Kobayashi Issa

Last time,
I think,
I'll brush the fliesfrom my father's face.
Translated by Robert Hass

The crowwalks along thereas if it were tilling the field.
Translated by Robert Hass

Not very anxiousto bloom,
my plum tree.
Translated by Robert Hass

Not knowingit's a tub they're inthe fish cooling at the gate.
Translated by Robert Hass

That pretty girl—munching and rustlingthe wrapped-up rice cake.

The man pulling radishespointed my waywith a radish.

New Year's Day—everything is in blossom!
I feel about average.

It once happenedthat a child was spared punishmentthrough earnest solicitation.

In the thicket's shadea woman by herselfsinging the rice-planting song.

These sea slugs -they just don't
Japanese.

Even on the smallest islands,
they are tilling the fields,
skylarks singing.

No doubt about it,
the mountain cuckoois a crybaby.
Translated by Robert Hass

The world of dew is, yes,a world of dew,
but even so

My dear old village,  every memory of home  pierces like a thorn

Face of the spring moon—about twelve years old,
I'd say.

Summer night—even the starsare whispering to each other.
Translated by Robert Hass

Visiting the graves,
the old dogleads the way.

That wren—looking here, looking there.
You lose something?

This moth saw brightnessin a woman's chamber—burnt to a crisp.

Pissing in the snowoutside my door—it makes a very straight hole.

The moon tonight—I even missher grumbling.

Under the image of Buddhaall these spring flowersseem a little tiresome.

In these latter-day,
Degenerate times,  Cherry-blossoms everywhere!

What a strange thing!
to be alivebeneath cherry blossoms.