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A weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, piercing like a knife.
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
Knife
Knives
Memory
Fields
Weathered
Memories
Piercing
Like
Skeleton
Windy
Skeletons
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Friends part foreverwild geese lost in cloud
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Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
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Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
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Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
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Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music
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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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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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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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Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
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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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If I had the knack I'd sing like Cherry flakes falling
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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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For this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.
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The fact that Saigyo composed a poem that begins, I shall be unhappy without loneliness, shows that he made loneliness his master.
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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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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.
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How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
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