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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
Knives
Memory
Fields
Weathered
Memories
Piercing
Like
Skeleton
Windy
Skeletons
Knife

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Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
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Plunge Deep enough in order to see something that is hidden and glimmering.
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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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Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
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For this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.
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Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
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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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I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.
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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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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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April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
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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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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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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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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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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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