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The moon is brighter since the barn burned.

Matsuo Basho

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Matsuo Basho
Age: 50 †
Born: 1644
Born: January 1
Died: 1694
Died: November 28
Artist
Poet
Writer
Vaxjo
Matsuo Basho
Bashō
Bashô
Basho
Matsuo Bashou
Barn
Barns
Brighter
Burned
Moon
Since

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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
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Without bitterest cold that penetrates to the very bone, how can plum blossoms send forth their fragrance all over the world?
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When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.
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Sabi is the color of haikai. It is different from tranquility. For example, if an old man dresses up in armor and helmet and goes to the battlefield, or in colorful brocade kimono, attending (his lord) at a banquet, [sabi] is like this old figure.
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Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
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Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.
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The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.
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I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.
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All my friends / viewing the moon – / an ugly bunch.
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For this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.
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Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
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the universe and its beings are a complementarity of empty infinity, intimate interrelationships, and total uniqueness of each and every being.
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When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
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What is important is to keep our mind high in the world of true understanding, and returning to the world of our daily experience to seek therein the truth of beauty. No matter what we may be doing at a given moment, we must not forget that is has a bearing upon our everlasting self which is poetry.
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Make the universe your companion, always bearing in mind the true nature of things-mountains and rivers, trees and grasses, and humanity-and enjoy the falling blossoms and the scattering leaves.
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Even in Kyoto/Hearing the cuckoo's cry/I long for Kyoto
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Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die
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Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
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