H  A  I  K  U     S  P  I  R  I  T


to the great Buddha

I turn my back
cool moon

looking down
under the cool moon
four thousand houses

no one's the armchair
under the trees
pine needles falling

temple's evening bell
and the sound of its ripe persimmons

again and again
I enquire
how much snow has fallen

open the soji
so that I can look at
Ueno's snow

with the support of my stick
I stroll in the garden

I go out in the garden
throw seeds
on the mend

three thousand haiku
to examine
two persommons

butterfly asleep on a stone ~
are you pondering over
my pitiful life?

when this snail
raises its head
it looks like me

cherry trees in full bloom
remind me of so many things

I'd like to sleep
please slap the flies

the ripe persimmon
I'm biting into
drips on my beard

a persimmon eater
who loved haiku
that's the way I should be remembered

a large boat
towing a small boat
in the fog

of this prestigious place
a man's ploughing the field

raising the billhook
about to cut
there are buds on this tree

spring day
no one
in the small village

pots of flower
in a row
at the hairdresser's

this big paper kite
not one bird
gets near it

a small craft
goes round a ship
spring day

going along the river
not  one bridge to cross it
long day

I invite a butterfly
to be my fellow

under my straw sandals
the scent
of field grass

four or five willow trees
a small house

unde a willow tree
waiting for the ferryboat
two or three cows

a face appears
at a building window
spring rain

the evening shower
the heads of the carps

after killing the fly
peaceful moment
in the bedroom

bloody flies!
when I want to kill them
they stay away

in the fisherman's hut
the smell of dried fish
so hot today

for two small coins
I have the temple verandah
how cool!

summer storm
the white sheets on my desk
all fly away

after the fireworks
a shooting star

his hands full of clams
radiant with joy
he calls his pal

lotus in bloom
a small station

in the village small shop
selling cheap biscuits

one after another
people sit down
on this summer rock

it is a bit colder
no insect
gets near my lamp

beyond the corn field
the low wall
of a temple

my voice
becomes the wind
mushroom picking

the oak tree
autumn sky

end of the year cleanup
gods and buddhas
in the grass

Translation: Gilles Fabre

Homepage Introduction to Haiku Haiku Contact