The HyperTexts

The Best Haiku Ever: the Best Haiku of All Time
with Translations of the Oriental Masters

compiled and edited by Michael R. Burch

come, my sacred tortoiseshell lyre,
speak; let my music
give you voice
― Sappho

As I worked on our pages about the best poems of all time, including the best lyric poems, the haiku below appeared to me out of the blue, and without any prior intention or forethought I ended up not only creating this page, but also translating a number of haiku myself in the process. Did some ancient master provide the gift as a way of encouraging me to pay oriental lyric poetry its due? In any case, here's "my" poem:

Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder ...
the water breaks
― Michael R. Burch

Here's my translation of one of my favorite haiku, by the Japanese master Basho:

The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

It's interesting to notice the similarities between three very different poems by three very different poets. Sappho was an ancient Greek female poet from the island of Lesbos; her homoeroticism lends denotations and connotations to our words "Lesbian" and "Sapphic." Matsuo Basho was an ancient Japanese master of brief, startlingly clear haiku, who influenced (and continues to influence) Western poets. I'm a little-known American poet with an affinity for all sorts of poetry, who's glad we live in a world where so much good and great poetry is freely accessible. The three poems share a number of important characteristics: brevity, conciseness, clarity, and the use of imagery to convey emotion. In each poem the poet uses an image to convey more information than the literal words. Sappho invokes the lyre, the stringed instrument that gave us our term "lyric poetry." When she calls the lyre "sacred," she invokes the Muses (gods the ancient Greeks invented to explain the source of poetry; they considered poetry to spring from a divine, otherworldly source). The voice Sappho speaks of might be her voice, the voice of poetry itself, the voice of the gods, and/or the voice (music) of the lyre accompanying hers. So her poem is a deceptively, evocative masterpiece. Basho's poem is also a deceptively simple masterpiece, as it invokes the symbiotic nature of life. The butterfly benefits from the perfumes and nectars of flowers; in the process of imbibing their nectar it helps pollinate them. Basho's poem is an example of art mirroring nature; it's hard to say which is more lovely: the butterfly and the orchid, or the exquisitely wrought poem. My poem compares a thunderstorm's clouds beginning to rain, to a pregnant woman's water breaking. I think it's an effective image, although I don't expect the reader to think me worthy of the great masters. Hopefully, I can pay them the homage they're justly due. But in any case, here are more of my favorite haiku ...

Pausing between clouds
the moon rests
in the eyes of its beholders
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above also illustrates the simplicity and power of haiku in the hands of a master. My translation has a slightly different "take" on the poem, and I can't say that my translation is absolutely correct, but I like it. This poem hints of the connection between the stages of the moon and human life, which is a series of passages and rests. Usually we sleep as the moon floats above. If we see the moon at night, slipping between clouds, it can seem eerily lovely, haunting and restful at the same time. When a master like Basho deftly invokes the image of the moon, he can appeal to all the things we know (or think we know) and feel about the moon.

Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is another haiku I especially love, because the poet draws the reader into feeling empathy for, and sympathizing with, dying flowers. When I interpret the poem, I see petals falling beside rapidly rushing water and the poet suggesting that a quick death is better than a slow, lingering death. One might say that the poem is a suggestion that suicide or euthanasia may be preferable to a long, drawn-out death, although of course there are other interpretations as well. A good poem may have as many different interpretations as there are readers.

Eros shakes my soul:
a wind on desolate mountains
leveling oaks.
― Sappho, fragment 42, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The family resemblance between the brief, concise, evocative lyrics of Sappho and the brief, concise, evocative lyrics of the Oriental masters is startling, in a wonderful way.

when you opened
my letter
were you surprised
my heart
fell out?

next door
the lovemaking
subsides
stars fall
from other worlds

an old photo
of my parents
young and happy—
of all the things I own
that is the saddest

The three poems above are by Michael Windsor McClintock, a contemporary American poet.  In the late 1960s, he was the Assistant Editor of Haiku Highlights. During the 1970s, he was the Assistant Editor of Modern Haiku and also edited the American Haiku Poets Series and Seer Ox: American Senryu Magazine. I think his poems demonstrate how much emotion a simple, clear image can convey: a letter being opened, a star falling, a photo of loved ones touching our hearts. I think the ancient masters would be proud of such poems.

One apple, alone
In the abandoned orchard
reddens for winter
― Patrick Blanche, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is by a French poet; it illustrates how the poetry of Oriental masters like Basho has influenced poets around the world.

Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is a wonderful example of a metaphor than conveys both meaning and emotion. Dying autumn grasses are compared to a braking locomotive grinding to a halt. Two simple images speak worlds, in the hands of a skilled poet.

Our life here on earth:
to what shall we compare it?
It is not like a rowboat
departing at daybreak,
leaving no trace of us in its wake?
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is a tanka, another oriental poetic form. It speaks of the human condition: how many people die every day leaving no "wake"? For every Shakespeare there are a billion seeming non-entities, at least in terms of the world's direct remembrance. The best poets are truth-tellers. Unlike the witchdoctors and priests of religion, they give readers the unadulterated truth, as they perceive it.

Graven images of long-departed gods,
dry spiritless leaves:
companions of the temple porch
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I like Basho's poem above, because it questions the authenticity and authority of religion. The witchdoctors, priests and evangelists of nearly every religion pretend to be able to speak for the gods, but their gods are singularly unjust and ineffective. The gods of the witchdoctors, priests and evangelists never spare them from suffering and death: to the truth-telling poets, that seems to imply something obvious.

See: whose surviving sons
visit the ancestral graves
white-bearded, with trembling canes?
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Again, Basho speaks honestly, with a daunting but compelling truthfulness. The ancient Greek poets also spoke of death forthrightly. Here's an ancient Greek epitaph (a gravestone inscription) that rivals Basho:

Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gull
in his high, lonely circuits, may tell.
― Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus

Here's another Greek epitaph (a form of epigram) that matches the best haiku in simplicity, honesty, clarity and forthrightness:

Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
― Michael R. Burch, after Plato

The two poems below are by Hisajo Sugita, a female poet:

I remove my beautiful kimono:
its varied braids
surround and entwine my body
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This day of chrysanthemums
I shake and comb my wet hair,
as their petals shed rain
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here are a number of poems by Matsuo Basho:

Deep autumn:
my neighbor,
how does he live, I wonder ...
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Come, investigate loneliness!
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first chill rain:
poor monkey, you too could use
a woven cape of straw
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Fever-felled mid-path
my dreams resurrect, to trek
into a hollow land
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Like a heavy fragrance
snow-flakes settle:
lilies on the rocks
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
solemn evangelist
of loneliness
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkening,
the voices of the wild ducks:
my mysterious companions!
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Will we meet again?
Here at your flowering grave:
two white butterflies
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

These brown summer grasses?
The only remains
of "invincible" warriors ...
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An empty road
lonelier than abandonment:
this autumn evening
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring has come:
the nameless hill
lies shrouded in mist
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here are more poems by various poets:

Right at my feet!
When did you arrive here,
snail?
― Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, brilliant moon
is it true that even you
must fly as if you're tardy?
― Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated ...
― Buson Yosa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

We cannot see the moon
and yet the waves still rise
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first morning of autumn:
the mirror I investigate
reflects my father’s face
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Wild geese pass
leaving the emptiness of heaven
revealed
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Silently observing
the bottomless mountain lake:
water lilies
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Cranes
flapping ceaselessly
test the sky's upper limits
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Falling snowflakes'
glitter
tinsels the sea
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Blizzards here on earth,
blizzards of stars
in the sky
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Completely encircled
in emerald:
the glittering swamp!
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The new calendar!:
as if tomorrow
is assured ...
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
― Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because morning glories
hold my well-bucket hostage
I go begging for water
― Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring
stirs the clouds
in the sky's teabowl
― Kikusha-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight I saw
how the peony crumples
in the fire's embers
― Katoh Shuhson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

It fills me with anger,
this moon; it fills me
and makes me whole
― Takeshita Shizunojo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

War
stood at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
― Watanabe Hakusen, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because he is slow to wrath,
I tackle him, then wring his neck
in the long grass
― Shimazu Ryoh, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Pale mountain sky:
cherry petals play
as they tumble earthward
― Kusama Tokihiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The frozen moon,
the frozen lake:
two oval mirrors reflecting each other.
― Hashimoto Takako, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The bitter winter wind
ends here
with the frozen sea
― Ikenishi Gonsui, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, bitter winter wind,
why bellow so
when there's no leaves to fell?
― Natsume Sôseki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter waves
roil
their own shadows
― Tominaga Fûsei, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

No sky,
no land:
just snow eternally falling ...
― Kajiwara Hashin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Along with spring leaves
my child's teeth
take root, blossom
― Nakamura Kusatao, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Stillness:
a single chestnut leaf glides
on brilliant water
― Ryuin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As thunder recedes
a lone tree stands illuminated in sunlight:
applauded by cicadas
― Masaoka Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The snake slipped away
but his eyes, having held mine,
still stare in the grass
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Girls gather sprouts of rice:
reflections of the water flicker
on the backs of their hats
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Murmurs follow the hay cart
this blossoming summer day
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The wet nurse
paused to consider a bucket of sea urchins
then walked away
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

May I be with my mother
wearing her summer kimono
by the morning window
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The hands of a woman exist
to remove the insides of the spring cuttlefish
― Sekitei Hara, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The moon
hovering above the snow-capped mountains
rained down hailstones
― Sekitei Hara, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly:
a puff of white snow
cresting mountains
― Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring snow
cascades over fences
in white waves
― Suju Takano, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here are a few more of my original haikus:

Dry leaf flung awry:
bright butterfly,
goodbye!
― Michael R. Burch

A snake in the grass
lies, hissing
Trespass!
― Michael R. Burch

Honeysuckle
blesses the knuckle
with affectionate dew
― Michael R. Burch

My mother’s eyes
acknowledging my imperfection:
dejection
― Michael R. Burch

The whore with the pallid lips
lipsticks
into something more comfortable
― Michael R. Burch

I am a traveler
going nowhere—
but my how the gawking bystanders stare!
― Michael R. Burch

Even the moon in decline
like my lover’s heart
lies far beyond mine
― Michael R. Burch

Night,
the ice and the darkness
conspire against human warmth
― Michael R. Burch

Night
and the stars
conspire against me
― Michael R. Burch

Late autumn; now all
the golden leaves turn black underfoot:
soot
― Michael R. Burch

And here's a poem of mine that's composed of haiku-like stanzas:

Lift up your head
dandelion,
hear spring roar!

How will you tidy your hair
this near
summer?

Leave to each still night
your lightest affliction,
dandruff.

Soon you will free yourself:
one shake
of your white mane.

Now there are worlds
into which you appear
and disappear

seemingly at will
but invariably blown—
wildly, then still.

Gasp at the bright chill
glower
of winter.

Icicles splinter;
sleep still an hour,
till, resurrected in power,

you lift up your head,
dandelion.
Hear spring roar!
― Michael R. Burch

The HyperTexts