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Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.

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
Writing
Life
Lead
Poetry
Write
Beautiful
Better
Live
Real

More quotes by Matsuo Basho

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Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops.
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On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
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The oak tree: not interested in cherry blossoms.
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April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
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Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
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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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All my friends / viewing the moon – / an ugly bunch.
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A flute with no holes is not a flute.
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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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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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First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
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Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
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A weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, piercing like a knife.
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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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Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
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Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.
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The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.
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Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
Matsuo Basho
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How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
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Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
Matsuo Basho