Selected haikus translated by Robert Hass

Climb Mount Fuji,
O snail,
but slowly, slowly.

Matsuo Basho

Even in Kyoto —
hearing the cuckoo’s cry —
I long for Kyoto.

Basho

Napped half the day;
no one
punished me!

Kobaayashi Issa

Mosquito at my ear–
does it think
I’m deaf?

Issa

New Year’s morning–
everything is in blossom!
I feel about average.

Issa

Even with insects–
some can sing,
some can’t.

Issa

For you fleas too
the nights must be long,
they must be lonely.

Issa

The snow is melting
and the village is flooded
with children.

Issa

Don’t kill that fly!
Look–it’s wringing its hands,
wringing its feet.

Issa

Don’t worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually.

Issa

Hell:
Bright autumn moon;
pond snails crying
in the saucepan.

Issa

Source:

http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/g_l/haas/haiku.htm

Telephone Conversation

                  Poet: Wole Soyinka

The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. “Madam,” I warned,
“I hate a wasted journey—I am African.”
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
“HOW DARK?” . . . I had not misheard . . . “ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?” Button B, Button A.* Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis–
“ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?” Revelation came.
“You mean–like plain or milk chocolate?”
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. “West African sepia”–and as afterthought,
“Down in my passport.” Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. “WHAT’S THAT?” conceding
“DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.” “Like brunette.”
“THAT’S DARK, ISN’T IT?” “Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused–
Foolishly, madam–by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black–One moment, madam!”–sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears–“Madam,” I pleaded, “wouldn’t you rather
See for yourself?”

 

Source:

21 Days/21 Poems: Telephone Conversation by Wole Soyinka

 

A Young Man Loves A Maiden (Germany)

Poet: Heinrich Heine

A young man loves a maiden

Whose heart for another sighed;

This other loves another

Who then becomes his bride.

The maiden takes the first man

Who happens to come her way

Just out of spite and anger;

The youth is left in dismay.

It is an old story

And yet it’s always new;

And to whomever it happens

‘Twill break his heart in two.

Source:

Bascara, Linda R. (2003). World

Prayer of the Hungry (Indonesia)

Poet: W. Rendra

HUNGER is a smooth black

crow.

Millions of crows

like a black cloud.

O God!

How terrifying crows are.

And hunger is a black crow.

Continually terrifying.

Hunger is rebellion.

Is the mysterious force

moving the murderer’s knife

in the hand of the poor.

Hunger is coral rocks

beneath the sleeping face of the sea.

Is tears of deceit.

Is the betrayal of honour.

a strong young man crying

To see his own hands

lay honour down

because of hunger.

Hunger is a devil

Hunger is a devil offering dictatorship.

 O God!

Hunger is black hands

putting handfuls of alum

into the stomach of the poor.

O God!

We kneel.

Our eyes are Your eyes.

This is Your mouth.

This is Your heart.

And this is Your stomach.

Your stomach hungers, O God.

Your stomach hews alum

 and broken glass.

O God!

How nice a plate of rice,

a bowl of soup and a cup of coffee would be.

O God!

Hunger is a crow.

millions of black crows

like a black cloud

blotting out my view

of Your heaven.

Source:

http://untouchchablepresence.blogspot.com/2014/12/prayer-of-hunger-by-w-rendra.html

Bascara, Linda R. (2003) World Literature (A Tertiary Textbook for Literature II Under The New Curriculum).

My Country (Russia)

Poet: Mikhail Lermontov

I love my land, but with a queer passion,
My mind isn't able to absorb it, yet!
Nor glory, purchased by the bloody actions,
Nor peace, in proud confidence inlaid,
Nor sacred sagas of the days of yore
Will stir my pleasant fancies any more.
But I do love - and I don't know why -
Her endless plains' indifference and silence,
Her endless forests' ever swaying wildness,
Her rivers' floods which, like the sea, are wide.
I love to gallop in a cart on roads,
And peering slowly through darkness of the nights,
And idly dreaming of the night abodes,
To meet the solemn hamlets' twinkling lights.
I love the smell of the burnt-out stubble,
The wagons, sleeping in the steppe,
And gleaming of the birches' marble,
Midst cornfields on the hillocks' steps.
And with a joy, that's little known,
I see a full and stout barn,
A cottage covered with straw,
And shutters that are fairly done.
And in the holly dewy evening,
I'm glad to watch until midnight,
The dances, filled with stamps and whistling,
To murmur of the peasants, tight.



Source:
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/lermontov/my_country.html

Annabel Lee

Poet: Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes! – that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Source:

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/annabel-lee/

A Man In His Life (Israeli)

Poet: Yehudah Amichai (1924-2000)

A man doesn’t have time in his life
to have time for everything.

He doesn’t have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose.
Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.

And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn’t have time.

When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.

Only his body remains forever
an amateur.
It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn’t learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there’s time for everything.

Source:

http://www.poemhunter.com/yehuda-amichai/

I Died Alive (Africa)

Poet: Harriet Anena

I died

But my heart still breathed

I was speechless

But a voice resounded within

I was sightless

But my inner eye watched the outside

I was immobile

But agile dreams took me miles away

I died

But I died alive

Source:

Click to access suubi.pdf

That Same Night (Africa)

Poet: Elone N. Ainebyoona

That same night,

He picked me along the way.

He charmed me with his bundles.

He assured me of pleasure each day.

 He took me around his castles.

He asked me to stay.

That same night,

I forgot about my pimples.

I only felt gay.

I could only feel my dimples.

I looked forward to his nightly play.

That same night,

His body moved like ripples.

His hands felt softer than clay.

His smooch gave me tickles.

His form warmer than an overlay.

That same night,

He began to sway.

He curved in like a sickle.

He shoved me away.

He chased me like trouble.

He denied me my pay,

He only gave me prickles.

That same night

I couldn’t believe the betray,

I left in hustles.

I rushed for the subway.

 I was all left a ramshackle,

 I only had to pray.

I dreaded that one night.

Source:

Click to access suubi.pdf

I am Mad with Love (India)

Poet: Mirabai

I am mad with love
And no one understands my plight.
Only the wounded
Understand the agonies of the wounded,
When the fire rages in the heart.
Only the jeweller knows the value of the jewel,
Not the one who lets it go.
In pain I wander from door to door,
But could not find a doctor.
Says Mira: Harken, my Master,
Mira’s pain will subside
When Shyam comes as the doctor.

Source:

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-am-mad-with-love/