Yosa Buson Short Poems
Famous Short Yosa Buson Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Yosa Buson. A collection of the all-time best Yosa Buson short poems
by
Yosa Buson
Harvest moon--
called at his house,
he was digging potatoes.
by
Yosa Buson
Old well,
a fish leaps--
dark sound.
by
Yosa Buson
Sparrow singing--
its tiny mouth
open.
by
Yosa Buson
Early summer rain--
houses facing the river,
two of them
by
Yosa Buson
Evening wind:
water laps
the heron's legs.
by
Yosa Buson
Calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
the moon seals it.
by
Yosa Buson
My arm for a pillow,
I really like myself
under the hazy moon.
by
Yosa Buson
Blow of an ax,
pine scent,
the winter woods.
by
Yosa Buson
Lighting one candle
with another candle--
spring evening.
by
Yosa Buson
The spring sea rising
and falling, rising
and falling all day.
by
Yosa Buson
A bat flits
in moonlight
above the plum blossoms.
by
Yosa Buson
Listening to the moon,
gazing at the croaking of frogs
in a field of ripe rice.
by
Yosa Buson
Coolness--
the sound of the bell
as it leaves the bell.
by
Yosa Buson
Buying leeks
and walking home
under the bare trees.
by
Yosa Buson
Dawn--
fish the cormorants haven't caught
swimming in the shallows.
by
Yosa Buson
STILL as the holy of holies breathes the vast,
Within its crystal depths the stars grow dim;
Fire on the altar of the hills at last
Burns on the shadowy rim.
Moment that holds all moments; white upon
The verge it trembles; then like mists of flowers
Break from the fairy fountain of the dawn
The hues of many hours.
Thrown downward from that high companionship
Of dreaming inmost heart with inmost heart,
Into the common daily ways I slip
My fire from theirs apart.
by
Yosa Buson
White blossoms of the pear
and a woman in moonlight
reading a letter.
by
Yosa Buson
Before the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate
a moment.
by
Yosa Buson
His Holiness the Abbot
is shitting
in the withered fields.
by
Yosa Buson
Straw sandal half sunk
in an old pond
in the sleety snow.
by
Yosa Buson
Not quite dark yet
and the stars shining
above the withered fields.
by
Yosa Buson
The old man
cutting barley--
bent like a sickle.
by
Yosa Buson
The end of spring--
the poet is brooding
about editors.
by
Yosa Buson
Ploughing the land--
not even a bird singing
in the mountain's shadow.
by
Yosa Buson
Blown from the west,
fallen leaves gather
in the east.