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Michael R Burch Oct 2020
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
Moon Humor Apr 2014
Glass is cheaper than the stone skin
tattooed on their foreheads. The palace, a splendid fantasy,
half built when the idea will be abandoned.

Freedom is a powerful nuisance! Their only
sin is looking at the world through rose-colored
glasses, make people feel at ease despite distress and disease.

The right wing redneck reactionary republicans continue
religious slaughtering. This nightmare scenario should
be nixed,
said with a sneer, I hope they’re wearing warm socks.

Still, I couldn’t crack the code. Changed envy to admiration
to cultivate mystery rare as it is rewarding. The weird thing
is the high-end whiskey collecting dust on the on the shelves.

Nothing short of astonishing, like the space farers gazing back
at the home planet. Distant. They fascinate people.
Animate the inanimate environment. Isolation above.

Looking back I am ashamed of the mess we are leaving
our children and grandchildren. How to allocate these limited
resources? The key is to engage. No easy fixes.
A poem made out of lines found in various newspapers.
Jamison Bell May 2020
This here poem is about a puppy, you need not know his name
Only in that he is a puppy, you should know him all the same
This here puppy had an awareness not unlike your own
He knew he had to lick his ***** and hide his ****** bone

This little puppy stumbled about, much like you once did
Back when you were a dumb as **** snot faced little kid
The puppy found his world confusing much like you still do
But unlike you this puppy knows he hasn’t a ****** clue

See here what this puppy knows, is that it’s ok to have no reason
To call into doubt what you think you know, isn’t ******* treason
This here puppy he figured out that his reality isn’t fixed
In fact it’s incomplete, not done, any beliefs he had were nixed

You could learn a lot from him, if you’d only stop a bit
Put aside your petty wants, try thinking while you ****
Wisdom and compassion you’ll see walk hand in hand
Be considerate of your actions, keep your head out of the sand

This puppy has no enemies and yet you have a million
If you lived but ten more years, I bet you’ll have a billion
Try being like the puppy, just appreciate what you’ve been given
Sometimes it takes just a smile to see why life’s worth liven
Marsha Singh Feb 2011
Ex
I existed for you, mister;
I extolled your  complex nature.
I was intoxicated, briefly; you were good.
You excelled at smart seduction;
you outfoxed me with your hoaxes.
I didn't watch my heart the way I should;

but by the flux of your affections,
it meant approximately nothing.
Any buxom minx could have you if she tried.
It was a lonely anticlimax,
but I kicked my sad fixation
and nixed your plans to decimate my pride.
just playing
Michael R Burch Sep 2020
These are English translations Haiku by the Japanese Masters of the form, including Matsuo Basho, Yosa Buson, Fukuda Chiyo-ni, Kobayashi Issa, Yamaguchi Seishi and Hisajo Sugita.

Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

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

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

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

One apple, alone
in the abandoned orchard
reddens for winter
― Patrick Blanche, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is by a French poet; it illustrates how the poetry of Oriental masters like Basho has influenced poets around the world.



I remove my beautiful kimono:
its varied braids
surround and entwine my body
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This day of chrysanthemums
I shake and comb my wet hair,
as their petals shed rain
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This sheer kimono—
how the moon peers through
to my naked skin!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

These festive flowery robes—
though quickly undressed,
how their colored cords still continue to cling!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Chrysanthemum petals
reveal their pale curves
shyly to the moon.
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Loneliness —
reading the Bible
as the rain deflowers cherry blossoms.
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

How deep this valley,
how elevated the butterfly's flight!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

How lowly this valley,
how lofty the butterfly's flight!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Echoes from the hills—
the mountain cuckoo sings as it will,
trill upon trill
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



This darkening autumn:
my neighbor,
how does he continue?
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like a heavy fragrance
snow-flakes settle:
lilies on the rocks
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

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

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

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

Will we meet again?
Here at your flowering grave:
two white butterflies
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

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

Too ill to travel,
now only my autumn dreams
survey these withering fields
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch; this has been called Basho's death poem

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

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

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

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

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



The Oldest Haiku

These are my translations of some of the oldest Japanese waka, which evolved into poetic forms such as tanka, renga and haiku over time. My translations are excerpts from the Kojiki (the "Record of Ancient Matters"), a book composed around 711-712 A.D. by the historian and poet Ō no Yasumaro. The Kojiki relates Japan’s mythological beginnings and the history of its imperial line. Like Virgil's Aeneid, the Kojiki seeks to legitimize rulers by recounting their roots. These are lines from one of the oldest Japanese poems, found in the oldest Japanese book:

While you decline to cry,
high on the mountainside
a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here's another excerpt, with a humorous twist, from the Kojiki:

Hush, cawing crows; what rackets you make!
Heaven's indignant messengers,
you remind me of wordsmiths!
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here's another, this one a poem of love and longing:

Onyx, this gem-black night.
Downcast, I await your return
like the rising sun, unrivaled in splendor.
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



More Haiku by Various Poets

Right at my feet!
When did you arrive here,
snail?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Our world of dew
is a world of dew indeed;
and yet, and yet...
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, brilliant moon
can it be true that even you
must rush off, like us, tardy?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Standing unsteadily,
I am the scarecrow’s
skinny surrogate
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Autumn wind ...
She always wanted to pluck
the reddest roses
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Issa wrote the haiku above after the death of his daughter Sato with the note: “Sato, girl, 35th day, at the grave.”



The childless woman,
how tenderly she caresses
homeless dolls ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clinging
to the plum tree:
one blossom's worth of warmth
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

One leaf falls, enlightenment!
Another leaf falls,
swept away by the wind ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This has been called Ransetsu’s “death poem.” In The Classic Tradition of Haiku, Faubion Bowers says in a footnote to this haiku: “Just as ‘blossom’, when not modified, means ‘cherry flower’ in haiku, ‘one leaf’ is code for ‘kiri’. Kiri ... is the Pawlonia ... The leaves drop throughout the year. They shrivel, turn yellow, and yield to gravity. Their falling symbolizes loneliness and connotes the past. The large purple flowers ... are deeply associated with haiku because the three prongs hold 5, 7 and 5 buds ... ‘Totsu’ is an exclamation supposedly uttered when a Zen student achieves enlightenment. The sound also imitates the dry crackle the pawlonia leaf makes as it scratches the ground upon falling.”



This world?
Moonlit dew
flicked from a crane's bill.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen (1200-1253) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seventy-one?
How long
can a dewdrop last?
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dewdrops beading grass-blades
die before dawn;
may an untimely wind not hasten their departure!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dewdrops beading blades of grass
have so little time to shine before dawn;
let the autumn wind not rush too quickly through the field!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Outside my window the plums, blossoming,
within their curled buds, contain the spring;
the moon is reflected in the cup-like whorls
of the lovely flowers I gather and twirl.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Disdaining grass,
the firefly nibbles nettles—
this is who I am.
—Takarai Kikaku (1661-1707), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A simple man,
content to breakfast with the morning glories—
this is who I am.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is Basho’s response to the Takarai Kikaku haiku above

The morning glories, alas,
also turned out
not to embrace me
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories bloom,
mending chinks
in the old fence
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories,
however poorly painted,
still engage us
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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

Taming the rage
of an unrelenting sun—
autumn breeze.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sun sets,
relentlessly red,
yet autumn’s in the wind.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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

As autumn draws near,
so too our hearts
in this small tea room.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing happened!
Yesterday simply vanished
like the blowfish soup.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The surging sea crests around Sado ...
and above her?
An ocean of stars.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Revered figure!
I bow low
to the rabbit-eared Iris.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, butterfly,
it’s late
and we’ve a long way to go!
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing in the cry
of the cicadas
suggests they know they soon must die.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I wish I could wash
this perishing earth
in its shimmering dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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

Cold white azalea—
a lone nun
in her thatched straw hut.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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

The bee emerging
from deep within the peony’s hairy recesses
flies off heavily, sated
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A crow has settled
on a naked branch—
autumn nightfall
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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

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

Like a glorious shrine—
on these green, budding leaves,
the sun’s intense radiance.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Yosa Buson haiku translations

On the temple’s great bronze gong
a butterfly
snoozes.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hard to describe:
this light sensation of being pinched
by a butterfly!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not to worry spiders,
I clean house ... sparingly.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Among the fallen leaves,
an elderly frog.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In an ancient well
fish leap for mosquitoes,
a dark sound.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flowers with thorns
remind me of my hometown ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reaching the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Picking autumn plums
my wrinkled hands
once again grow fragrant
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A silk robe, casually discarded,
exudes fragrance
into the darkening evening
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Whose delicate clothes
still decorate the clothesline?
Late autumn wind.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is an example of a translation in which I interpreted the poem before translating it. In the original poem the clothes were thin (suggesting suggestive garments). In Japanese poetry an autumn wind can represent loneliness. So I interpreted the poem to be about an aging woman who still wears enticing clothes but is increasingly lonely. Since in the West we don't normally drape clothes on screens, I moved the clothes to a clothesline, which works well with the wind. For me it's a sad poem about something that happens all too often to people as they age.

An evening breeze:
water lapping the heron’s legs.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

gills puffing,
a hooked fish:
the patient
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The stirred morning air
ruffles the hair
of a caterpillar.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Intruder!
This white plum tree
was once outside our fence!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tender grass
forgetful of its roots
the willow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I believe the poem above can be taken as commentary on ungrateful children. It reminds me of Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays."―MRB

Since I'm left here alone,
I'll make friends with the moon.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hood-wearer
in his self-created darkness
misses the harvest moon
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

White blossoms of the pear tree―
a young woman reading his moonlit letter
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The pear tree flowers whitely:
a young woman reading his letter
by moonlight
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On adjacent branches
the plum tree blossoms
bloom petal by petal―love!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A misty spring moon ...
I entice a woman
to pay it our respects
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Courtesans
purchasing kimonos:
plum trees blossoming
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring sea
rocks all day long:
rising and falling, ebbing and flowing ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the whale
    dives
its tail gets taller!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

While tilling the field
the motionless cloud
vanished.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even lonelier than last year:
this autumn evening.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My thoughts return to my Mother and Father:
late autumn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Late autumn:
my thoughts return to my Mother and Father
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This roaring winter wind:
the cataract grates on its rocks.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

While snow lingers
in creases and recesses:
flowers of the plum
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plowing,
not a single bird sings
in the mountain's shadow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the lingering heat
of an abandoned cowbarn
only the sound of the mosquitoes is dark.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The red plum's fallen petals
seem to ignite horse ****.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dawn!
The brilliant sun illuminates
sardine heads.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The abandoned willow shines
between bright rains
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dew-damp grass:
the setting sun’s tears
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dew-damp grass
weeps silently
in the setting sun
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

White plum blossoms―
though the hour grows late,
a glimpse of dawn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is believed to be Buson's jisei (death poem) and he is said to have died before dawn.

Lately the nights
dawn
plum-blossom white.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is a second interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem).

In the deepening night
I saw by the light
of the white plum blossoms

―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is a third interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem).

Our life here on earth:
to what shall we compare it?
Perhaps to a rowboat
departing at daybreak,
leaving no trace of us in its wake?
—Takaha Shugyo or Yosa Buson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



I thought I felt a dewdrop
plop
on me as I lay in bed!
― Masaoka Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

We cannot see the moon
and yet the waves still rise
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first morning of autumn:
the mirror I investigate
reflects my father’s face
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Wild geese pass
leaving the emptiness of heaven
revealed
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Inside the cracked shell
of a walnut:
one empty room.
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Bring me an icicle
sparkling with the stars
of the deep north
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Seen from the skyscraper
the trees' fresh greenery:
parsley sprigs
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Are the geese flying south?
The candle continues to flicker ...
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Still clad in its clown's costume—
the dead ladybird.
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A single tree,
a heart carved into its trunk,
blossoms prematurely
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Silently observing
the bottomless mountain lake:
water lilies
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Cranes
flapping ceaselessly
test the sky's upper limits
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Falling snowflakes'
glitter
tinsels the sea
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Blizzards here on earth,
blizzards of stars
in the sky
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Completely encircled
in emerald:
the glittering swamp!
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The new calendar!:
as if tomorrow
is assured...
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because morning glories
hold my well-bucket hostage
I go begging for water
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Spring
stirs the clouds
in the sky's teabowl
― Kikusha-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight I saw
how the peony crumples
in the fire's embers
― Katoh Shuhson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

It fills me with anger,
this moon; it fills me
and makes me whole
― Takeshita Shizunojo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

War
stood at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
― Watanabe Hakusen, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because he is slow to wrath,
I tackle him, then wring his neck
in the long grass
― Shimazu Ryoh, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Pale mountain sky:
cherry petals play
as they tumble earthward
― Kusama Tokihiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The frozen moon,
the frozen lake:
two oval mirrors reflecting each other.
― Hashimoto Takako, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The bitter winter wind
ends here
with the frozen sea
― Ikenishi Gonsui, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, bitter winter wind,
why bellow so
when there's no leaves to fell?
― Natsume Sôseki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter waves
roil
their own shadows
― Tominaga Fûsei, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

No sky,
no land:
just snow eternally falling...
― Kajiwara Hashin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Along with spring leaves
my child's teeth
take root, blossom
― Nakamura Kusatao, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Stillness:
a single chestnut leaf glides
on brilliant water
― Ryuin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As thunder recedes
a lone tree stands illuminated in sunlight:
applauded by cicadas
― Masaoka Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The snake slipped away
but his eyes, having held mine,
still stare in the grass
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Girls gather sprouts of rice:
reflections of the water flicker
on the backs of their hats
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Murmurs follow the hay cart
this blossoming summer day
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The wet nurse
paused to consider a bucket of sea urchins
then walked away
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

May I be with my mother
wearing her summer kimono
by the morning window
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The hands of a woman exist
to remove the insides of the spring cuttlefish
― Sekitei Hara, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The moon
hovering above the snow-capped mountains
rained down hailstones
― Sekitei Hara, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly:
a puff of white snow
cresting mountains
― Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring snow
cascades over fences
in white waves
― Suju Takano, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Tanka and Waka translations:

If fields of autumn flowers
can shed their blossoms, shameless,
why can’t I also frolic here —
as fearless, and as blameless?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Submit to you —
is that what you advise?
The way the ripples do
whenever ill winds arise?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Watching wan moonlight
illuminate trees,
my heart also brims,
overflowing with autumn.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I had thought to pluck
the flower of forgetfulness
only to find it
already blossoming in his heart.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

That which men call "love" —
is it not merely the chain
preventing our escape
from this world of pain?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Once-colorful flowers faded,
while in my drab cell
life’s impulse also abated
as the long rains fell.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I set off at the shore
of the seaside of Tago,
where I saw the high, illuminated peak
of Fuji―white, aglow―
through flakes of drifting downy snow.
― Akahito Yamabe, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



New Haiku Translations, added 6/27/2022

As the monks sip their morning tea,
chrysanthemums quietly blossom.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fragrance of plum blossoms
on a foggy path:
the sun rising.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkens ...
yet still faintly white
the wild duck protests.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pear tree blossoms
whitened by moonlight:
a young woman reading a letter.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Outlined in the moonlight ...
who is that standing
among the pear trees?
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your coolness:
the sound of the bell
departing the bell.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the moon flies west
the flowers' shadows
creep eastward.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By such pale moonlight
even the wisteria's fragrance
seems distant.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Leaves
like crows’ shadows
flirt with a lonely moon.
Kaga no Chiyo (1703-1775), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let me die
covered with flowers
and never again wake to this earthly dream!
—Ochi Etsujin, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To reveal how your heart flowers,
sway like the summer grove.
—Tagami Kikusha-Ni (1753-1826), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the thicket's shade
a solitary woman sings the rice-planting song.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unaware of these degenerate times,
cherry blossoms abound!
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

These silent summer nights
even the stars
seem to whisper.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The enormous firefly
weaves its way, this way and that,
as it passes by.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Composed like the Thinker, he sits
contemplating the mountains:
the sagacious frog!
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A fallen blossom
returning to its bough?
No, a butterfly!
Arakida Moritake (1473-1549), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Illuminated by the harvest moon
smoke is caught creeping
across the water ...
Hattori Ransetsu (1654-1707), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fanning its tail flamboyantly
with every excuse of a breeze,
the peacock!
Masaoki Shiki (1867-1902), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Waves row through the mists
of the endless sea.
Masaoki Shiki (1867-1902), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I hurl a firefly into the darkness
and sense the enormity of night.
—Kyoshi Takahama (1874-1959), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As girls gather rice sprouts
reflections of the rain ripple
on the backs of their hats.
—Kyoshi Takahama (1874-1959), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



ISSA TRANSLATIONS


Petals I amass
with such tenderness
***** me to the quick.
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This world of dew
is a world of dew indeed;
and yet...
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Standing beneath cherry blossoms
who can be strangers?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An enormous frog!
We stare at each other,
both petrified.
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Skinny frog,
hang on...
Issa to the rescue!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Right at my feet!
When did you arrive here,
snail?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I toss in my sleep,
so watch out,
cricket!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

In a better world
I'd leave you my rice bowl,
little fly!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Cries of the wild geese...
Spreading rumors about me?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

While a cicada
sings softly
a single leaf falls...
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Wake up, old tomcat,
then with elaborate yawns and stretchings
prepare to pursue love
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This windy nest?
Open your hungry mouth in vain,
Issa, orphaned sparrow!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The ghostly cow comes
mooing mooing mooing
out of the morning mist
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The snow melts
and the village is flooded with children!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Full moon,
my ramshackle hut
is an open book!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, brilliant moon
can it be true
that even you
must rush off, late
for some date?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Don't weep, we are all insects!
Lovers, even the stars themselves,
must eventually part.
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

In our world
we walk suspended over hell
admiring flowers.
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

In the thicket’s shade
a solitary woman
sings the rice-planting song.
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If my father were here,
we would gaze
over dawn’s green fields together.
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unaware of these degenerate times,
cherry blossoms abound!
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

These silent summer nights
even the stars
seem to whisper.
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The enormous firefly
weaves its way, this way and that,
as it passes by.
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Composed like the Thinker, he sits
contemplating the mountains:
the sagacious frog!
—Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Smug boss
plopped on his throne:
pompous bullfrog!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Serene-faced
contemplating the stars:
Buddha-frog.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Standing stone-still
for the horse to smell:
Buddha-frog.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Such a racket!
Will I be your next meal,
cawing crows?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

New Year’s Day
I welcome a guest:
nestless bird.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Likewise homeless,
this first day,
in Edo.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

New Year’s first rain:
my grass-roofed hut’s
first leak.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wild daisies
celebrate:
first day of spring.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring returns:
more excuses for foolishness
from this fool.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pretty
fresh-faced girls
multiplying like spring!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the snow melts
the village brims
with children.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The child
gives her dolls
a good scolding.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The old doll
suns herself
in the store window.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mocking
the perspiring farmer,
the jaunty crow.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lit
by the lightning-flash:
spring snow falling.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You’ve ruined my dream,
nightmare crow,
with your cawing!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring returns
simply but elegantly
with a pale blue sky.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring’s
first butterfly
swaggers.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The pretty rice-planting girl
with a butterfly
asleep on her back.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The butterfly
flutters back
to Buddha’s lap.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hole in the wall?
Peeping Tom!
I spy on the pretty sky.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Time flies,
so fast
the bonfires burn out.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A ritzy kite
smirks above
a beggar’s hut.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The great bronze
Buddha’s nose
itched by baby sparrows.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

From serene Jizo’s
holy neck it hangs:
the rice dumpling.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Little snail,
conquer Mount Fuji,
inch by inch!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Intruder!
A loitering pheasant
pecks at my gate.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t migrate geese!
There is sorrow everywhere.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t cry,
migrating geese;
everywhere the world’s the same.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How they glare
when I return:
the geese at my gate.
(Or is it theirs?)
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A talented goose
posed on one foot
in the rice field.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter breeze:
snowflakes flutter down
like confetti.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The old banner
***** lonely and cold
in the winter thicket.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Back door amusement:
******* scribbles
in winter’s first ice.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How cold?
My only hand towel
frozen stiff.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If you cross it,
cross carefully and lightly:
ice.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Safe beneath the ice,
the cat’s eyes follow
crazy fish.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

From the tip of Buddha’s
honorable nose
an icicle dangles.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Steering me home
to my hut:
winter rain.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Teased by the winter wind,
the pig giggles
in his sleep.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The winter wind
generously
sweeps my gate.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter night:
scratching at my window,
a banished cat.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Likewise in no mood
to sweep the snow,
the scarecrow.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My little straw mat:
the cat arrives
with a coat of snowflakes.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The girl hugs
her ragcloth monkey:
winter hailstorm.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Patched
with wastepaper,
my ragged winter coat.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cricket’s
cozy winter residence:
my quilt.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hey mice,
quit ******* on my new friend’s
domicile!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Forlorn sight:
from distant fields
a little hut’s light.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The generous wind
sweeps
my sooty hut.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A lonely
plum tree blooms
among pines.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plum blossoms
giggle
at my rags.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At the edge
of a reeking well,
elegant plum blossoms.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Are you illuminating
plum blossoms for stealing,
vagrant moon?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Moonlit gate:
the mosquito-eating bats
make their rounds.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Like the bats
moonlit streetwalkers also
make their slow rounds.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A hot, humid night ...
bats dangle
by the riverbank.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A hot, humid day ...
I engage in a staring contest
with a gargoyle.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Glaring
like he’d devour the winter moon,
the gargoyle.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dragonfly
works the late shift:
night fishing.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Having peeled off your skin,
snake,
are you any cooler?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Left in Buddha’s lap,
a snake’s
discarded garment.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

From the great bronze Buddha’s
nose
morning mist emerges.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the great bronze Buddha’s
nose,
a **** bug.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Chestnuts falling:
even the stone Buddha
has an umbrella hat!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A sparrow chirps
in his lap:
the snowbound Buddha.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Boars and bears
my only neighbors:
winter seclusion.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My sinful dog
my sole companion:
winter seclusion.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No good deeds
but unable to sin:
winter seclusion.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The winter houseguest
I spared, a little fly,
my cat murdered.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eyeing the potato
baking on the banked fire,
a criminal crow.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even the bullfrog
gapes
at brilliant fireflies.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why do you
play with fire,
tiger moth?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mosquitoes
so thick
I exhale them.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do you also
mourn your mother,
cicada?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even the insects
huddle at the window:
a cold night.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My evicted fleas
have re-made me their landlord:
autumn rain.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Autumn cacophony:
the cicadas’ grumblings
grow louder.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“It’s cold,”
the cicadas’ complaints
have begun.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The strutting crow
splashes
into the silver dew.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The woodpecker
sizes up
my tasty hut.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unaware of life’s passage
the dewdrops
frolic.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He makes
a splendid windbreak,
the sumo wrestler.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Standing alone
in a world of tranquility,
the scarecrow.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As among men,
so among insects:
good singers, bad singers.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Settling to sleep
on the helpless scarecrow,
the dauntless dragonfly.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An autumn butterfly
clings
to the scarecrow’s sleeve.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reflected in the dragonfly’s
somber eyes,
the distant mountain.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dragonfly
siestas
on the steer’s head.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The praying mantis
clings by one claw
to the temple bell.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The village dog
waters
chrysanthemums.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There no shame
if we teeter-totter,
old chrysanthemum.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The briar chrysanthemum
blooms
in secret.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Atop the guady chrysanthemum
a caterpillar
snoozes.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Thanks to morning-glories
my hut
becomes a palace.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eating my rice
alone
among morning-glories.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Droplets form
on the still, silent
morning-glories.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rice field dew,
half of it
human perspiration?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Through night’s gloom,
bit by bit it grows,
the gourd.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clever as foxes,
the children
hide amid plume grass.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even plume grass
waves farewell at last
to autumn.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the sleeping dog
gently descends
a leaf-hat.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Avert your eyes
while I **** in your field,
little wren!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This stand of trees:
my head
just as barren of leaves.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lacking common sense
out-of-season flowers
bloom on my fence.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All alone,
babbling nonsense,
I toast the departing year.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Kyoto:
even beneath bridges
beggars toast the departing year.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Living alone,
one bottle suffices
for toasting the departing year.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come what may,
trust the New Year to Buddha
despite his former failures.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A wind chime’s
bubbly babble
ends the year on a bright note.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It takes two
temple nuns
to yank out one radish.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Berating
my heavy drinking,
the mountain cuckoo.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation 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

Keywords/Tags: haiku, oriental, masters, translation, Japanese, nature, seasons, Basho, Buson, Issa, waka, tanka, mrbhaiku
These are English translations Haiku by the Japanese Masters of the form, including Matsuo Basho, Yosa Buson, Fukuda Chiyo-ni, Kobayashi Issa, Yamaguchi Seishi and Hisajo Sugita.
Well I changed all the locks
Cause I couldn't get in
And I moved all the clocks
Cause time seemed too thin

And I made love be free
Cause it was too dear
And I made the blind see
So they'd have no fear

And I opened the parks
So you could visit for free
And removed all the marks
That said you couldn't just be

I tore down the fences
And opened the gates
And nixed the verb tenses
So we could relate

Now the world is much changed
But I'm tiffed to discover
That our brains are deranged
In our rooms made of rubber
Countdown to Armageddon precariously hinges
   potential apocalypse outcome, mere smattering days away
if the brazen, fierce-some dragon doth don
   trumps presidential throne -
   ships with whistling  Dixie missiles at bay
will be synchronized with aerial bombardiers
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   to parlay a view to unleash nuclear weapons on cue
destroying a vast swath of flora and fauna,
   and most life forms (inn oh cent), but pay hefty due
to assuage the aggressively cruel, enjoyably
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   growling at his goalie indubitably
   kick *** mindset worse than dengue fever will ensue
a combustible domino effect fueling global horror -
   analogous to kindling tinder logs smoke
   the color - jetblue streaming up fireplace flue
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
witnessing sovereign magnum opus trans
   forming much of animal and plant life into flakes of goo
far scarier than any macabre production
   dreamt up by human frightful scenario and no hero
she ma to rescue self or other from deadly debacle,
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   nor any safe haven such as a cool igloo
forsooth complete annihilation will far surpass
   any prior world war, no one will be spared,
   neither gentile nor Jew
which total mortal kombat, and attendant laying waste
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   organisms livingsocial instantaneously cremated,
   where ashes spread dispersed faster than Kudzu
rendering world wide web fetid, offal, and putrid
   far more noxious than the common loo
yet even this general description falls short to where mew
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
tinny sans hardy species (according to Google search);
   such as tardigrade, mummichog, and cockroach
decimating, heaving, leveling, poisoning
   every cubic inch of Earth evincing voluminous vaporization
   extant eradication emphatically nixed, punctuated, and radiated
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   pulverization eviscerating the bowels of mankind,
   where nary a survivor could weather and withstand
   hollowed out no mans land bereft of sustenance or water
   where seeds of white lily when coalescence
   of oblate spheroid birthed, nursed, and weaned new
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
life especially proto **** sapiens
   and subsequent kin grunting with ah and oew
fast tracked primates, yet inherent within genetic coda
   (perhaps poison ingredient bubbled
  within primordial soup) - steeped quantum mechanical pew
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
tar nation housing crucible-
   analogous to planetary size mortar and pestle) queue
sans predestination, where rue
brick, dogma, and fealty honoring justice slew
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
by paws of one cancerous, fractious and idolatrous Lothario,
   who opened Pandora Box (rigged shut tight) thorough
lee rendered civilization a footnote
   of cosmological history and universal view
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
BUT.... eligible voters can choose alternate
   (Democratic) candidate -
   the majority will exhale a collective gustatory whew
and allow, enable and provide continuance of the human zoo!
Oh Glenda (Miz Gee gee)
     years elapsed since, I didst hawk
     verboten fruit adrip
from yar verdant bough,  
     thy strong craven raven
     doth still twitter and flip

sans thy testosterone switch,
     where woody pecker missus grip
ping re: egret ting prospective
     relationship nixed thee
     as gull friend material, hip
mistress, though heron eye did pay lip

     service verily orgasmically quip
yes...wren doer ring
     more'n commit Freudian slip
which peeping cardinal tip
     towing thru nested tulip trip

     gave balled oriole peck whip
ping lil *** pistol be
     friending chirping ***** riot
inserting thingmabob
     after pants sigh did un zip.
                            *  
Egg gad unlike rob bin duck cradle
yar mature red breast all aswirl
     asper a stationary dreidel
mammary ducts mine mouth pursed
     yar ******* mine gums did ladle.

Only in memory, aye
hungrily thirst and thirstily hunger
     fort deux aureole dye
still affecting this gab
     bird, who didst deign
     as milquetoast guy.

Whenever this birdman alone
his thoughts metaphorically drone
worm wayward toward
     ***** thatch, where

     hello kitty doth purr and groan
of quintessentially
     ***** coiled hair moan
ning softly as thee
     bared naked lady lies prone
admiring pinkish puckered
     def flesh tone.
mike dm Jun 2014
I dissolve
When I'm in the thick of nature
It turns my brain off (for once)

Smells cast spells
Sounds surround
I am finally in it

I feel
Sparse

Whittled down
To bone and breath

Arabesque complexity nixed
And I am
OK with that

My worries
Go extinct
A broken heart
By definition
Cannot act
Based on ambition
And is doomed
To submission
Cursed to feel
Only contrition
But take this moment to listen
To what I have to say to you

A broken heart
Is seen as weak
And the future
Of it bleak
But every crack
Tear and streak
Leaves the owner
More unique
With only confidence to accrue

A broken heart
Once it’s mended
Can shake off
Why it pretended
To endure
What it expended
To keep it’s
Own needs unattended
In fear of losing what was good

A broken heart
Once fixed
Even with
Emotions mixed
And after all
Enemies nixed
By their lies
So transfixed
Is now free to do what it should
Aaron Mullin Nov 2014
Another adventure begins
On a day to remember
On the 11th hour of the 11th day
Of the 11th month in 1918
WWI ended
But the war continues
Between the material and spiritual
The Grand Inquisitor in all of us
(Dostoevsky)
Tries to encapsulate the formless

We're all searching for the magic pill
Red or blue
What would you choose?
Fortunately, there is no choice
You become who you are eventually
It just depends how many lives
It takes for a full realization
Of this reality

A spiritual warrior is always in transition
I'm spending the next few weeks traveling from
Portland to Los Angeles
Maybe on to Peru from there
I plan on writing in realtime
In spacetime, I'll be riffing
Suggestions of where to explore are appreciated
That would put a big smile on my face

I told my Cree friend of this journey
She laughed and called me Thotin
Thotin is wind; wind in all forms
I told her I identified with water
She nixed that:
'water is too predictable, wind is just ****** nuts'
We lol'd

I guess the wind is blowing west
:)
Exposure Therapy

     A figurative light shines on me (courtesy of Pink Floyd), no matter I live on the dark side of the moon like another brick in the wall, and rarely present thyself stark naked sans emotionally. The metier viz modus operandi of writing (poetry seems to edge ahead of other structures) allows, enables and provides with utmost exhiliration, infatuation, lumination, et cetera an opportunity to test (dis)comfort zones. Hence carefree foray induces loosing oppressive repressed unvented xanax albatross drugged gewgaws, jetisonned (via Jetson propelled Segway) means producint resplendent unfettered x2c.

      I became habituated, insulated, jackknifed with non-healthy, destructive behavior cultivated detrimental habits disallowing natural maturation of body, mind, and spirit, which this middle aged mwm now more fervently revisits, remonstrates, and recapitulates when attempting to explain to thyself or another, how bing figuratively tethered to the apron strings o' me late mum promulgated, narrated, and licensed to avast quantity of active listeners, the self made parent trap (albeit synonymous with an invisible umbilical cord that well nigh strangled satisfactory quality of life.

     Thus culled from me lately (countless decades when within fledgling offspring, the progeny evince metamorphosis that display heavenly lottery phenomenal tinder phase linkedin DNA when processes of puberty per purring prestidigitation when mine deus darling daughters developed into divine dames) instilled, jolted, kickstarted personal quest to broach me interpersonal/ social comfort zones.

     The presence of generalized anxiety (with attendant debilitating panic attacks) ******, foiled, highjacked journey to experience ordinary sensate human bonding never took place.

     I copiously deprived, emotionally fleeced, gamely hocked innumerable joyous kissably leavening male natural ordinary processes qua ramping sundry transitions ushering vital wings yodeling zen attainment. emotional, physical, social discoveries visa vis via blockaded, deprived, forfeited, hamstrung inoculated je nais sais quois electric kool aid acid test disallowing, barring,

depressing, forsaking growing **** Sapiens trajectory toward autonomy free self destructive hermetically sealed reign.

     Otherwise, thru avoidance behavior, clamped down eponymous flapping gums, this now middle aged baby boomer believes he cheated himself, injuriously jarred kidnapped legendary manifold noble savage traits ushering vital willpower yawping zealous adulthood.

Said physiological, integral, hormonal, germinal, fantastical, external, developmental, capitalone entourage fumbled mine kempf outlook predicated unanimously withheld Mortal Kombat from finagled grim-faced hoodlums, whence thine smarting, roiling, quivering psyche broke LivingSocial will power to remain alive, thus surrendering StarWars shield, essentially via nixed invisible IdentityGuard, undermined re: self defeatedly favorable growth, when thy prepubescent self firmly believed he hermetically sealed, guarded, buffered, himself against nasty, meanly lampooning, cruelly brutal bullies when in truth he merely annihilated, boobytrapped, bolloxed against learning to deal with dangerous enfilades fired, and essentially a uselessly futile coping mechanism.

     Quest diagnostic codified by yours truly incorporates initiating, kibitzing, and making odious quirkiness stamping utterly worthless yikyaks axed. Courageousness employed grappling ingeniously

kickstarting my nifty operation quintessentially rallying strength to utter verbal warbling, especially when espying a guy or gal donned with dreadlocks.

     Inexplicable to myself why a plethora of persons (constituting various generations) attire themselves with the lengthy process to braid, maintain, and wear follicles in such a fashion most attribute to Rastafarians.

     No matter what the reason or rhyme (whether with or without sense and sensibility, yet inculcated with pride without prejudice), a fascination with curiosity asper men, women, and/or children sporting a headful sprouting knotted ropy plaits sets the impetus sans this non establishmentarian chap to inquire what influenced him/her to impress the trademark dreadlocks. Each person usually offers little objection asper what influenced such a predilection.

     Upon conniving, daring, egging, et cetera this quintessentially respectable son, the unsuspecting gal or guy ruminating about some purchase, I nonchalantly assay, foray, sashay...and issue a positive comment about their snake like confection of locked tresses.

     Most interaction with persons previously unbeknownst to me launch into a harried styled and swiftly tailored explanation.

     Poetic and/or prosaic concoctions, confections, coiled connotations configuring confusing confabulations representative of mine unsettled psychological state, which (aking to purging) oft times erupts without any sense nor sensibility, neither pridefulness, though prejudice against victorious vanquished wicked yoked zealousness toward unhealthy behavious linkedin with a nada so good and plenti outlook.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Some people see personality
I just see criminality
What some call statesmanship
To me is not so hip.
There must be a different definition
In your version of the Constitution
But mine says we all are free
And not just those D.C.
And not just those Caucasians
Should be entitled to rations
Of respect and equality.
But we’re victims of duality
Without causality
Because our voice is nixed
Nothing gets fixed.
Nobody cares about the crooks
Until something of theirs gets took
Then they want to throw the book
Without a second look
At who it hits. It’s totally tragic
That so many believe in magic
Like somebody waves a wand
And all the thugs will be gone
From our leadership.
It’s a ****** trip
And a total rip
That they think someone cares.
But, nothing makes rich people scared
Unless someone else takes
One third of everything they make
Then they scream like banshees.
Meanwhile, down on our knees
We cry right across the board
But we are the blighted horde;
We never really scored.
We were just here to buy junk
And not listen to the bunk
The one-percent hurls our faces;
We live with the disgraces
And wish we could do something.
Wish we could do anything
To break this eternal ring
Of money meaning purity.
Yes, it is a homily
But it is practically
All there is.
Talk to the Wiz.
He’ll tell you it is crap.
It’s just a trap.
the bittersweet silent story of my life age
fifty and nine automatically rebroadcast
     in indelible (yet never washed out) beige
indistinguishably linkedin, when counting
     the last three of seventy somber orbitz,
     signify torturous custom made cage

whose darkening shades of gray
housed a weakened Harriet Harris,
     an ashen corpse lay
no doubt a grown changeling dust play

a cruel trick, and soul of me mum didst slay,
so...tis with great difficulty aye write this poem today
cathartic to brush off self denunciation,
     an albatross that dust way

heavily incriminating, ostracizing this mind of mine,
recurring every year comb May fourth a line
codifying, delineating, earmarking,  
     and doth likened
     to elementary school Boyer

     as in  Henry Kline
no less painful reflection plus unavoidable,
     hence this middle aged man lets feelings incline
toward self expression this anniversary
     revisiting re: deign

upon memorializing general up beat
defiance at death of thine late mother,
     where disease rabidly did eat
ting her til she expired,
     this singular married heir
     set himself a writing fete

wordlessly mouths never expressed greet
unbeknownst reeders gleaning my sentiments heat
ting recollected adieu bid prior,
     whence she angrily wanted to meet
that accursed nemesis
     against healthiness and repeat
  
cherished apothegm,
     that existence offers no second act
as she relinquished slipping tenuous weak bract
leave ving ever fainter grip upon cracked
pommel of mortality, an immutable fact
thence black knight denounced, pounced, hijacked
trounced unannounced, vanquished, lacked

motive to rival nixed, extinguished sputtering pact
fast fading joie de vivre unspoken,
     where death rattle racked
personal def tone accentuation tracked
subsequent self castigation,
     excoriation nearly whacked

me to Timbuktu rebuking extolling bless
sing experienced from
     this sole son for thirteen years, aye confess
when the inimitable Harriet Harris

     devastatingly, grievously, inconsolably,
     got hexed, issued jilted livingsocial, a less
son learned to late, how maddeningly mess
say yon nick lee infuriated, not accepting press

sing ill fate, nor countenancing fatal injustice,
refusing to curtsy fiendish inxs did ****
her off (poisoned scorpion sting) remiss
cheekily peppering psyche as if Swiss

cheese, a once spunky Arthur Murray shored
dance instructor, who scored
door prize in the guise of thee less torte sured
near nonagenarian papa, where meanness poured

from grim mortal outlook parlayed moored
deadly reaper, quashed, ruined as lord
stole, sacred maternal tribal nurse, unfairly did hoard
final precious seconds unexpectedly meant un explored
positive rapport forever undergirded "door"

closed to resolve ambivalence with venerable bead
did association between
     kith and kin, unfairly
     dead poet society lettered deed
wrested a vibrant life despite zest that freed
a vibrant gal to coast along dialed up esprit

     de corps spirit to live, yet greed
of metastatic cancer upended lead,
where mind over matter, sans power
     in positive thinking rubric and plead
ding didst **** last ditch homeopathic screed

ambitions *******, thus giving up the ghost
wracking sadness, sinking sorrow spilling most
lee tears of loss, among family, fellow Unitarians
of the Thomas Paine Fellowship
     included with your obituary post.
Ryan Winkler Nov 2011
The boy was happy,

His every whim fulfilled,

But the fun left debts to repay.

His bank account always refilled,

By the man who gave him life.

The debtors kept him leashed,

To this expensive way of life.

His idea of friends tested,

As they cause nothing but strife.

He pays and pays, to get his fix,

They make and make, as he tries to change.

He pays and pays, his money nixed,

The “friends” of the boy, begin to unhinge,

The life of their toy, to start by beating,

They move on to a picture, so incriminating.

This boy now sees his life, how he was cheating,

A quick fix for the stress, non-discriminating.

The time of his life was slowly ending.

If that image got out, he would lose his lifeline,

His only chance to pay for the thing,

The thing that he did not need, but craved.

The men kept him trapped,

With a childhood picture, something depraved,

Left this young boy trapped, in a life he no longer craved.
My little birdie, let's call her Donnie, didn’t die with me. She was the sky, the ocean, the air; always there; before there was me; before there was Lily and the schizophrenics she so dearly loved. She chose me through three miscarriages; clung to my slimy wet shoulder from birth in an old British town, and after my heart said, “**** it. I’m done.”

Donnie, who knew me well; whose laser eye cut through my survival shield. Who was there with the ******* and the priest in his long white gown, red, sputtering scooter, and bifocals that saw me before I slid under black sage bushes on Bleak Street. “We must learn to forgive,” he preached, as if he’d previewed the ****** fantasy with the teenage butcher and 12-inch blade; who dreamed of severed jugular veins; who knew their precise anatomical position from Biology 101; who raged through life buoyed by his noble struggle to overachieve, kick poverty in the *** and please his mother. She wanted him to be a shrink who performed lobotomies and lived in a mansion on the hill. But instead, he peddled anti-psychotics and sildenafil.

Donnie, who nixed my flirtation with cremation with her thesis on Casper’s Law. Who waxed poetic on the cycle of life and the critical role of clostridia in butyric fermentation. Who stoked my angst of guns and God; and the Talmud’s curse that justified subjugation of blacks for five hundred years, and gave us Jesus, blond and white with sky blue eyes, and prosperity preachers with a penchant for private jets, Bentleys and pews packed with faithful followers seeking salvation and eternal life but fearing death and the neighbor’s son with sagging jeans, snapbacks and kicks by Kanye West.

Donnie, who worshipped only supreme reality. Who scoffed at the devout deacons and their elegies of compassion after protracted nights of drunken bliss and fornication at the bordello. Who challenged me to read and think independently; and unlearn the trappings of blind faith in a deity unseen that failed to intervene when Baba and Phoebe were yoked, *****, chained, stripped of name, culture and natural identity; made to slog like two-legged mules in a land far, far away; for missionary masters who ****** black men in public for dissent, and threw black babies, naked, screaming, into giant, snapping jaws of bull gators for fun.

Donnie, who inspired me to explore the theory of applied nothingness; that nothing is something and everything is something and nothing; that nothing is the silence from which a baby’s scream emerges and to which it returns; that singular forces of expansion and compression move the universe to an inevitable state of oneness. That the world is the laboratory of the independent thinker who knows the only constant is change; whose mind is constantly moving and learning new tricks, not stuck in the static biblical paradigm of many interpretations, including that curse of Ham, that seismic slight of hand that shifted and redefined tectonic geopolitical plates of master and slave by race.

Donnie, who knew the moving mass of maggots feasting on my rotting flesh were merely spokes in the cycle of life and death. Who knew heaven was a myth like the devil; that both lived in me, on Earth, a duality that made me love and hate and share and steal that shiny red apple from the Korean grocery store on Utica Avenue, just for the thrill of it. Nonetheless, a part of me wanted to confess, just in case that nothingness theory was just applied ******* and John 3:16 was real. Just in case, mother, who prayed five times a day, and sent four-figure checks to Benny Hinn whom she’d never met, and gave me a black bible to help me find the Lord, was right all along. But a few Berettas and bump stocks intervened.

Donnie knew I was dead when the bullet split my head in two back in 2032 at Times Square. There would be no 2033; no ‘Happy New Year’ toast, no kisses, no cheer. Just rat-a-tat-tat, screams and mayhem on 42 Street. There were 175 dead at the scene when the giant ball completed its 60-second drop; New York City’s second worst mass killing in modern history. Children missing limbs; gaping holes in the chest of men that held beating hearts at 11:58 pm; chunks of brains, eyeballs and other human remains swimming in blood near headless victims. The three white terrorists did not discriminate. Every race felt the deadly force of guns meant for war but fiercely defended by Second Amendment zealots and the NRA.

I should have migrated to Tokyo back in ’85.

Donnie disagreed. She’d stayed connected to my departed, restless soul in the after-life. Together, we observed the protracted decomposition of my earthly shell in a loosely-sealed casket somewhere under the red clays of Georgia. Donnie, who knew I needed therapy after that morbidly brutal exit from the physical realm of palpable matter; back to the golden eternity of nothingness from whence I came. Who reminded me that my brief sojourn among the living was not inconsequential; that I’d left an indelible mark in my sphere of influence, real and virtual; that I’d found and used my gift of write for the greater good of preserving naked truths of humanity; that my ancestors were pleased, including my deceased mother, whose long position on pious options had filled the coffers of Benny Hinn and other preaching predators like pastor Mike at the Bootleg Church of Brooklyn; yet yielded nothing which is something as hitherto explained.

“Your mortal life unfolded exactly as nature intended,” Donnie counseled, in her infinite wisdom, adding, “even the biologically immortal pine will die when struck by lightning or swept by a tsunami or snapped like a toothpick by a giant tornado.”

“And those pines produce oxygen to support life on the red clays of Georgia, now uniformly enriched by your final contribution to the world.”
Experimental piece; post-mortem stream of consciousness.
Brent Kincaid Sep 2017
For the past thirty years or so
I’ve heard Republican broad hints
That never quite come to pass.
They must think I am dense;
That I sit and watch my TV
And get all stoked to hear them
Promise they will set things right
But reality never comes near them.

They talk about our poverty gap
And how they will narrow it down
And how they will lower interest
And they will quit fooling around.
They go on about their opponents,
Even when they have good records,
And then the election comes and
The people fail to get it together.

So every eight years they vote,
These fools I must call my peers
And throw the good guy out.
Every freaking eight years.
An even once after just four
They told the good guy goodbye
Then put in a world class crook.
Can anyone really say why?

I’ve watched my fellow man
Go bonkers like this repeatedly
And vote in some twisted clown
That ******* us up completely.
Nixon looked like the creep he was;
A greasy, rude and stupid man.
Then Reagan was a liar and a looter
I never was that fool’s loyal fan.

In between we’d get someone
In the job who wanted things fixed.
He would work hard as he could
And pray things wouldn’t be nixed.
But the current bubble-headed villain
Said he’d take the country back;
All his predecessor was guilty of
Was of being unremittingly black.

So, what’s with these people here
Who can’t tell a good thing from bad?
Why can’t they recognize success
And good times we have had?
All indexes were up, things were fine
Things were not a bit bad that fall.
So why did the half bright-Americans
Choose a guy with no experience at all?

Surely they don’t think any guy
Who doesn’t give a **** about them
Would care about more than rich buddies.
Of course not! That would be just dim.
Yet they did it and proved that fools,
When they’re left to play with the adults,
Can ruin things when they’re going well.
Now we must live with the results.
Minuscule Ego Feb 2016
"I found the paradox,
That if you love until it hurts,
That there can be no more hurts,
Only more and more love".
Sure enough! Ma'am Teresa had said that
And I so believed that, twice in a row!
Twice I've stood and watched you pierce me
The first, I'm sure I froze and the words left me
Words that I had preached, over and over
They melted on my tongue, like butter in an oven
Sweetness! I had so swear. Let's continue to the making
Let's lick even if the tongue feels the burning
You had me going with some everlasting fantasy
And it kept my heart beating rapidly for many years
I could almost hear it in my ears like everyday
You showered me peace and kept smiles to my lips
Day in, day out you kept feeding me those clips,
Oh! We had loved like nothing could change us
But through it all we became the foremost strangers
Beastly and gentling we stood apart in frost anger's
Till your mates became weighty, they became a consent
And I had to face those demons, for I had nothing to spare
My heart felt the trouble, so my thoughts became different
My dreams of love had turned hopeless, so I couldn't care
For we no longer care enough to even give a pretty face
You had always been my fantasy, until you had me replaced
So now that the dream's all gone, it's  now time to face the reality
That you made a fool of me, as I stood in a blanked drowse
A heartbreak after a vow.

For the second, I'm sure it begun with the text fling
You had devilishly hunted me from the shadows
Heartily laughing, while your eyes said the best things
My heart somehow fell, but my mind kept to the worst flings
For you were so PHAT, and I was so BALE, it felt awkward
But you just kept blinking, like cunningly coming forward
So I started flirting, hoping I can deceive the coming arrow
But you kept beeping, till you devilishly gamed the back row
For with those lips and em eyes, we all found it hard to resist,
Some had tried and failed, yet more and more still persist
And you quickly nixed their idea, told each you had a friend
For me....... I knew what to say to make it all come to an end
But my thoughts had its way, 'tis the same old sin' it had rang
"Good things don't come easy",  I proudly sang
You just laughed, said you still wish us the best things
Oh! That got my wow! so at night I begun with the texting
Between those whirling moments, within those poetic rhythm's
A new song started in my system, my heart begun dancing Only you,
However, the Platters failed to breach the speaker; I couldn't say I care,
For the past held me as a prisoner, and you solely trusted no one
You so thought of all 'as sinners, you felt better playing the lone
Within those tenderness and fears, I just wished for only you
My heart falls double, but the thoughts speaks different
My dreams for love still's hopeful, and I'm sure it goes low
Be you heartless or not, I still dream for that happy place
You will always be my fantasy, until you fill me till aglow
So now that the vision's all done, it's now time to ace the reality
That you made a good of me, as I stood with a furrowed brows
A heartbreak for a wow.
Love is all that matters, you ought not be alone
to parlay a view to unleash
   nuclear weapons on cue
destroying vast swaths
   of flora and fauna,

   most inn no cent life forms
   will pay hefty due
to assuage aggressively
   cruel, enjoyably

   growling goal, and indubitably
   kick *** mindset worse
   than dengue fever will ensue
a combustible domino effect
   fueling global horror -
   analogous to kindling tinder logs smoke

   jetting up fireplace flue
witnessing sovereign spookiest
   magnum opus - trans
   forming much of animal
   and plant life into goo
(especially if special prosecutor Robert Mueller let go)
far scarier than any macabre production

   dreamt up by human
   frightful scenario hero
she ma (paltry in comparison)
   will rescue us from deadly debacle,
   nor any safe haven such as cool igloo

forsooth thee annihilation
   will far surpass
   any prior world war,
   no one will be spared,
   neither gentile nor Jew
which all out total mortal kombat,
   and attendant laying waste

   organisms livingsocial
   will instantaneously undergo cremation,
   where flecks of ashes will spread like Kudzu
rendering the world wide web
   fetid, offal, and putrid
   far more noxious than the common loo

yet even this general description
   falls far short to where mew
tinny, sans hardy species
   (according to Google search);
   such as tardigrade, mummichog, and cockroach
decimating, heaving, leveling, poisoning

   nearly every cubic inch of Earth
   evincing voluminous vaporization
   extant eradication emphatically
   nixed, punctuated, and radiated
   pulverization eviscerating bowels of mankind,

   where nary a survivor
   could weather and withstand
   hollowed out no mans land
   bereft of sustenance or water
   where seeds of white lily when coalescence
   of oblate spheroid birthed,
   nursed, and weaned new

life especially proto **** sapiens
   and subsequent kin grunting
   with ah and ew
fast tracked primates,
   yet inherent within genetic coda
   (perhaps poison ingredient bubbling

  within primordial soup - steeped qua pew
tar nation housing crucible-
   analogous to planetary size
   mortar and pestle) queue
sans predestination, where rue

brick, dogma, and fealty honoring justice slew
by paws of one cancerous,
   fractious and idolatrous Lothario,
   who opened Pandora Box
   (rigged by bobbies shut tight) thorough
lee rendered civilization a foot note

   of cosmological history and universal view
where if one eligible voter
   chose alternate (Democratic) candidate -    
   the major will exhale a collective whew
and allow, enable and provide
   continuance of the human zoo!
Brent Kincaid May 2018
It’s a time payment concept
With compounding interest
That gets harder every year
And puts faith to the test.
It’s brokered by agents with
PhDs in fancy double-talk
That everything is God's will
And you’re not allowed to balk.

It’s sort of like the tax people
Only the rules are not so fixed;
No good calling attorneys up
That’s action’s definitely nixed.
The deal is that you can’t win
And must suffer with piety;
Give your money and thanks
To a fat cat you cannot see!

In exchange you get to go to
Play dress-up every Sunday
And pray for the senselessness
God is supposed to take away,
Or maybe remove diseases
That **** the good and innocent.
But you’re allowed to pray that
Your Lotto ticket wins you a mint!

Either way, you’re blameless
When it gets to be holiday time
And nothing changes as politics
Becomes the scene of the crime.
So drop another couple of coins in
Some sd homeless person’s hat,
Because God will take care of them,
And that’s where religion is at.
I know I am going to hear from "pious people" all about how wrong I am, but I don't care. If the shoe fits, wear it.
wheel ding utmost pro lix:
scrum compulsions won
despite feeling dog tired, (like a ton
of bricks weighed me down)

while seduced by the sun
solar radiation from the sky didst lightly run
sans, i experienced
a weird wired wider sensation pun
knee sensation otherwise, this sun dry

older puppy nun
the wiser (feeling akin
to an overly sated book worm
to boot) on a Mon
Day, nonetheless, forced
by male incarnation from Lon
don, (via NON FAKE voices

inside my noggin) a potential ***
these tired eyes, could NOT stop reading
even with figurative gun
at my head, until only sluggish progress made,
which daunting task not fun
bore witness thru novel

(in this instance plotting thru - dun
know if fie could finish
One Hundred Years Of Solitude -
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

pea pulling his story with bun
dulls of Hiss panic
Alpha Numeric characters, -
per printed page punctuated

concluded with a period,
(premature mental dejected ******* exclaimed
how ah yee got trounced
by harsh obsessive compulsive task master.

"Nay unto you Matthew Scott"!
Uttered by exactly same grievous rot
while er...mailer daemon (as above, ***
tent shill slave driver subsequently not

quite ditto for identical bon mot
mind wielding **** mask kid ding lot
intonation, now setting me hot
to worry about my thinning hair,
the little atop nixed noggin aye got

as expressed vis a vis A previous poem
of mine titled 'Argh! I suffer the plight of Bad
Hair Year In One Day!'
Jeremy Bean Feb 2019
I'm a kind of tired that sleep can't fix
in a game gone amiss where no one wins
in a race stuck in place that don't begin
where every action is seen as sin

I am kind of lost where no compass
can find a home or points to bliss
facing the wind as I ****
the stains on my soles will iterate this

Im the kind of mad that lacks their tricks
a sad gone bad that cant be nixed
perplexed and had caught in the mix
as it all comes down like a ton of bricks

An introvert to escape the hurt
whos grew quite sick of chasing skirts
nomad on the landscape scraping dirt
disguising a grave as a yurt
Mon Sep 2015
Can I just be with you?
Where I can hold your hand
Where I can kiss your lips
Where I can lean on your shoulder
Where I can hear your heartbeat next to mine

Can I just be with you?
When I cannot hold myself anymore
When I cannot pause my emotions
When I cannot hold back my tears
When I cannot help myself telling all my problems

Can I just be with you?
Please, tell me.
I just wanna be with you
Where I disremember the reality
Where I am floating in my dreams with you
When everything nixed me
When I don’t know what else to do
So let me ask you again
Can I just be with you?
Tryouts starring musical prodigies 
and/or an attendant conductor
attempt to approach ambient chorus
divinely exhibited from Gaia's handiwork
heavenly invoking kapellmeister's
magnificent nonchalant outlook
piquantly, quintessentially, repertoire sensately striking
unmatched vast wisdom yielding, zephyr air albeit creativity
engineered from groundswell harmony
juxtaposed, kindled, linkedin,
manifesting noteworthy opulent philharmonic recording
transcribing universal veritable webbed wide world.

Wunderkinds yield Ziggurat acme approximated asymptote
bequeathing celestial Doppelganger Earthly emulations
formulating fractal glinting highlighting
ineffable joie de vivre jostling, keen kindling,
la la land legerdemain lifting logic
lording Ludwig (Josef Johann) Wittgenstein.

Yelping zoological apostle Al affidavit Gore handily
heaping hubristically invocation jolting kickstart measures
nipping nixed noblesse oblige opera 
quickening quotidian rapid ruination sans supreme
teetering upended venerated wise with acumen
arithmetical Benoit Mandelbrot
chasing far-fetched ideas 
lightyears menacing nihilism purging ogres opportunistically  
resplendently ripping revered tankard tipping unstoppably
vanquishing varietal whipsawing wonderfully
wrapt yawning  youngsters
warfare written wrought
yanking zestfully crushing environmental family
granting Herculean instant karma
malevolent, opprobrious pronouncement
quiet riot silencing severely tragic ubiquitous vicious wreckage
yikyaks apemen cleft Earth.

***************

Future foragers denounce capitalistic bamboozlers aggression
zealots wrought trashing quintessential naked kingdoms issue
flotsam coagulates zonal wastelands torquing quality NON
killing habitats Earth bleached yellowed voodoo ruins.
Arrian Luiten Jun 2018
You saw me see you across the room
Now my hands are sweaty, heart is shaking
And I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do

In my mind a thousand scenes play out
In every one I do the thing wrong
And for once I’m glad to see you swallowed by the crowd.

In that second that you’re gone the loss is overwhelming
A greater fear I’d never held but yours I’d hold until…

That second is eternity, can’t remember if my hearts still beating
Frozen in that lifetime since you’re gone


I ask around, was it just me?  Have I slipped into a perfect moment?
Or is my mind up to the same old tricks
And promising another night of torment

I can wait, though, pretend I was mistaken
I hadn’t really seen the face of an angel
I hadn’t thought about our life together, twenty years away

The children that we might have had, well, they all begin to fade.

But I can’t stop searching, nor will I ever
If I leave or look away and what if we were meant to be together

So I’ll sit here waiting til my heart begins to ache.

And there you are, I see you there
Chatting to that guy, I see
So our moment wasn’t good enough?
You don’t think I’m worthy of your love

Then I’ll leave, come on, mate, it’s time to go
We were dreaming thinking tonight would be good
What idiots we are, picking up in a bar
Who does that anymore?

Next pub it is then, this one is sour
**** heads aping on the dance floor
Feet sticking, the air is sweating
And all I talk about is her

I saw her across the room, you know
We had a real connection
It’s a shame, isn’t it, mate, in real life
It’s impossible to find affection

I’m drunk, my friend, and that girl
Where is she now?
If she were here, that girl
Where you at mate?  
I’m going home

But... it would be a shame, wouldn't it.  
If we get along, to have to sweep it all away
As if it never really mattered

The one thing in this world i can't have, it's regret
And if all it is, a futile friendship,
Who are we to throw it away like yesterday’s used heartbeat

See, I rarely connect, the majority are dumb and most are *******
You took me by surprise and just so happened to be packaged in an attractive box.  
Doesn't mean we can't still go to the movies,
Doesn't mean we have to hurt anyone's feelings

And this is not a play, I promise you,
Didn’t we talk the night away, wasn’t it obvious
If, after that, you realize we aren't as cool as you thought we’d be
Then we can vanish this whole affair

Just, please

Never say no to nothing (unless it's going to get you nixed)
And even then, choose your danger instead of blowing out this fire

I saw you see me across the room
My mouth is dry and I can’t find the words
And I still have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do
Other than never say hello to you
Jamison Bell Jan 2023
I’ve been mired in an existential crisis for so long now, I don’t trust jelly.
It just doesn’t look right.
Bear with me here. (Barry the bubbly brown bear. See what I did there?)
What if, jelly disproves the life is a computer simulation theory?
Why would a sentient machine running a computer program to simulate life write jelly into the programming?
It wouldn’t, right?
So now that I’ve nixed that theory for y’all.
What else ya got?
Denis Barter Jul 2018
Whomsoever you might be?

If I wrote a letter to a stranger:
whose name I do not know,
will they answer with a pseudonym:
under a brash bon mot?
If I seal it in an envelope
and mail it off in haste,
will it ever be delivered,
or my writing prove a waste?
Now should that stranger answer,
with deception thought my game,
will their reply be in keeping?
or think it such a shame,
that the details of my letter -
the one they never got -
should be scrapped as junk mail,
because their name I had forgot?
Of course, they may not answer,
which to me would be unfair,
for having taken time to write one,
and mail it off to where
they once resided - perhaps still do?
If they deign not to answer?:
Does that seem right to you?
If I addressed it wrongly,
would it come back to me?
Or if I expedite it,
in a fit of urgency!
If it was not delivered,
what would the mailman think?
Would he ‘return to sender’,
or refer me to a Shrink?
But writing to a stranger,
and keeping them amused,
leaves me in a quandary,
and a little bit confused!
So perhaps I'll scrap my letter,
until a later day,
and write it when I get to know,
exactly where they stay?
But now another problem rises,
one that must be fixed:
with the details I now know,
their ambiguity is nixed!
So my letter to a stranger,
will have to wait I fear,
for news I want to impart,
is nothing they would hear.

So I’ll wait until I’m sure,
that why, who, where and whence,
the news I would impart,
will possess a modicum of sense?

Rhymer.  July 1st, 2018.
There were twenty women and fourteen men
From the wreck on that tiny spit,
Lost in that mighty ocean, just a
Mile was the most of it,
There were pigs galore from a previous crew
Who’d been wrecked some years before,
And plenty of veg, they fished from a ledge
Jutting out, and over the shore.

So in time the fourteen had paired them off
And it left, forlorn, the six,
There wasn’t a single partner left
For the girls to scratch their itch,
So they huddled up and began to plot
How to thin out the ranks of those
Who took up the men that were meant for them,
They started by shedding their clothes.

There were naked ******* that they thought would test
The men in the rival camp,
Would lure them off in the undergrowth
To lie where the earth was damp,
And it worked for some, though the men returned
To the partners they chose before,
‘The only way that they’re going to stay,’
Said the six, ‘is to go to war.’

Charmaine was found in a grove of trees
With her face, all covered in blood,
And Derek didn’t seem too displeased
He latched onto Maxine Flood,
But the thirteen said, her blood was red,
And they looked askance at the five,
‘We need to arm, and raise the alarm
If we’re going to stay alive.’

But a dozen died in the camp that night,
The soup had given them cramps,
Eleven woman had taken flight
And the one old man, called Gramps,
That left a surplus of thirteen men
And the women numbered seven,
‘There’s not enough to go round,’ they said,
But the women were in heaven.

The six bereft of the men were left
To mumble and scheme and plot,
‘We need to **** at least six of them,
Whether we want, or not!’
So late at night in the pale moonlight
There were shadows abroad in the trees,
And before the dawn, the six had gone,
Beaten down to their knees.

There were six and six, you would think it fixed,
In a year they’d be in hell,
For two of the girls lay down, were nixed
Gave birth, in a winter spell,
The men denied said they had their pride
And attacked their mates of yore.
But somehow managed to **** all three,
So now there were three and four.

‘We’ll keep the fourth in reserve,’ they said,
‘In case of a sudden death,’
But Maxine Flood was in no such mood
Though she sat, and she held her breath,
They made her fish and they made her cook
While she worked upon her wish,
And when just one of the men was gone
She fed them puffer fish.

‘Now there’s only you, and there’s only me,’
She called, when he wandered back,
Staggering into the camp, he said,
‘I’ve been in a shark attack!’
His arm was missing, he bled right out,
And died in front of her eyes,
While Maxine Flood had rolled in his blood
And cried to the empty skies.

David Lewis Paget
Creep Nov 2017
I am in a circle of agony.

As I venture out, I am forever drawn into the center,
centrifugal forces area lie--
I can never seem to flee, but I am rather so attracted
to that pinpoint of melancholy
that seems to resonate with me
too much to be healthy,
too much to make sense.

As I look back at our mess,
the storm we created,
the whirlwind of excitement
and pain and hurt and toxicity
(but the love was there)
all I see now are a mumble of black and red,
the words mixed and blurred,
the meaning nixed.

It is in this chaos,
I feel safe.
oops im v v much in my bag

chasing cars
snow patrol
Evan Stephens May 2019
I don't always know when
I'm being loved - early years come back
to bite. You make this easier -
second guesses die on the vine.

All that's left for me to
wonder is what to tell
you when I'm feeling this tinge
of melancholy.
Do I report from "the Century"
to tell you about the two bottles
of Dark Horse I've put down,
celebrating the wild Derby
where the winner was nixed?

Or do I broadcast the sea curl
& salted air that pass your
name dune to dune in the
wild grass, as night eats
my cigarette and flicks sand
into my hair?  

Neither -
instead I blush toward
the evergreen stoplights as we talk -  
smile the little shells
that break the walk.

I sigh, go inside,
have a little Turkish lesson -"su ve süt"
& maybe that is enough.
Within Pantheon Of Classical Gods

stricken with affliction,
sans amyotrophic lateral sclerosis
(also known as ALS, 
or Lou Gehrig's disease)

in the prime of his youth wrought
underestimation, vitiated termination,
targeted sequestration,
solidified rigidification,

rendered quandary,
per paralyzation obliterated,
nixed navigation,
morphed motivation,

marked limitation
kickstarted infatuation,
jinxed immobilization,
induced intellectual hyperfunction,

garnered fundamental fascination,
fanned fabled exploration,
devastation demonstrated
delectable declaration,

cosmological constant comet
clinched, chained certain capitulation,
brainstormed benefaction,
benediction attribution assured.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
his longevity (marked by bing permanently
     linkedin, hitched, drafted
     to a custom made wheelchair,
his brilliant unsullied scientific genius)

     endured seventy six orbitz veer
ring round the nearest star,
     though seemingly motionless, he freed their
ret tickle physiochemical insight

     encompassing, revolutionizing,
     and jaw-dropping, revelations
     with mortals he did share
transcendent seeded plentifully

     mental limitless groundswell
     fed his fecund rare
if eyed cogitated, formulated, insulated
     (infinitesimal nook and cranny) force queer

lee disproportionate overly endowed capacity
     bracketed with mar ching madness peer
ring with laser, razor, and taser sharp mind
     (or a minuscule approximate near

facsimile thereof) scrutinizing, positing,
     and discerning astronomical phenomena mere
via concentrating gifted limned, and rapacious,
     though processes affixed
     with a visage mordantly like King Lear.
SaddestTurtle Jul 2018
I am broken, and I do not know why,
I want to fix me, but I cannot try.
What’s busted inside will not be fixed.

Its pervasive and deep, like an old ****,
Though I pull and pull it will not heed.
Sometimes emptiness cannot be nixed.

My garden has grown dull and dreary,
My hands and muscles long since weary.
Though still I till my barren field.

My skin darkened by the baleful sun,
Though only small victories are won.
Said work ensures my fate is sealed.

From this labor my soul is chiral,
As I toil onwards to the downward spiral.
Roman Pavel Jun 2023
Your phantom touch wakes me from impatient dreams,
As darkness fills our hollow room,
And although empty my life seems
Your silhouette is vibrant within this gloom

My eyes stay fixed, till the break of light
My heart is nixed, my soul takes flight
As our apparitions float through the thick night air
We may dance again, and you can hold me with care

We may gaze into each others depths, beyond peering piercing eyes.
My eagerness of your Soft silk touch
Is merely an illusion in disguise
But still I rise, yet still I rise
In remembrance, of all that you comprise.
#love #loss #lost #phantom #ghost #dark #deep #depth #dreams #dance
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
{editer note: ******* title nixed as non sensicle, but his contract gave him title rights if the inner net ever was re-al-ized, so his title was:
De-fine ite religion to its ment tent,
intended to set a course on defining religion,
then faith and seeing what would happen next,
because we went some ways with that idea we
we, integrit I ated we

we know how important your valuing peace is to the value of peace.
Butterfly hurricanes in the Bermuda triangle,

that's just gas,
like when a newborn smiles at the twinkle in his grandma's eye.
But let your peace come into a place,
see if, still see if still be still again slower still your will be done on earth
how? right? who can do what God would do if he were you?}

In my mind, my perfectly calmable mind

I am culpable for drawing your attention,
claims the flame to the moth who

exclaims, idea, I die for do I care

que? sera sera
Madre mia sang that song right along

made her matter, like she was dancing for me,

baby,
who twisted that little head
who told you that little lie

why, why, why, baby, why

give me a reason for the faith that is in you or
we all die
anyway

the idea is first, always, right? The thought before there's a word or any

no, no. nothing is impossible, so something must be.
My thanks, a shout out to A. Conan Doyle, a sir or something I believe,

He gave us both the 5% solution and the Piltdown Hoax.
Timed for real ation, or revelation 20 years after 20 landmarks

surfaced. Holmes winked at Jesus, I know what you mean.
Something is possible. Nothing is not.

Yes. Good News. Quite.
Testing the weight of the line in terms of peace of mind other might find if the polarize properly on the Pleiades on mid winter's silent night.
Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces
(INF) Treaty nixed, asper (gasp) infinite
wisdom (quite unsettling) trumpeting  
commander in chief de facto gave green

light, thus signals fasttrack, sans arms
race activating Armageddon churning
noble nuclear warheads **** the (not
so petty) torpedoes full steam ahead,

ramping up military industrial (intelligence
- ha) complex edifice global security
compromised detente tipping point
needle weighs heavily - scale lean

triangulation ratchets dramatic
apocalyptic fear each man knucled
(woman child) arms themselves to
the teeth bombs away doth not leave

mushroom to wiggle free of doom,
the human race on track to extinction
since the commander in chief did
rescind checks and balances on rogue

nations, now issuing free (grab bag)
for all warmongering states to stock
on fire sale of various and sundry
weapons of mass destruction ushering

exponential possibility slight sabre
rattling altercations will kickstart
World War III, but no victors will
emerge cuz every square inch of planet

Earth will be snapping, crackling
and popping with radiation fostering
disintegration, incineration, obliteration...,
among civilization with minuscule probability

no child will be left behind, (nor anybody
else for that matter), yet one need
not be a brain scientist, nor rocket
surgeon to predict the end of the world

as we know it (REM) minding any weekly
reader of TIME magazine, or other
reputable news source (such as Howard
Stern), any moment could deliver every
thing each of us cherish to go to hell in

a handbasket of deplorables) predicated
on the isolationist (nationalistic) posture
our dear leader steers this ship (unwieldy
leviathan) of state into totally tubular
unswerving pulverization!
Jumpstarting outstanding undertaking...
bringing jouncy, spectacularly crafted,
nuanced, zesty, noteworthy, creatively
spirited enlightened written poem.

This raggedy man doth inconsolably weeps
kept rudely awake whilst disobedient sheep
incur wrath of Little Bo Peep, she lambastes
protesting courtesy rambunctiousness being
future mutton chops with "haggis and neeps"
though hungry enough to eat a horse, yours
truly - me cannot afford mouth watering heep
meager stacked coins no higher than antheaps.

Yes, I still rant and rave at crooks who won
built and trussed up trust minting yours truly
for all his worth inescapably zapped all cents
of mine labeled as easy prey, branded til time
of his done on Earth immemorial prodigal son
absolute zero (the big goose egg) zilch wifely
survivor benefits nixed in other words... none
meaning, she will no longer address me as hon
mortality gussied up as grim reaper will anon
be taking aging beetle browed foo fighter to
(elysium) elysian fields after tomb morrow.

Red hot poker faced beggars me to seek wage
perhaps being ventriloquist's dummy & bring
about Renaissance of the once renown
Vaudeville (comedy without psychological or
moral intentions, based on a comical situation:
a dramatic composition or light poetry,
interspersed with songs or ballets) stage
door opening revitalization second decade
of twenty first century veritable newage
social media platforms displaying homepage
only more egalitarian than storied Gilded age.

Major blunder blinded insight compromised,
jeopardized, sabotaged novel storied wealth
scam artist affected my sought after demise
courtesy weapons of mass destruction stealth
bombarded, fooled, lobbed..., psychological
manipulation upended marred mental health
hacking away byte size raw bits of gray matter.

Discover re: visa vis yielded me mastercharge
amplified ohm my dog, what in tarnation did I
unwittingly bring about pennilessness wrought
truth out there and trust no one equals lessons
(courtesy Mulder Fox Special Agent and one
of the two protagonists of Fox science fiction-
supernatural television series X-Files) taught
(think unlucky duck) professional quackshot
commandeering, guiding, lying, ravaging...
(albeit convincingly) me to withdraw money,
what amounted jackpot stripping away leaving
yours truly bereft of financial buffer - naught
one red cent barely able to afford one kilowatt
only natural light utilized to power just barley
my gofundme page titled implacable ill fate
battered treasured wealth.
Foremost gratitude heavenly indebted,
jumbling kindling, linkedin mourning
numbness overlaid, pervaded, quashed,
routed thoroughly undermined vibrant
warbling, when xing yesterday's youth

zigzagging, accompanying blitzkrieg
cleaving deafeningly exploding,
formative grim homelife, indelibly
jabbing kid, (little me) nonstop,
overwhelming progeny, quintessentially

robbing, stunting, tormenting
unrelentingly vitality wrenching,
why xyst, zapping assiduousness,
begetting, crushing, destroying essential
fortitude, generating grievousness,

hellacious intractable joylessness,
kneading loneliness, murdering nascent
opportunistic potential, quiet, reserved,
timid, untested voiceless x years,
zilch accomplishments, boyhood

cheated, dieted, extremely famished,
gifted hirsute heir, ill, jettisoned
kippered lunkhead mealy mouthed,
nerdy, outlier psychologically quartered,
repressed self, tamped universal vitality,

withheld Xmas yearnings, zapped
animalistic basic cravings, denied
endeavoring fulfillment, gouged hole
inside, jawboned, kept lid mentally,
nixed opportunities, pronouncedly

quarantined, rabidly snatched tasting
ultimate vibrant x2c, yanked zipline,
aborting bequeathed capacity depriving
eats, forever ghosting hated individual,
jackknifing, kickstarting livingsocial

mortgaged, never ordained physical
quests, ruined self, thoughtfulness
vanquished, worthiness Xrayed,
yabadabadoo zone agitated
beyond crafting development,

executed firstrate glorious human,
impounded jailed kindred love
manifested nebbish, obliged pleasing
quirky ridiculous travesty, unleashed

vapid wretchedness, xyz, attempted
bizarre concoction, decoding
essentially fruitless, go head issue
joker kick.
two alternate titles:
1. Gander seeking goose that laid the golden egg
2. Incorrigible lottery dreamer
linkedin with previous poem I wrote
though modesty deters
crafty, lofty, nifty, thrifty... wordsmith
and Perkiomen Valley poet
i.e. yours truly quietly to gloat.

If lady luck smiles on me denote
big plans to relocate self and spouse
to some tropical island paradise
by the dashboard light
(the above line credited
to musician named Meatloaf)
upon arrival of my steamer
rather Ferry large boat.

A fool's errand finds me
emptying out billfold,
especially as the winnings
increase ...fivefold, sixfold,
sevenfold, eightfold, ninefold, tenfold...
ample resources to remould
living nonestablishmentarian existence
surrounded courtesy webbed, wide wold.

Paradise visage and eyes
a bulge with dollar signs
whets imagination with
Mega Millions ticket bought
for potential wealth
overtakes rational self
with delusions of grandeur caught
allow, enable and provide flirtation
with fate to experience rich draught
envision emancipation proclamation
from penury a distant battle fought

expect the usual outcome
after next drawing
to yield monetary naught
temptation for instant
mega millions eagerly sought
human foible to reach
until life lesson taut
for elusive *** of riches
streak of universal desire
and tacked clear of shoals,
where hard scrapple existence wrought.

This poor man's pipe dream
nsync with the milkmaid and her pail
where fanciful notions pluck me out
being day late and dollar short
essentially pennilessness in the extreme
story of mein kampf fortune teller
also known as Zoltar speaks machine
said contraption did foredeem
substantiated, kickstarted, corroborated...
courtesy an archenemy Joaquim
(fiend nixed) and his tall sidekick Kareem
both rogues could shine
figuratively impregnable longerbeam
and discern mine ill fate.

Meanwhile creative endeavors
and linguistic pleasure
thru the literary attempt
suitably with poetic third eye blind
palliative, yet less rewarding versus
garnering large sum of money
would be a dog send
allowing, enabling, and providing
arrogant stance where proletariats deigned
delivered by one blessed angel in disguise
redemption and salvation
considered thankful find
with challenges or commiserate

courtesy  poverty that doth grind
and complement via words of positive kind
feeble attempt where words synchronize
readers may espy hidden puns
(and divine inspiration - ha)
within this rhyme lined
to pry poem or prose from mind
deliberate semblance to communicate
and extract idea from cranial rind
analogous how stitcher doth tightly wind
a tapestry of rich and royal hue
while twittering and tweeting
“better luck next time.”

— The End —