Very simple deal: Bashō writes a haiku, and I respond with another or two. A mini compilation to celebrate this fall and/or to succumb to its dazzling darkness—both viable options. This is how Japanese poets used to build chains of poetry, this is how strange flowers used to blossom in the night. All Bashō translations are by Jane Reichhold.
Matsuo Bashō, 17th century
# 78
from a treetop
emptiness dropped down
in a cicada shell
Me, now
an empty husk at dawn
this fall’s first full moon
soundlessly falling
Bashō
the sexy servant boy
chants for flower viewing
hit tunes
Me
their names peel off
and fall with dull little sounds
will I be enough?
Bashō
# 144
snowy morning
all alone I chew
dried salmon
Me
I hear the sounds made
four centuries ago, by
a man’s loneliness
Bashō
# 159
a poor temple
frost on the iron kettle
has a cold voice
[More to come next month ... :) ]