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Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
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
Poverty
Child
Children
Gazes
Grind
Rice
Starts
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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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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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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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Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.
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No matter where your interest lies, you will not be able to accomplish anything unless you bring your deepest devotion to it.
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My body, now close to fifty years of age, has become an old tree that bears bitter peaches, a snail which has lost its shell, a bagworm separated from its bag it drifts with the winds and clouds that know no destination. Morning and night I have eaten traveler's fare, and have held out for alms a pilgrim's wallet.
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Seek on high bare trails Sky-reflecting violets... Mountain-top jewels
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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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Friends part foreverwild geese lost in cloud
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Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
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Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.
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Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise you impose yourself on the object and you do not learn.
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All my friends / viewing the moon – / an ugly bunch.
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When your consciousness has become ripe in true zazen-pure like clear water, like a serene mountain lake, not moved by any wind-then anything may serve as a medium for realization.
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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
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Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
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I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
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Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
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On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
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Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
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