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Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
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
Across
Ropes
Existence
Vine
Around
Hangs
Vines
Twisted
Rope
Twine
Bridge
Gorge
Bridges
Gorges
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April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
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When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
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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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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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First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
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The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.
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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
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The oak tree: not interested in cherry blossoms.
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Plunge Deep enough in order to see something that is hidden and glimmering.
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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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Even in Kyoto/Hearing the cuckoo's cry/I long for Kyoto
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Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.
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Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom.
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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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All my friends / viewing the moon – / an ugly bunch.
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The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
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I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
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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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