Eric Hoffman


Translations of Haiku by Ozaki Hōsai


大空
from Taikū
(The Big Sky)
________________________________________

Further haiku from 1924-25 (Suma Temple, Hyōgo)

山かげ残雪の家鶏もゐる


Mountain home, 
melting snow, 
and chickens



濠端犬つれて行く雪空となる


Walking the dog along the moat, 
the sky fills with snow



雪が消えこむ川波音もなく暮れる


Snow falls into the dark river 
and in silence disappears



雪の戸ひそひそ叩いて這入つてしまつた
 

He knocks loudly at the snow-covered door,
then enters



こんな大きな石塔の下で死んでゐる


A body lies beneath the heavy stone stele



雪空火を焚きあげる雪散らす


Snowflakes fall, 
scattered by flame



あけた事がない扉の前で冬陽にあたつてゐる


Winter light on an unopened door



水車まはつて居る山路にかかる


Mountain path found—
the water wheel turns



湖の家並ぶ寒の小魚とるいとなみ


Houses line the winter shore 
where I catch small fish



うす化粧して凍てた道をいそぐ


I walk quickly 
along a snow-covered road



きたない下駄ぬいで法話の灯に遠く坐る


Muddy shoes removed, 
I take my place far from the Buddha



雪解の山浅く枯枝あつめる
  

Mountain snow melts— 
I gather some fallen branches



冬川にごみを流してもどる


Refuse thrown into a winter river—
I return home



臼ひく女が自分にうたをきかせて居る


The woman churns a handmill—
sings to herself softly



今逢うて来た顔で炭火をおこす


The look of recognition 
still apparent on her face—
she lights the charcoal



夜明けの大浪の晴れがまへである


Daybreak, powerful waves, 
a clear blue sky—
all are here before me



藤棚枯れて居る下の椅子によつて話す


They sit together closely 
and speak in whispers—
wisteria dwindles



曇り日の儘に暮れ雀等も暮れる    


A cloudy day 
begins and ends in darkness—
sparrows also darken



堅い大地となり這う蟲もなし


Ground hardened by frost—
the worms have stopped crawling



ゆるい鼻緒の下駄で雪道あるきつづける
 

I walk a frozen road, 
my clog straps loosened



霜がびつしり下りて居る朝犬を叱る


Frosty morning—
I scold a dog



ひげがのびた顔を火鉢の上にのつける


Beard lengthens—
I stoke my brazier



高波曳網のつな張り切る    


Steep waves—
towline tightens



ぽつかり鉢植の枯木がぬけた


Dead potted tree 
removed 
leaves a deep hollow



宵祭の提灯ともしてだあれも居らぬ


Night before the festival—
lanterns lit, 
streets empty



ハンケチがまだ落ちて居る戻り道であつた


On my return—
the handkerchief still lies 
where it fell



にくい顔思ひ出し石ころをける 


Old enemy’s face—
I kick a stray pebble



底がぬけた柄杓で水を呑まうとした


I try to spoon water 
with a rusted out ladle



雀がさわぐお堂で朝の粥腹をへらして居る


Nervous temple swallow—
its dish is empty



なんにもない机の引き出しをあけて見る


I open the desk drawer 
knowing it is empty



残雪の番（つが）ひのにはとりが居るばかり


Two chickens—
all that remains 
in the morning snow



寒に入る地蔵鼻かけ給ふ


Late January, 
stone jizō beneath the tree—
deep snow



松の葉をぬいて歯をせせる朝の道である


Morning road—
I pick my teeth 
with a pine needle



先生の家の古ぼけた門である


Master’s house—
familiar gate



雪空一羽の烏となりて暮れる
 

Snow at twilight 
transformed
into a dark bird



鶴泣く霜夜の障子ま白くて寝る


Pure white shōji 
and the call of winter cranes—
I am sound asleep



花が咲いた顔のお湯からあがつてくる


From a hot bath 
a face blossoms



人を待つ小さな座敷で海が見える


Guest room—
the vast sea seen 
from a small window



コスモスなんぼでも高うなる小さい家で


Cosmos above 
a small hut



夕飯たべてなほ陽をめぐまれてゐる


Supper is done, 
yet some daylight remains—
a gift



海のあけくれのなんにもない部屋


An empty room 
looks out upon the sea 



小さい時の自分が居った写真を突き出される


Surprised to find 
a photograph 
from my childhood



上天気の顔一つ置いてお堂


The weather today 
is of a single face



とまつた汽車の雨の窓なり


Raindrops cling to the steam train window



をん鶏気負ひしが風にわかれたり


The wind is too fierce 
to bring in the chickens



すでにすつ裸の柿の木に物干す


Like a child I hang 
from a bare persimmon tree



眼鼻くすぼらしてゐた風呂があつうなる


In the hot bath, 
I shut my eyes tight 
and squeeze my nose



師走の夜の釣鐘ならす身となりて


I became a body of the night—
shisatsu bell 



雪を漕いで来た姿で朝の町に入る


Morning—
I enter the snow-covered town



女と淋しい顔して温泉の村のお正月   


A lonely woman—
new year in the hot spring village



小鳥がふみ落す葉を池に浮べて秋も深い


Deep autumn—
small bird floats in pond



鉢の椿の蕾がかたくて白うなつて


The potted camellia buds 
are hard and white



紺の香きつく着て冬空の下働く


I work under a winter sky 
and wear a fragrant scent



椿にしざる陽の窓から白い顔出す


Glaring sun—
white face in window 



色鉛筆の青い色をひつそりけづつて居る


I hide in the blue 
of colored pencils



月の出の船は皆砂浜にある


Morning—
all the ships are in port

Ozaki Hōsai was the haigo (haikai pen name) of Ozaki Hideo (1885 - 1926), a Japanese poet of the late Meiji and Taishō periods of Japan and a practitioner of the modern free verse haiku movement.

Eric Hoffman is the author of several collections of poetry, most recently This Thin Mean: New Selected Poems (Spuyten Duyvil, 2020) and the editor of Conversations with John Berryman (University Press of Mississippi, 2021).

 
 

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