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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
Moon
Since
Barn
Barns
Brighter
Burned

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All my friends / viewing the moon – / an ugly bunch.
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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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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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Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.
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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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Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
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A flute with no holes is not a flute.
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April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
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Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
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The haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good. Those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.
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First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
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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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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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A weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, piercing like a knife.
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Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
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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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Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
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Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
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He who creates three to five haiku poems during a lifetime is a haiku poet. He who attains to completes ten is a master.
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If I had the knack I'd sing like Cherry flakes falling
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