There is nothing

No throb
No surge
No twitch
No sob

Just an *****
That sits still
Moving naturally
In gentle ease

A dangerous feeling that lures
To the metallic shine
Of otherworldly deeds
That I would never consider otherwise

But when the stillness passes I am reborn again
Through with waiting for the moment of truth
Until we meet again

for Daniel,
                   and anyone else who cares*

I'm relatively new at this,
if you consider that I've
never done this before.

And this is the only time I'll read this;
this is the cherry
exploding in your mouth,
between your hungry teeth
digging into the skin.

You are a window pane,
but you are not stained glass.
You are less clear than that.

You make less sense than
the spider veins of a kiss imprinted
on a bus window.

You make less sense than kissing a bus window,
arching and aching for that semi-perfect,
seventy percent reflection of yourself
as you float above and before
birds picking at beetles in the grass.

You make more sense than a thousand
kisses on a bus window
the driver has to keep cleaning off because
who really wants to kiss a bus window, anyway?

And still they're there, the oils and grease
immortalized for a few months,
the impression of imagined romance
pressed against the scratched glass on which someone tried to write,
"*******," backwards with a safety pin.

This is my first time reading this,
and the last time I will say it,
though it sounds much better when
the man inside my head so charismatically reads it aloud
to his audience
kind of like a dry comedian would tell a joke.

This is my first time standing before you,
and let me say that sometimes
I might offend you,
preachers, and speakers, and pew sitters;
evangelists and full blooded, God-fearing sinners alike.
And maybe you can forgive me
if I occasionally step on your closed-minded toes
in your sensible shoes.

Or perhaps they aren't so sensible.

And I got a haircut recently--
and here I'm expected to say something profound.
Something that perhaps sounds like,
"I got a haircut recently
while you stood in the bathroom with an electric razor
and shaved ten months of memories from your scalp."

Scalp.
The word makes me think of natives,
and it makes me wonder how long it takes
to collect the bleeding wigs from
the hairless children you left in the street.

Street.
That word makes me think of--
and here again I must choose my words carefully,
because the next thing I say will expose myself
poetically and psychologically--
spinal injuries.

All the careless children walking down sidewalks
not thinking of their mothers as they step
on every single crack in the pavement.

But what if everything we were superstitious about
were real?

Would we repave the world every week
so that there would be no chance of breaking
an innocent woman's back through carelessness?
There will be no cracks for thoughtless children
in their sneakers
they are too young to tie on their own.

Or perhaps the world would be covered in grass,
and every day mother would wrap the scarf
tightly about her son's ears and whisper,
"Don't step on any rocks today, my love.
I'm still recovering from last week."

But that's ridiculous.

I suppose it's surprising to me how many words
the man in my head can say while staring at a
Manhattan Morning in black and white
hung on your wall by three thumb tacks.
The lower right corner hangs idly where I took
the fourth one out to make this poem sound better.

There is a solar system in your ceiling,
did you know that, my love?
It is not in the asymmetrically placed
glow in the dark stars you placed at random,
nor is it in that one dolphin that seems to
swim amongst the Saturns and galaxies
that make no sense in context.
It isn't the seahorse, either.

Would you say that the Milky Way is made of wishes?
When I lie next to you in the darkness
uttering soft lullabies, I make wishes to your ceiling
that my voice doesn't crack
and you don't wake up again.
And also that perhaps one of us is wrong about God
and maybe he is out there after all
and mass-delusion doesn't exist.

I still think I'm right, though.

You make less sense than a kiss that means nothing.

But you, my love, you are more than a thousand kisses.
You are more than the thousand words
a picture may be worth.
And if I were better at saying things
maybe I could preserve you in a poem.

But I don't think anyone can.
No one can shape words and pages to your figure,
the fullness of your lips and
the strength of your nose;
the holes in your ears and
the life between your legs.

I got a haircut the other day
and cut twenty months of memories from my scalp.
It feels nice to not remember,
anymore.

Standing beneath black skies' hush,
cold rains' fall a stimulating touch
bringing rise to forbearance
forcing stormcells to pressured positions
above our expanse.
These words escape to nothing.

Thick air mixed in
with each vowel of smoke,
straining to glimpse beyond
those choked fragments.
I caught your shadow
skirting the edge of visions
and slipping past my bounds.
You were cloaked in millennia,
time soaked from downpours
seemingly lost of origins,
be they long past
or still forecast,
you were,
falling drops rolling
from silken hair
still bruised in memory,
forgoing present presentation
to reacquaint opportunity
with overlooked encounters.

Soaked to soul,
the ripples spread quick
stepping to the plane of...

...wait,
where are you...

when are we...

...will you be?..

...or have we been
lost in relativity
and escaping in
each word I breathe.
Comprehension critical,
compassionate clouds constantly
reminding of drowning you out,
professing this changing view
in hallowed hurricane whispers.

An angel you became,
living upon these grounds
your plague, living on,
earthly existence anathema,
each second foreword
another progression of
decreeing beating heart
a final concerto, Ava Maria
your soliloquy, serenading
dreams in a missing tongue,
with dying tone
and a pulse set out for loan.
Loneliness my investment,
appreciating until the light was blinding,
pain breaking anthems,
scaling back to feed off
what was left.

I missed our true nature until it was reflex,
illumination only brief glimpses of a passed future,
grief developing to timelines sutures,
bleeding blending was
and has,
with will be still the memory
I'm forced to foresee.

Broken in neutrality,
droplets still caressing the shadow
skirting the corner of my eye.
Your life was short,
I let us die far too young.
Consider it your sacrifice,
the reason for the crying clouds
whose pain soothes these brainstorms
vented through cigarette breaks
wasted pouring words
to howling winds.

By: Jack Wilder (Ramon Carlos T. Castilo)

The game of life is simple,
Follow the rules,
Know the walkthroughs,
And you'll get by just fine.

You should know that,

Life on Earth is a gamble,
And we're all here to win,
Making a bet on that roulette,
Wanting another spin.

Be aware that,

We care so much for ourselves,
And forget to consider others,
We all want fame and glory,
Leaving room for being mean and no more for sincerity.

Lastly realize and put to heart,

That every person on this planet,
Are like lottery tickets,
Scratch the surface,
To see the *** of gold underneath.

It was down on the farm,
24 little girls shinning
in the early summer sun. I stood
over their tiny green bodies
gently showering soft new growth.
A feeling began to swell, of pride,
as I was growing, again, the cure for cancer
in the field of a dear friend.
Holding the hose in one hand,
and the spray wand in the other
so as to not allow dragging
across these ever important bodies,
I look across the field of 87 and consider the varieties
the four of us have chosen
for grow 2015.
The Willamette Valley is warm
and my toes sink into lovingly treated soil,
organically fed, with an eye to long-term
sustainability, as the co-op recognizes
we are part of the land we love.
The slightest tinge of yellow catches my eye
perhaps the little Shishkaberry
needs Epson salts.

Look at the time slowly pass
And see the sweet and flowing grass
It covers the rolling hills and the never ending fields
Never knowing what it yields
The sun hangs heavy in the afternoon sky
And birds fly just to simply fly
A couple makes their way up the hill
They go by the names of Lucy and Will
Carries a picnic basket in one hand
And in the other a girl just as grand
And dressed in their Sunday best
As they watch the sun sink in the west
A sweet darkness wraps around them
The moon glows like a gem
The wind softly runs through their hair
A cricket chirps in the darkness somewhere
Will turns to her and looks at her stunning features
She is such a lovely wild creature
Her Wild emerald eyes burn bright
As they twinkle and burn in the moonlight
Wills smile spreads from ear to ear
Its infectious to all that are near
The stars stutter like film stuck in a projector
He holds her tight as her protector
Arms wrapped around her waist
The air around them sweet to the taste
They laid down and stared into space
Their fingers interlace
They consider every eventuality
Realizing they lack immortality
That they need to value time
Play till the warning bell chime
To make their love last
To value the future as much as the past
And they fall asleep on the hill
That ends the story of Lucy and Will

For over two years, every day, I've dreamt of dying. Historically, I've always hated change but I'd certainly consider killing for some now.

Excuse me sir,
Please enlighten me
Why is it that when I don’t find your **** joke funny
It means I have a ‘bad sense of humor’
But you don’t have a bad sense of morality?
Excuse me sir,
Please educate me
Why is it that when a white man ***** an unconscious woman,
He only got three months in jail?
Because he was ‘a good athlete’
Excuse me sir,
Please ask me
Why I need my feminism
I need feminism,
because ‘boys will be boys’ is being used to justify ****
Because if I decide I want to wear short shorts,
Or heels,
Or even red lipstick-
I am ‘asking for it’
Because if I am tipsy or unconscious,
I am ‘asking’ for you to take over my body
‘Asking’ you to violate me in the worst way you could
Because **** is being justified.
Boys will not ‘be boys’
Boys will be held accountable for their actions-
Just like everyone else
So Excuse me sir,
Don’t tell me **** jokes,
Don’t tell me how Brock is a good athlete,
Don’t tell me that I was asking for it,
Don’t tell me that I should ‘consider myself lucky’,
Or that I should have enjoyed it
Don’t **** shame me,
Don’t tell me it’s not a big deal,
Don’t belittle ****.
It can happen to boys,
It can happen to girls,
And everyone in between
It can happen to you,
Or to someone you love
Excuse me sir,
Please
Don’t justify ****

before you came it was hell
with you i'd hoped it'd go well
but it didn't last, the spell
all you've left behind is a shell
on it i will no longer dwell
consider this as my farewell

Tangent: touching
along a curve,
a surface,
without intersecting.

We are acquainted.
Contours quietly agree.
What I cannot guess
with my hands
I will consider
with my lips—

count the places 
I kiss you,
forget where I am,
start over.

Turkish Poetry Translations

Attilâ İlhan (1925-2005) was a Turkish poet, translator, novelist, screenwriter, editor, journalist, essayist, reviewer, socialist and intellectual.

Ben Sana Mecburum: “You are indispensable”
by Attila Ilhan
translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch

You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?

Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...

Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.

A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...

Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you―no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...

Perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?

Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?



Fragments
by Attila Ilhan
loose English translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch



The night is a cloudy-feathered owl,
its quills like fine-spun glass.

It gazes out the window,
perched on my right shoulder,
its wings outspread and huge.

If the encroaching darkness seems devastating at first glance,
the sovereign of everything,
its reach infinite ...

Still somewhere within a kernel of light glows secretly
creating an enlightened forest of dialectics.



In September’s waning days one thinks wanly of the arrival of fall
like a ship appearing on the horizon with untrimmed, tattered sails;
for some unfathomable reason fall is the time to consider one’s own demise―
the body smothered by yellowed leaves like a corpse rotting in a ghoulish photograph ...



Bitter words
crack like whips
snapping across prison yards ...

Then there are words like pomegranate trees in bloom,
words like the sun igniting the sea beyond mountainous horizons,
flashing like mysterious knives ...

Such words are the burning roses of an infinite imagination;
they are born and they die with the flutterings of butterflies;
we carry those words in our hearts like pregnant shotguns until the day we expire,
martyred for the words we were prepared to die for ...



What I wrote and what you understood? Curious and curiouser!


Mehmet Akif Ersoy: Modern English Translations of Turkish Poems

Mehmet Âkif Ersoy (1873-1936) was a Turkish poet, author, writer, academic, member of parliament, and the composer of the Turkish National Anthem.



Snapshot
by Mehmet Akif Ersoy
loose English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Earth’s least trace of life cannot be erased;
even when you lie underground, it encompasses you.
So, those of you who anticipate the shadows,
how long will the darkness remember you?



Zulmü Alkislayamam
"I Can’t Applaud Tyranny"
by Mehmet Akif Ersoy
loose English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I can't condone cruelty; I will never applaud the oppressor;
Yet I can't renounce the past for the sake of deluded newcomers.
When someone curses my ancestors, I want to strangle them,
Even if you don’t.
But while I harbor my elders,
I refuse to praise their injustices.
Above all, I will never glorify evil, by calling injustice “justice.”
From the day of my birth, I've loved freedom;
The golden tulip never deceived me.
If I am nonviolent, does that make me a docile sheep?
The blade may slice, but my neck resists!
When I see someone else's wound, I suffer a great hardship;
To end it, I'll be whipped, I'll be beaten.
I can't say, “Never mind, just forget it!” I'll mind,
I'll crush, I'll be crushed, I'll uphold justice.
I'm the foe of the oppressor, the friend of the oppressed.
What the hell do you mean, with your backwardness?



Çanakkale Sehitlerine
"For the Çanakkale Martyrs"
by Mehmet Akif Ersoy
loose English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Was there ever anything like the Bosphorus war?―
The earth’s mightiest armies pressing Marmara,
Forcing entry between her mountain passes
To a triangle of land besieged by countless vessels.
Oh, what dishonorable assemblages!
Who are these Europeans, come as rapists?
Who, these braying hyenas, released from their reeking cages?
Why do the Old World, the New World, and all the nations of men
now storm her beaches? Is it Armageddon? Truly, the whole world rages!
Seven nations marching in unison!
Australia goose-stepping with Canada!
Different faces, languages, skin tones!
Everything so different, but the mindless bludgeons!
Some warriors Hindu, some African, some nameless, unknown!
This disgraceful invasion, baser than the Black Death!
Ah, the 20th century, so noble in its own estimation,
But all its favored ones nothing but a parade of worthless wretches!
For months now Turkish soldiers have been vomited up
Like stomachs’ retched contents regarded with shame.
If the masks had not been torn away, the faces would still be admired,
But the ***** called civilization is far from blameless.
Now the ****** demand the destruction of the doomed
And thus bring destruction down on their own heads.
Lightning severs horizons!
Earthquakes regurgitate the bodies of the dead!
Bombs’ thunderbolts explode brains,
rupture the ******* of brave soldiers.
Underground tunnels writhe like hell
Full of the bodies of burn victims.
The sky rains down death, the earth swallows the living.
A terrible blizzard heaves men violently into the air.
Heads, eyes, torsos, legs, arms, chins, fingers, hands, feet ...
Body parts rain down everywhere.
Coward hands encased in armor callously scatter
Floods of thunderbolts, torrents of fire.
Men’s chests gape open,
Beneath the high, circling vulture-like packs of the air.
Cannonballs fly as frequently as bullets
Yet the heroic army laughs at the hail.
Who needs steel fortresses? Who fears the enemy?
How can the shield of faith not prevail?
What power can make religious men bow down to their oppressors
When their stronghold is established by God?
The mountains and the rocks are the bodies of martyrs! ...
For the sake of a crescent, oh God, many suns set, undone!
Dear soldier, who fell for the sake of this land,
How great you are, your blood saves the Muslims!
Only the lions of Bedr rival your glory!
Who then can dig the grave wide enough to hold you. and your story?
If we try to consign you to history, you will not fit!
No book can contain the eras you shook!
Only eternities can encompass you! ...
Oh martyr, son of the martyr, do not ask me about the grave:
The prophet awaits you now, his arms flung wide open, to save!



Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”)

by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch

for the refugees

The time to weigh anchor has come;
a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown,
cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts.
No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure;
the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief,
scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring ...
Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing!
There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life!
The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile,
for they cannot know where the vanished are bound.
Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves,
since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey.



Full Moon
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch

You are so lovely
the full moon just might
delight
in your rising,
as curious
and bright,
to vanquish night.

But what can a mortal man do,
dear,
but hope?
I’ll ponder your mysteries
and (hmmmm) try to
cope.

We both know
you have every right to say no.



The Music of the Snow
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years!
This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years!

Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery,
It rises from a choir of a hundred voices!

As the *****’s harmonies resound profoundly,
I share the sufferings of Slavic grief.

My mind drifts far from this city, this era,
To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey.

Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear,
With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul!

Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me;
I keep them at bay all night with my dreams!

Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer.



Thinking of you
by Nazim Hikmet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Thinking of you is beautiful, hopeful―
like listening to the most beautiful songs
sung by the earth's most beautiful voices.
But hope is insufficient for me now;
I don't want to listen to songs.
I want to sing love into birth.



I love you
by Nazim Hikmet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love you―
like dipping bread into salt and eating;
like waking at night with a raging fever
and thirstily lapping up water, my mouth to the silver tap;
like unwrapping the unwieldy box the postman delivers,
unable to guess what's inside,
feeling fluttery, happy, doubtful.
I love you―
like flying over the sea the first time
as something stirs within me
while the sky softly darkens over Istanbul.
I love you―
as men thank God gratefully for life.



Sparrow
by Nazim Hikmet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Little sparrow,
perched on the clothesline,
do you regard me with pity?
Even so, I will watch you
soar away through the white spring leaves.



The Divan of the Lover

the oldest extant Turkish poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All the universe as one great sign is shown:
God revealed in his creative acts unknown.
Who sees or understands them, jinn or men?
Such works lie far beyond mere mortals’ ken.
Nor can man’s mind or reason reach that strand,
Nor mortal tongue name Him who rules that land.
Since He chose nothingness with life to vest,
who dares to trouble God with worms’ behests?
For eighteen thousand worlds, lain end to end,
Do not with Him one atom's worth transcend!



Fragment
by Prince Jem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Behold! The torrent, dashing against the rocks, flails wildly.
The entire vast realm of Space and Being oppresses my soul idly.
Through bitterness of grief and woe the sky has rent its morning robe.
Look! See how in its eastern palace, the sun is a ****** globe!
The clouds of heaven rain bright tears on the distant mountain peaks.
Oh, hear how the deeply wounded thunder slowly, mournfully speaks!



Keywords/Tags: Turkish, poetry, translations, Turkey, Attila Ilhan, Ersoy, Beyatli, Nazim Hikmet, Prince Jem, Divan, Istanbul, mrbtran

Published as the collection "Turkish Poetry Translations"

I didn't write this one. Its actually part of spoken poetry lyrics .. im sharing it because I feel like start to finish I can relate to every word, every feeling.  I consider myself the girl behind the mask



The girl behind the mask doesnt understand the beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, and it doesnt matter how many times I have told her she still relies on the opinions of people of who dont realize that what they see as shy is in fact the feeling of lonley,
The feeling of whatever she does Is not quite good enough, the feeling of constantly disappointing the people closest who only want to see her happy,
But instead they have to watch the detoeratation and can do nothing.  They hope and pray that one day the girl behind the mask will finally say with content and honesty to herself "IM HAPPY "
I can put these feelings of no self worth on the shelf and live on, build up my life and repair myself from the past, 
And can finally say to myself that at last " IVE DONE IT"

I've beat the demons inside my soul, the demons that made my thoughts and life cold,
The ones that made me contemplate my life, my confidence,  my existence and my future,  made me feel hurt that cant be fixed with a suture,

The girl behind the mask doesnt see that her strength shines so much brighter, you see the girl behind the mask doesnt know what she is capable of, it's as if how blind to how happy she makes everyone, she puts a smile on a face of the person feeling down, shes blind to the fact that she can turn a sad day around, and make people smile from ear to ear,
But when she takes off the mask she's filled with nothing but fear,  fear of what the next day brings her, as if she's waiting for her sentence and there's nothing but rumours being spread around about her.

The girl behind the masks is the definition of beauty , the meaning of strength, she needs to know thats its the duty, of everyone who cares to help in the fight, to make her realize that her life is her life, to understand that there is nothing to be afraid of, she has family and friends that will show  depression what they are made of,


The girl behind the mask needs to lift her head up and open her eyes and realize  that she'll never be alone and as much as she may feel it, the pain she is feeling now.... happiness will heal it


So be strong and proud of the person you are because with strength and power the end of these feeling isn't far, and you can smile,dance, and sing  live thr life that u were deprived from, the life you have not yet felt..  the life u lived contemplating overdose or the rope. The feeling of eating was hell, the life u lived where everything goes wrong you will be free from all the anxiety and pain

Look at yourself in the mirror and  say these words to your self, "why  am I letting this control me, look at your beauty. As hard as it seems you need to smile.  Its your duty,  then see your pain as a emotional journey, 

Remember certainly there is a destination waiting for u to be happy at last..  but please be strong stay strong the girl behind the mask

where did we go wrong
I know I can't stay here
I hope you take care
wherever that is

sometimes you makes me feel like
such a *****
that I'm convinced I'm even more sick
you laugh at slit wrists
but you can bite the tongue you bit

don't to bite the hand that feeds you
I wish you fed yourself self respect
so I could swallow and digest it

here we go again
where did we go wrong
I know I can't stay here
I hope you take care
wherever that is

you might find me somewhere
my plans for the future
includes a steady vocation

consider this a vacation
as my poetry travels through the air
I'll be making rhymes and cop
some flows

just hope you're not another
obstacle because you are the fork
in the road
when i need to make a right I make a wrong
yet continue along

where did we go wrong
I know I can't stay here
I hope you take care
wherever that is

yesterday was like today
but today I trust even less of what
these people say
I live in shame and take all blame

it doesn't matter how you choose
to play the game
the game plays you so respect yourself
and don't forget
what you're about
or where you're from

where did we go wrong
I know I can't stay here
I hope you take care
wherever that is

I don’t remember much, Sugar Ray told me.
Yesterday is tomorrow. Tomorrow is the same.
He told me this isn’t what I wanted to be,
I would tell you but I forgot your name.

It crept behind the corner. Bats. Cobwebs.
Dusty. Proof was needed to believe something
Of such filth. Barbaric
aBsURditY.
The memories crawled back into the cave.
Music played.
Rita rocked back in her chair,
“That sound, I knew it once”.
Once was a while ago.
That’s forever.
If you knew it and then lost it
Consider it dead.
“It was never a memory if it can’t be remembered”.
That’s what the nurses told them, Rita didn’t believe.
She knew that sound from somewhere.
That’s all to be retained.

Hope Springs Eternal.

Matsuo Basho Translations

There are my English translations of haiku by Matsuo Basho...

My Personal Favorites

The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Come, investigate loneliness:
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
solemn evangelist
of loneliness
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkening,
the voices of the wild geese:
my mysterious companions!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The first chill rain:
poor monkey, you too could use
a woven cape of straw
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

I wish I could wash
this perishing earth
in its shimmering dew
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Dabbed with morning dew
and splashed with mud,
the melon looks wonderfully cool.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Butterflies

The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Will we remain parted forever?
Here at your grave:
two flowerlike butterflies!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Ballet in the air! ―
two butterflies, twice white,
meet, mate, unite.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A spring wind
stirs willow leaves
as a butterfly hovers unsteadily.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aki o hete / cho mo nameru ya / kiku no tsuyu

Come, butterfly,
it's late
and we've a long way to go!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Dusk-gliding swallow,
please spare my small friends
flitting among the flowers!
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Famous Frog Poem

An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

An ancient pond sleeps...
untroubled by sound or movement...until...
suddenly a frog leaps!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Explosion!
The frog returns
to its lily pad.
—Michael R. Burch original haiku



Basho's Heron

Lightning
shatters the darkness—
the night heron's shriek
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning―
the night heron's shriek
severs the darkness
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A flash of lightning―
the night heron's shriek
splits the void
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Flowers

Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Like a heavy fragrance
snowflakes settle:
lilies on rocks
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

High-altitude rose petals
falling
falling
falling:
the melody of a waterfall.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Revered figure!
I bow low
to the rabbit-eared Iris.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Cold white azalea—
a lone nun
in her thatched straw hut.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Glimpsed on this high mountain trail,
delighting my heart—
wild violets
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Disdaining grass,
the firefly nibbles nettles—
this is who I am.
—Takarai Kikaku translation by Michael R. Burch

A simple man,
content to breakfast with the morning glories—
this is who I am.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
This is Basho's response to the Takarai Kikaku haiku above
asagao ni / ware wa meshi kû / otoko kana

Ah me,
I waste my meager breakfast
morning glory gazing!
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories blossom,
reinforcing the old fence gate.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories, alas,
also turned out
not to embrace me
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories bloom,
mending chinks
in the old fence
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories,
however poorly painted,
still engage us
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
asagao wa / heta no kaku sae / aware nari

I too
have been accused
of morning glory gazing...
—original haiku by by Michael R. Burch

Curious flower,
watching us approach:
meet Death, our famished donkey.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Poems about Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter

Spring has come:
the nameless hill
lies shrouded in mist
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring!
A nameless hill
stands shrouded in mist.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The legs of the cranes
have been shortened
by the summer rains.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

These brown summer grasses?
The only remains
of "invincible" warriors...
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

An empty road
lonelier than abandonment:
this autumn evening
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Autumn darkness
descends
on this road I travel alone
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Taming the rage
of an unrelenting sun—
autumn breeze.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aka aka to / hi wa tsurenaku mo / aki no kaze

The sun sets,
relentlessly red,
yet autumn's in the wind.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aka aka to / hi wa tsurenaku mo / aki no kaze

As autumn draws near,
so too our hearts
in this small tea room.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aki chikaki / kokoro no yoru ya / yo jo han

Late autumn:
my neighbor,
how does he continue?
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter in the air:
my neighbor,
how does he fare?
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter solitude:
a world awash in white,
the sound of the wind
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The year's first day...
thoughts come, and with them, loneliness;
dusk approaches.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Temple Poems

Graven images of long-departed gods,
dry spiritless leaves:
companions of the temple porch
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bells grow silent
but the blossoms provide their incense―
A perfect evening!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

See: whose surviving sons
visit the ancestral graves
white-bearded, with trembling canes?
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Like a glorious shrine—
on these green, budding leaves,
the sun's intense radiance.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
ara toto / aoba wakaba no / hi no hikar



Basho's Birds

A raven settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A crow has settled
on a naked branch—
autumn nightfall
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
autumn twilight
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
phantom autumn
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A crow roosts
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightmare
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

NOTE: There has been a debate about the meaning of aki-no kure, which may mean one of the following: autumn evening, autumn dusk, the end of autumn. Or it seems possible that Basho may have intentionally invoked the ideas of both the end of an autumn day and the end of the season as well. In my translations I have tried to create an image of solitary crow clinging to a branch that seems like a harbinger of approaching winter and death. In the first translation I went with the least light possible: autumn twilight. In the second translation, I attempted something more ghostly. Phrases I considered include: spectral autumn, skeletal autumn, autumnal skeleton, phantom autumn, autumn nocturne, autumn nightfall, autumn nightmare, dismal autumn. In the third and fourth translations I focused on the color of the bird and its resemblance to night falling. While literalists will no doubt object, my goal is to create an image and a feeling that convey in English what I take Basho to have been trying to convey in Japanese. Readers will have to decide whether they prefer my translations to the many others that exist, but mine are trying to convey the eeriness of the scene in English.

Except for a woodpecker
tapping at a post,
the house is silent.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Swallow flitting in the dusk,
please spare my small friends
buzzing among the flowers!
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch




Basho's Insects

A bee emerging
from deep within the peony's hairy recesses
flies off heavily, sated
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

That dying cricket,
how he goes on about his life!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The cicada's cry
contains no hint
of how soon it must die.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing in the cicada's cry
hints that it knows
how soon it must die.
—Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The cicada's cry
contains no hint
of how soon it must die.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch




Basho's Moon and Stars

Pausing between clouds
the moon rests
in the eyes of its beholders
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The moon: glorious its illumination!
Therefore, we give thanks.
Dark clouds cast their shadows on our necks.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The surging sea crests around Sado...
and above her?
An ocean of stars.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
ara umi ya / Sado ni yokotau / Ama-no-gawa



Basho's Companions

Fire levitating ashes:
my companion's shadow
animates the wall...
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Among the graffiti
one illuminated name:
Yours.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Scrawny tomcat!
Are you starving for fish and mice
or pining away for love?
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's End of Life and Death Poems

Nothing happened!
Yesterday simply vanished
like the blowfish soup.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
ara nantomo na ya / kino wa sugite / fukuto-jiru

Fever-felled mid-path
my dreams resurrect, to trek
into a hollow land
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Sick of its autumn migration
my spirit drifts
over wilted fields...
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Sick of this autumn migration
in dreams I drift
over flowerless fields...
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

NOTE: While literalists will no doubt object to "flowerless" in the translation above ― along with other word choices in my other translations ― this is my preferred version. I think Basho's meaning still comes through. But "wilted" is probably closer to what he meant. If only we could consult him, to ask whether he preferred strictly literal prose translations of his poems, or more poetic interpretations! My guess is that most poets would prefer for their poems to remain poetry in the second language. In my opinion the differences are minor and astute readers will grok both Basho's meaning and his emotion.

Too ill to travel,
now only my autumn dreams
survey these withering fields
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



New Haiku Translations, Added 10/6/2020

Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Denied transformation
into a butterfly,
autumn worsens for the worm
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dusk-gliding swallow,
please spare my small friends
flitting among the flowers!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright!
Let’***** the road again,
Companion Butterfly!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Higher than a skylark,
resting on the breast of heaven:
mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Farewell,
my cloud-parting friend!
Wild goose migrating.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

A crow settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An exciting struggle
with such a sad ending:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly,
by the light of the moon,
a worm bores into a chestnut.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

This strange flower
investigated by butterflies and birds:
the autumn sky
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Where’s the moon tonight?
Like the temple bell:
lost at sea.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Spring departs;
birds wail;
the pale eyes of fish moisten.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon still appears,
though far from home:
summer vagrant.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Cooling the pitiless sun’s
bright red flames:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Saying farewell to others
while being told farewell:
departing autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  
Traveling this road alone:
autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Thin from its journey
and not yet recovered:
late harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Occasional clouds
bless tired eyes with rest
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The farmboy
rests from husking rice
to reach for the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon aside,
no one here
has such a lovely face.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon having set,
all that remains
are the four corners of his desk.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon so bright
a wandering monk carries it
lightly on his shoulder.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls
is obscured
by smoke from the crematory.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls!
Smoke from the crematory?
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Family reunion:
those with white hair and canes
visiting graves.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

One who is no more
left embroidered clothes
for a summer airing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

What am I doing,
writing haiku on the threshold of death?
Hush, a bird’s song!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Fallen ill on a final tour,
in dreams I go roving
earth’s flowerless moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Stricken ill on a senseless tour,
still in dreams I go roving
earth’s withered moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Stricken ill on a journey,
in dreams I go wandering
withered moors.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch


New Haiku Translations, Added 10/6/2020

Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Denied transformation
into a butterfly,
autumn worsens for the worm
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dusk-gliding swallow,
please spare my small friends
flitting among the flowers!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright!
Let’***** the road again,
Companion Butterfly!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Higher than a skylark,
resting on the breast of heaven:
mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Farewell,
my cloud-parting friend!
Wild goose migrating.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

A crow settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An exciting struggle
with such a sad ending:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly,
by the light of the moon,
a worm bores into a chestnut.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

This strange flower
investigated by butterflies and birds:
the autumn sky
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Where’s the moon tonight?
Like the temple bell:
lost at sea.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Spring departs;
birds wail;
the pale eyes of fish moisten.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon still appears,
though far from home:
summer vagrant.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Cooling the pitiless sun’s
bright red flames:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Saying farewell to others
while being told farewell:
departing autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  
Traveling this road alone:
autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Thin from its journey
and not yet recovered:
late harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Occasional clouds
bless tired eyes with rest
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The farmboy
rests from husking rice
to reach for the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon aside,
no one here
has such a lovely face.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon having set,
all that remains
are the four corners of his desk.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon so bright
a wandering monk carries it
lightly on his shoulder.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls
is obscured
by smoke from the crematory.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls!
Smoke from the crematory?
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Family reunion:
those with white hair and canes
visiting graves.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

One who is no more
left embroidered clothes
for a summer airing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

What am I doing,
writing haiku on the threshold of death?
Hush, a bird’s song!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Fallen ill on a final tour,
in dreams I go roving
earth’s flowerless moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Striken ill on a senseless tour,
still in dreams I go roving
earth’s withered moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Stricken ill on a journey,
in dreams I go wandering
withered moors.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch




NEW BASHO TRANSLATIONS 06-19-2025

SPRING

Blame the rainy season
for my absence,
old friend Moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

For yet a little while,
the pale moon
floating among blossoms...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Moon past full:
darkness
increasing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring rains
so heavy
they overflow the waterfall.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ll catch up
about cascading waterfall blossoms
when I drink with Li Bai.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fluttering rose petals
fall
into the river’s gurgling waters.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring rains
overwhelming the falls,
overflowing...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rainy season downpour
sours even the ears
of ripening plums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flood!
Stars will soon sleep
atop a rock.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ll dare drenching
my paper robes
to nab a sprig of spring blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where is that handsome man
no long with us:
the rain-hidden moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So much harsher
than other mouths,
the wind devours newborn blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So taken by their beauty,
I long to take
the maiden flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Trembling, feeble,
heavy with dew:
the maiden flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Other flowers bloom,
the camellias
remain indifferent.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An orchid’s
lingering fragrance
veils the bedchamber.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The boy’s bangs
retain the scent
of youthful grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring winds
tickle the flowers
till they burst out in laughter.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Falling to the ground,
returning to its roots,
the flower’s farewell.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So many things
recur in memory:
spring blossoms reopen.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing them naked
almost makes me caress
the ******* flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As temple bells fade
flowers strike their fragrance
into the silence.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bat also emerges
into the birds’
world of flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When planting,
please handle the infant cherry tree tenderly,
gently, like a baby.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How can one fret
during cherry blossom time?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How I envy them,
growing high above our transient world,
the mountain cherries.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Curiosity:
a butterfly alights
on nectarless grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary butterfly
hovers over
its own shadow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary butterfly
flutters above
its own shadow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since spring showers insist,
the eggplant seeds
commence sprouting.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Never belittle
the tiniest seeds:
the spunky pepper reddens.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once green,
behold!
The red pepper.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After spring rains
mugwort shoots up
in grassy lanes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Higher than the larks,
resting amid the blue,
this mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The blossom-filled day
makes the tree’s sadness
seem all the darker.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Goodbye, old friend:
no longer beckoning
miscanthus plumes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spying plum blossoms
the infatuated ox
bellows, “Yes!”
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The day-lily,
dripping water
into the grasses’ forgetfulness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Scooped up by my hands,
the springwater
shocks my teeth with its iciness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cats’ noisy mating subsides;
now into our bedroom
creeps the quiet moonlight.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here at Wakanoura
I’m finally in step
with fleeting and fleeing spring.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A bell-less village?
Who will ring in
the end of spring?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bell unheeded?
Unheard?
Still, spring is fleeting.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sun’s about to set:
the spring’s last shimmering heat ray.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

SUMMER

Such coolness
when shouldered:
the summer’s first melon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A wicker basket
shields the coolness
of the first melon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Morning dew:
the muddy melon
exudes coolness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Early summer rain:
the green spikemoss,
how long to remain?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Timidly the willow
refrains from touching
deutzia blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An oiled paper umbrella
attempts to push aside
unobliging willows.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The ancient river
ogles
the slender willow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So like life:
this small patch of shade
beneath a wicker hat.

Still alive
despite the slightness of my hat,
I cherish its shade.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This summer world
floats in the lake’s
silver waves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A weary horse
collapsing in barley:
traveler’s rest.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the distant plain
the deer’s voice
seems an inch tall.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How sad, the bellowing of bucks,
The bleatings of does,
at night.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even woodpeckers
hold this old hut sacred,
still standing in the summer grove.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Toppling from the topmost bough,
emptiness aloft:
the cicada’s husk.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hollyhock
leans sunward
in the summer rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ah, the splendid resplendence
of sunlight
on tender evergreen leaves!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fragrance of oranges...
In whose farmyard
is the cuckoo calling?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Temple bells reverberate:
cicadas singing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Shouldering hay bales,
someone left enough straw
to mark our way.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fireflies
turn our trees
into well-lit lodges.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A noontime firefly,
dim by daylight,
hides behind a pillar.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Firefly watching,
the tipsy boatman
rocks the boat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rising above fields of rice and barley,
the cry of the summer cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tedious life!
Plowing the rice field
back and forth...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lying in the summer grass,
discarded like a king’s robe,
the snakeskin.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The shrubby bush-clover?
How impudent
her appearance!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Glistening dew
sways without spilling
from the bush-clover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I bow low
to the venerable
rabbit-eared Iris.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rabbit-eared Iris,
pausing to chit-chat,
one joy of my journey.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rabbit-eared iris
inspires
another hokku.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rabbit-eared Iris,
admiring your reflection?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Inside Uchiyama,
unknown to outsiders,
blossoms full-bloom.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Uchiyama was a temple little-known to the outside world. In fact, uchi means “inside.”

AUTUMN

First of autumn:
the sea and the rice fields
the same green hue.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The autumn wind
like a ventriloquist
projects its piercing voice.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Voices in the reeds?
Ventriloquism
of the autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

East and West
united by the autumn wind
into a single melancholy.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing a friend off,
his hunched back
lonely in the autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Illuminating
sawn-off tree trunks:
the harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After pausing
for harvest moon viewing,
we must be on our way.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Our moon-viewing interrupted
on Asamutsu Bridge,
dark yields to dawn.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Consider lonesomeness
surpassing even Suma’s:
this deserted autumn beach.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bell
drowned in the sea,
and where is the moon?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My humble take on the world?
Withered leaves
at autumn’s end.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Withering flowers:
out of such sadness
seeds emerge.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Red on red on red,
the sun relentless,
yet autumn’s unimpressed.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This lusciously cool autumn day
we peel
aubergine melons.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cling to your leaves,
peach trees!
Autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This whiteness,
whiter than mountain quartz:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Shocking the grave,
my grief-filled cry:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spider,
to whom do you cry?
Autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How to reach safe haven?
An insect adrift
on a leaf.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reverential tears:
the falling leaves
bid their trees goodbye.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plates and bowls
gleaming dimly in the darkness:
evening coolness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Twice the pity:
beneath the headless helmet,
a chirping cricket.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly
by moonlight
weevils bore chestnuts.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cranes on stilts
surveying the rice paddies:
autumn village.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Thankfulness:
someone else harvests rice
for me.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How touching
to survive the storm,
chrysanthemum.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Slender again,
somehow the chrysanthemum
will yet again bud.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

His loosened jacket collar
invites the cool breeze.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Butterfly wings:
how many times have they soared
over human roofs?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mosquitos drone
with dusky voices
deep within the cattle shed.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho leaves shred in the gale;
the basin collects raindrips;
all night I listen, alone in my hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dew drips, drop-by-drop...
I’d rinse this world clean,
if I could.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fire’s banked ashes
extinguish
your tears’ hisses.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Turn to face me,
for I am also lonesome
this autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plucking white hairs
while beneath my pillow
a cricket creaks.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Everything that blossoms
dies in the end:
wilted pampas grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn departs,
shivering
I scrunch under too-small bedding.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It seems, to dullard me,
that hell must be like this:
late autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

WINTER

The year’s first snowfall;
such happiness to be
at home in my hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fire-making friend,
let me show you something grand:
a huge snowball!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Written for Basho’s dear friend Sora, who visited Basho’s hut to feed the fire, cook, break ice and make tea.

Come, children,
let’s frolic in the snowstorm,
dodge the hail.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Farewell for now,
we’re off to find snow
until we tumble into it.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let’s get up
until we fall into
the snow we seek.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Yesteryear’s snows,
have they fallen anew?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter drizzle;
irate, I await
snow adorning the pines.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Practicing bowing,
the bamboo
anticipates snow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bowing low,
the upside-down world
of snow-laden bamboo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Melancholic flowers
shrivel
in the frost.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hailstones
stitching
the silken snow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oars slapping waves,
the stomach a-shiver,
these nighttime tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Icefish
shoaling through seaweed
swim into my hands.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sunrise:
one-inch sliver
of the whitefish’s iciness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alive
but congealed into one:
the frozen sea cucumbers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Somehow alive
yet congealed into a single solid mass:
the frozen sea cucumbers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water so cold,
rocks so hard,
where will the seagull sleep?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plovers depart
as evening deepens
windward toward Hiei.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Crying in the darkness,
unable to locate its nest,
the homeless plover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The plovers cry:
“Be watchful of the darkness
at Star Cape!”
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mushroom-gathering,
rushing to beat
cold evening rains.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ceremonious
hailstones
assail my hinoki hat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Caught hatless
in a winter shower?
So it goes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How many frosts
have tested
this pine’s mettle?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A winter drizzle
obscures
the field’s freshcut stubble.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The drinkers’ faces
paler than the snow:
a flash of lightning.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The polished mirror
clear as snowflake petals.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The relentless wind
sharpens rocks and stones,
topples cedars.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cold fear
desolate as a deserted
frost-crusted shack.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How marvelous,
the winter snow
will return as rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Children come running,
dodging jewels:
hailstones.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At least the world has left,
unblemished and unbegrimed,
a single wooden bowl.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bowl in question had been left by Rotsu in Osaka, and was returned undamaged seven years later. Rotsu was a Basho disciple.

The mud snail’s closed lid:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Inside my hut,
watching my own breath:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So weary of Kyoto,
of the withering wind
and winter life.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will soon be included
among the fortunate ones:
beyond winter.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

VARIOUS

As clouds drift apart,
so we two separate:
wild geese departing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The old nest deserted,
how empty now
my next-door neighbor’s hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday?
Departed,
like the blowfish soup.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Exciting,
but with a sad conclusion:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The one who died:
her delicate kimono
hung out to dry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Behind the veiling curtain,
the wife in her bedchamber:
plum blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See her slim figure:
the ingenue moon
not yet ripened.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clouds now and then
offer intermissions
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Drinking
alone with the moon,
my shadow makes three.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon and the blossoms
lack only a man
drinking sake, alone.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unbar the door,
allow moonlight
to enter Ukimido.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ukimido was a temple Basho visited in 1691.

Drinking morning tea,
the monks
silent amid chrysanthemums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Its fragrance whiter
than the peach blossoms’ whiteness:
the narcissus.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The narcissus
reflects the whiteness
of a paper screen.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hibiscus flowers
garland
an otherwise naked child.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The overproud
pink begonia
thinks it’s a watermelon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Echo my lonesomeness,
mountain cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cuckoo’s lone voice
lingers
over the inlet.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Solitary hawk,
a heavenly vision
over Cape Irago.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At Cape Irago
the incomparable cry
of the hawk.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Better than any dream,
the thrilling reality
of a hawk’s cry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hawk’s eye narrows
at the quail’s call.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Naptime!
But my drowsiness is nixed
by busybody warblers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Carolers:
the sparrows smile
at their warbling.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Giving thanks to the flowers
for brightening my visit:
farewell.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Melancholy nub!
The bamboo bud’s
sad end.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This lightning flash
the hand receives in darkness:
a candle.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Carrying a candle
into the dark outhouse:
the moonflowers’ whiteness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing a moonflower,
I poke my sake-addled face
through a hole in the window.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nighttime folly:
grabbing a thorn,
expecting a firefly.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

More nighttime weirdness:
a fox stalking
a melon?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s better to become a beggar
than a critic.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No rest:
the carpenter
hangs his own shelf.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Blowing away
the volcano’s molars:
the typhoon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What decays
have you endured,
watchful tomb ferns?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A disgusting smell
slimed on waterweeds:
pale chub entrails.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A country boy
shucking husks
gazes at the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The poet’s heart?
Will we ever really understand
ume blossoms?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

For at least today
let all the poets be
melodious as winter rains.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I believe the haiku above was written during a gathering of poets.

What tree blossoms here?
I do not know
its mysterious aroma.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will lodge here
until the tender goosefoot
matures into a walking stick.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’d compare a flower
to a delicate child
but the field is barren.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho wrote the poem above for a friend, Rakugo, who had lost a child.

Even a poorly-painted
morning glory
pleases.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories
ignore our drinking,
drunk on themselves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Slender glistener!
Each dewdrop a burden
for the maiden flower.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon absent,
treetops cling
to the nighttime rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

May you tumble safely
onto sand or snow,
sake-addled horse rider.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I miss my mother and father
so much:
the kiji’s cry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The kiji is a green pheasant but also a metaphor for the love of one’s family and kiji is also a homophone for “orphaned child.”

I pause from my journey
to observe the fleeting world
going about its housecleaning.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No simile!
Nothing compares
to the crescent moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The overstaying moon
and I
linger in Sarawhina.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Her ascent easy
and yet still hesitant,
the cloud-veiled moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A cuckoo flying,
cawing, crying and cajoling:
busybody.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What’s all the ado
about this busybody crow?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Art begins
with ancient rice-planting chants
drifting on the wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Today’s words
vanish tomorrow:
evaporating dew.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho may have proved himself wrong with the poem above, since so many of his poems are still being read, studied and translated.

Unregarded by the high-minded
the lowly chestnut
blossoms by the eaves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clinging for dear life
to the bridge,
these winding vines.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This swinging bridge:
hard to imagine
horses crossing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even in Kyoto,
a longing for Kyoto,
the cuckoo calling.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cuckoo symbolizes nostalgia. Here Basho seems to be in Kyoto but longing for the Kyoto of his past.

Rock azaleas
dyed red
by the cuckoo’s tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In Japan the cuckoo is said to shed tears of blood.

I would wipe away the tears
brimming in your eyes
with these tender leaves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reincarnation?
The fawn’s first dawn
falls on Buddha’s birthday.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Forbidden to speak
of holy Yudono,
my sleeves wet with tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let us learn
from the travails
of these ancient pilgrims.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The samurai’s
overlong discourse:
the tang of bitter daikon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tender-horned snail,
point those tiny tips
toward distant mountains!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A dragonfly
clings tentatively to the air,
hovering above waving grasses.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tiny river crab
creeping up my leg?
Back to the water!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The windblown butterfly
is unable to settle
in the waving grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even the wild boar
is blown about
by buffeting winds.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The boat
comes to rest
on a beach of peach blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning
does not enlighten,
of what value?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A banked fire,
the shadow
of a guest.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Remember:
the thicket
guards plum blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t chortle with glee:
through the leaves of the silk tree
stars wink at me.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Kiyotaki’s unblemished waves
gently dispersing
still-green pine needles.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is said to have been Basho’s last haiku. Kiyotaki means “clear” and is the name of a river.

Immaculate white chrysanthemums:
no matter how closely investigated,
without a blemish.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I suspect the two poems above are related because the first poem in one version had “without a blemish” or “nary a blemish.”

Faint
in a trace of water:
floating chrysanthemums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

OTHER POETS

Observe:
see how the wild violets bloom
within the forbidden fences!
—Shida Yaba (1663-1740), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When no wind at all
ruffles the Kiri tree
leaves fall of their own free will.
—Nozawa Boncho (1640-1714), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Keywords/Tags: Basho, haiku, translation, Japan, Japanese, Oriental, Orient Occident, nature, season, seasons, waka, tanka, life and death, compassion, empathy, mrbhaiku, mrbbasho

I'm a fool
For chasing after you
Day after day
You're a fool
For letting me go
Without you
We're both ****** fools
For loving each other
And not holding on tighter
But they always say
Only fools fall in love
I consider myself
One lucky fool
Because I got to love you
Even if only for a while
It was longer than most get to
You are
One lucky fool
Because you got my love
Whenever you wanted it
Even when you didn't
I'm just full of it
Two fools in love
Finding their way
Back to each other
Because love makes one strong path
And it's pretty easy to lead
Two fools in love

If Eight Fanned Angels admit to his Name
And beg the Sullen Scroll to recompense
These Fortitude's Maidens learned to maintain
An Hour to decide which Fashion made sense
Loyalty alone may not win his Heart
Consider the Hours he has to consume
Now celebrate each other; Though apart
To golden yourselves and Pride you subsume
All of you - Beauty's Inner Chorus - Taste!
Taste and realise Other Flavours grow
The Bowl you feed in has more than one space
As other Jolly Princes dive for show.
Your Plum Prince still smiles. But go and decide
Which Heart to follow and which Heart to hide.

If you were to read the desperate thoughts, that circle and spin around in my head
Would you consider me as already dead?
Would you burst into tears as you quietly hear
The screams of a heart that is drowning in fear?

Fear of the darkness, fear of being alone,
You would step back in horror at the images shown
Images of young girl who cuts her own skin
With her ribs sticking out as she wants to be thin

You would feel your stomach churn, with your heart left in sorrow
Knowing that broken young girl has plans to **** herself tomorrow
You would grasp at your chest for the pain in your heart
Would be so overwhelming it would tear you apart

But you would have never known of the things that she feels
Every day she is struggling and skips all her meals
She looks at her scars and wants to make more
For she feels some comfort when there's blood on the floor

You would ache at the fact that you ignored all the signs
Of her dying soul, because inside all your minds,
"It's not all that awful, because everyone gets sad"
But little did you know of all the pains that she had

She hides all her emotions, and puts on a smile
But those lovely painted masks only last for awhile
For when she returns to her bedroom at the end of the day
She lies bleeding on the floor, slowly withering away

Once you have read her mind, and have seen her true face
Would you still think she'd make it, or is that not the case?
Would you see her scars and her skin that's too fair?
Or must she truly be dead for anyone else to care?

Let us fill this notebook,
with the words we dare not speak.
Of a love that is forbidden,
lest the havoc it would wreak.

For now we'll keep it secret,
a place to rendezvous,
where you can talk of me,
and I can talk of you.

A place to ask the questions,
normal lovers get to ask.
Only ours will be handwritten,
such is the nature of our task.

A place to write sweet nothings,
and lines of loving prose,
to share our private jokes,
and act like everybody knows.

We'll take turns to enter something,
for each month we are apart.
Consider this my entry,
your turn to grab a pen and start.

But one day we'll take this notebook,
sit together, look within,
and on that day I hope we find,
this single entry found therein.

What a trivial title
for a trivial poem
What I consider meaningful
Is just mere dirt to someone else

It all comes down to what you believe in
And what you believe will make you happy and make you whole
That is where meaning is held

I awake tired and the snippets of my dreams that I recall perplex me
I ponder: What is my subconscious trying to tell me
But I find no pattern with the fragments
And I leave it be for another unsolved mystery.

Is everything OK in my life?
Or is everything falling to pieces?
I can't seem to discern this clearly
My perceptions are distorting my view on reality
But even if life was beyond everything I have ever hoped for right at this moment
I couldn't fathom pure happiness
In this strife ridden world

Mermaids exist through our mind's capacity to fantasize
And that's where happiness comes from
Our ability to conjure something that is not real or is scarce on earth
Happiness is as real as mermaids.

epistemological approach, prose, consider,
knowledge should always be treated as a hypothesis
so whatever prolific thing I surmise could always use a revise
Plato’s food of the soul is disguised
can i ask you what does a justified true belief imply?

My love must be a kite run
Tight wrung ribbons
Separate the knots in my knees
Knots from wine
She moves about the kitchen flicking flames off candles
That wine at the table at which I sit is a good wine

I think of the troubles of writing at a screen
I'll consider the problem of writing in a notebook
When I find that **** notebook.

Speaking honestly to a tray of napkins
They can't help the Merlot that's polishing the table
Dark wood is well stained. She asks if I
Remember the small room wine fests in my dorm
My sheets came home from college dotted purple
I remember.

Lurking in the shadows
These thoughts free themselves
Releasing the inescapable passion of a zealot unheard for centuries
Now, in this miniature pressing of keys a wire company will see every idea that spills out of me
The pigs
I hope they come to my door wearing black.

Honey, your hot, don't get mad,
She appears out of the smells
I'm drunk, not mad, I'm spilling the Merlot
We have more, dear.

I love that woman right there and none other

Lets jump out the window and roll through the grass
Come on child, cant you see we got cliffs to catch.  
**** on up your hind legs and lets get to moving.
Don't you know its half past seven and the turn tables grooving

I like that, she says, reminds me of the pictures of you as a boy

I turn to thank her but I can't find her
She dissolves into the smells of the kitchen
And plus, I'm gone.

What is human nature unless covered by an aesthetic, who am I, if not an imposer?
What poet is this, if not the first?

A line of a poem is a poem in itself
I'll regret this next week

But, sand over rock will polish something smooth
In a thousand years, no regret
A mesa stands grounded
In an ocean of wind

Herring cries
Through the morning leaves
What makes them mourning?
They're just a different shade green.

I like that too, she says to me

An Ibis will wind through a pond
But is it just his wake we see, or can
We really spot that bird?