Long Basho Poems
Long Basho Poems. Below are the most popular long Basho by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Basho poems by poem length and keyword.
Bamboo Night origins - Story behind the epic haiku poem “Bamboo Night”
It is a tribute poem to Matsuo Basho. In 1674, December 20th. The 354th. day of the year. It was a Thursday if I remember correctly; The epic haiku poem takes place in the solitude of the bamboo forest in Ueno Japan at precisely 2:35 am near where the Sumida and Ara Rivers meet in the dead of night and depths of Winter. A handful of twinkling stars fight their way through scattered gray clouds. A soft light breeze holds tiny snow flakes suspended, then lands them ever so gently on solid green bamboo shoots and related surfaces in absolute silence, in absolute cold, with no one around to witness the solemn event. There are no discernible sounds at all in the dark green forest.
A perfectly round moon stands up above totally remote, hovering, suspended in time, an inanimate gray white object almost bright, frozen on the distance, settles, shines down, just to the northwest of the regions coldest location. Some snow flakes land temporarily, shake in a frenzy on the soft wind, to hold on but are lifted again off the surface of the bamboo, drift away silently into oblivion. Certain flakes remain intact on the green, pretend to be green. By dawn they turn, in an ever so slower process, into a clear liquid, evaporate in the mist of morning. The conditions are verging on warmth but are still too cold to be called warm. The snow then begins to disappear forever, one tiny flake at a time. Some white remains but mostly green is seen at the dawn of day. Calm and silence can be soothing under the shimmering stars and tranquil frozen moon. Snow becomes a memory by high noon. By December 21st. evening, new snow comes forth from sleeping clouds, to repeat the cycle once more in Ueno forest.
Bamboo Night - Haiku
melting by star light
slow, tranquil, solemn moon cold
snow on bamboo white
Sarumino -BASHO MONKEYS RAINCOAT is unique in Renku ,the ancient collaborative form(36 stanza linked verse poems)with examples from Basho(and his disciples...)namely Winters First shower/Summer moon/Katydid/and Plum young herbs, considered to the most typical of Basho's mature style conveying his attitude to life & compiled during his 1689 'Back Roads' pilgrimage ,the translator/editor adds both a cultural commentary for each stanza therein and an index of informative notes thereto
A haikuist was Matsuo Basho
his masterwork,Kasen *you know
He practiced this long poetic sequence
a 36 stanza poem recited in length
*www.jstor.org/stable/2718744
The Roads of South Africa
To travel the land of one's land is to meet oneself,again and again,in dust and cockcrow.
I am convinced that mist and mountain leave at daybreak to date at Sani Pass.The bend between them is a prayer breathed to the wind.The world here twinkles in folds of cobalt blue and is aflame with warm copper tones . Goats stride like prophets.As the thin air harries your heart it sounds like a drum calling the spirits of your ancestors.
zephyr of mountain gods-
clouds bow at the road's shoulder
boots remember home
The Panorama Route is a complete storybook.God's Window,a laceration of light.The hawk whirling aloft knows no awe.It is awe itself.It has always belonged here.
gap of ancient song,
winds write anthems on ochre...-
echoes wear the sun
A ribbon of defiance is Chapman's Peak Drive.It cuts between the mountain and the sea.Listen closely and you will hear,''beauty is dangerous ''.The sea conducts a reckless choir. It crashes its body against cliffs.A road where valor restrains restlessness and danger seduces the incautious.
froth kisses granite
A gull dives through light and fear,
Waves hail the sky
Long Tom Road winds through mist and memory,canons from the conflicts of Autshumato and Jan van Riebeeck sleep beneath the pines.The virulent air smells pine and history and grilled asparagus tied around pine branches,served with pine oil and pine salt.Long Tom Road is an epistle half written,half read.
Snow on iron rails,
History hums its refrain-
wheels turn,hearts listen
Popping out from under time's ruffled sun
a regally vested, chit-chatty Robin.
Cheerily navigating the lemon lime grass.
Perhaps looking for a beetle or crumb.
He daintily hip-hopped into my ring
on legs of beige twigs and lute strings.
Gently tilting a Tiffany-kissed beak.
Offering a daisy chain of silvery peeps.
I thought him just another avian busker
hustling up a mate and something to eat.
I'd little to offer and vigorously apologized.
He just glanced toward his robin egg sky.
Then offered me, in pastels, a Basho haiku.
I volleyed back with crayon-streaked senryu.
Before gliding off to sweet memory land,
he gifted an orange gem from his regal vest.
I considered this day to be impeccably blessed
by Lord Robin of the lemon-lime grass.
A True Story
I see a green tree. It is all I want.
A dry rocky mountain and a hawk
satisfy. To die spiritually in
the hot sun and the body go on
climbing. To take the paths among
the rocks and mahogany bush.
To feed on rock lichen and blue
sky. To not need a house.
To leave my mind in the foothills.
To climb everything but blind. In
the deer shade of the cool aspens.
Forgotten by the work force and the shrew.
Bored as a badger disturbed at
its stream. Free singing as the stream
cutting the gorge. Cool as a hummingbird
in its wet spray. Caterpillar fur.
I stay in the mountains unknown.
The roof soot of the city calls me back.
The museum women shaking their bodies
at the stuffed tigers. The meditating
curators and entrepreneurs. Burro.
* * *
Old Basho, early Spring, took fond leave of his friends,
closed his small house at edge of village,
and with one peasant companion climbed the long narrow road to
the North.
Blessed morning!
the day I left life behind
but not this world of dew.
The E(n)dge
I leave damp mudprints
there where I met the shore.
The dragonflies' dances,
the goslings scrammed,
and I for now (or 'lo, for once)
exhaled. Edges do that.
A turtle somewhere spied me
not spying a frog; quick to leap.
And splash! My eyes follow my ears.
A biped clown, here at a threshold.
A stronghold of thrushes.
And red-winged blackbirds...
briefly visiting tufts and reeds.
When I go I think it likely
no memory of me will remain
no indication, no story, no song.
But where my callous kissed
the muck.
Invert puddlings, concentric whorls.
A fish somewhere, like I,
determined to visit an edge.
Marks with its 'foot'prints,
lips breaking the tension,
A visit to the start of Sky...
now gone.
We each leave our prints.
We leave each other's
memories,
in time.
Midnight Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
I.
A measureless rhythm rules the night—
few have heard it,
but I have shared it,
and its secret is mine.
To put it into words
is as to extract the sweetness from honey
and must be done as gently
as a butterfly cleans its wings.
But when it is captured, it is gone again;
its usefulness is only
that it lulls to sleep.
II.
So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night,
to the moans of the moonlit hills'
bass chorus of frogs, while the deep valleys fill
with the nightjar’s shrill, cryptic trills.
But I will not sleep this night, nor any …
how can I—when my dreams
are always of your perfect face
ringed by soft whorls of fretted lace,
framed by your tear-drenched pillowcase?
"Midnight Lullaby" has been set to music by the award-winning New Zealand composer David Hamilton.
Bashed by Basho
by Michael R. Burch
He came to me like an early birdie
and said, “My, my, you are REALLY wordy!”
Keywords/Tags: lullaby, lullabies, music, musical, song, child, children, childhood, baby, babies, midnight, night, rhythm, sleep
Winter
Snowflakes crowd the sky,
tumble in silence to Earth,
their journey ended.
***
Note:
The old “Sanjo-ohashi Bridge” spanned the Kamo River to Kyoto, the former imperial capital city of Japan during the Edo period, aka the Tokugawa period (1603–1868). Kyoto marked the end of the old walking trail (a 300-mile journey) that existed between it and Edo (Tokyo).
The Edo period was the last era of traditional Japan ruled under the shogunate (military dictatorship) and was a time of peace, political stability, economic prosperity, and cultural and artistic creativity and advancement. During this period, Japan maintained an isolation policy from the outside world. Christianity was banned, and Neo-Confucianism was the prevailing philosophy followed. During this period, the Japanese style of poetry known as the haiku flourished, with the Japanese poet Basho (1644–1694) credited for promoting its style.
Zen garden
Stillness speaks;
Sand cascades show
~~~~~~~~~
Silence sometimes
Shouts so loud;
Do not speak
~~~~~~~~~
By grass verge
Mimosa violet blooms;
Magic exuberance
~~~~~~~~~
Old house
Happy memories;
By that winding road
~~~~~~~~~
Angry Birds
So many colours;
Angst in sure poise
~~~~~~~~~
Haiku frog pond
No splash of water;
Basho absent
~~~~~~~~~
Dying comes easy
Just let go;
Purge even fear
~~~~~~~~~
Old temple here
Ancestral tablets;
Rows of silence
~~~~~~~~~
Time plays tricks
No needs to know;
Just surge forward
Leon Enriquez
31 August 2015
Singapore
~~~~~~~~~
Matsuo Basho: English translations of Haiku about winter, cold, rain, rains, frost, frosts, snow, snowflakes, wind, children, childhood, hail, hail stones, winter life.
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