Yosa Buson

the winter woods.Translated by Robert Hass

far off, wild ducks.Translated by Robert Hass

how hot it is!Translated by Robert Hass

with smug self confidencea haikai poet.Longer has become the daytime;a pheasant is flutteringdown onto the bridge.Yearning for the BygonesLengthening days,accumulating, and recallingthe days of distant past.Slowly passing days,with an echo heard here in acorner of Kyoto.The white elbowof a priest, dozing,in the dusk of spring.Into a nobleman,a fox has changed himselfearly evening of spring.The light…

but the mountain cuckoo?Translated by Robert Hass

dark sound.Translated by Robert Hass

swimming in the shallows.Translated by Robert Hass

rocks here and there.Translated by Robert Hass

Why is it so far away?Thinking of you, I go up on the hill and wander.Around the hill, why is it such a sadness?Dandelions yellow and shepherds-purse blooming white —not anyone to look at them.I hear a pheasant, calling and calling fervently.Once a friend was there across the river, living.Ghostly smoke rises and fades away…

as it leaves the bell.Translated by Robert Hass