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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
 My arm for a pillow,
I really like myself
under the hazy moon.

by Yosa Buson
 Calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
 the moon seals it.

by Yosa Buson
 Blow of an ax,
pine scent,
the winter woods.

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.

Dawn  Create an image from this poem
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
 Lighting one candle
with another candle--
 spring evening.

by Yosa Buson
 Buying leeks
and walking home
 under the bare trees.

Dawn  Create an image from this poem
by Yosa Buson
 Dawn--
fish the cormorants haven't caught
swimming in the shallows.

by Yosa Buson
 Before the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate
 a moment.

by Yosa Buson
 Not quite dark yet
and the stars shining
above the withered fields.

by Yosa Buson
 Ploughing the land--
not even a bird singing
in the mountain's shadow.

by Yosa Buson
 The old man
cutting barley--
bent like a sickle.

by Yosa Buson
 White blossoms of the pear
and a woman in moonlight
 reading a letter.

by Yosa Buson
 The end of spring--
the poet is brooding
 about editors.

by Yosa Buson
 His Holiness the Abbot
is shitting
in the withered fields.

by Yosa Buson
 Blown from the west,
fallen leaves gather
 in the east.

by Yosa Buson
 Washing the hoe--
ripples on the water;
 far off, wild ducks.