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The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.
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
Jumps
Frog
Pond
Ponds
Frogs
Sound
Water
More quotes by Matsuo Basho
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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Even in Kyoto/Hearing the cuckoo's cry/I long for Kyoto
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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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For this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.
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Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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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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Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
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On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
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An autumn night - don’t think your life didn’t matter.
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Plunge Deep enough in order to see something that is hidden and glimmering.
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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
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Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music
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Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
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First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
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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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Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
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Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops.
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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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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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