Matsuo Bashō, born Matsuo Kinsaku, then Matsuo Chūemon Munefusa

Bashō, born Matsuo Kinsaku, then Matsuo Chūemon Munefusa

Japanese Haiku Poet, Zen Monk

Author Quotes

I am one who eats his breakfast, gazing at morning glories.

Operating superficially, the mind is random in its activity and stale in its insights and images. However, with practice and experience the mind is freed from the skull, and the fresh and new can appear as though for the first time.

The moon is brighter since the barn burned.

Cold as it was we felt secure sleeping together in the same room.

I do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the men of old; I seek the things they sought.

Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.

The oak tree: not interested in cherry blossoms.

Come, butterfly, it's late- we've miles to go together.

I hope to have gathered to repay your kindness--the willow leaves scattered in the garden.

Refinement's origin: the remote north country's rice-planting song.

The sea darkens; the voices of the wild ducks are faintly white.

Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.

If I had the knack I'd sing like cherry flakes falling.

Sabi is the color of the poem. It does not necessarily refer to the poem that describes a lonely scene. If a man goes to war wearing stout armor or to a party dressed up in gay clothes, and if this man happens to be an old man, there is something lonely about him. Sabi is something like that.

The universe and its beings are a complementarity of empty infinity, intimate interrelationships, and total uniqueness of each and every being.

Cooling, so cooling, with a wall against my feet, midday sleep?behold.

Ill on a journey; my dreams wander over a withered moor.

Sadly, I part from you; like a clam torn from its shell, I go, and autumn too.

This autumn- why am I growing old? Bird disappearing among clouds.

Coolness of the melons flecked with mud in the morning dew.

It has rained enough to turn the stubble on the field black.

Seek not to follow in the footsteps of men of old; seek what they sought.

Travelling, sick my dreams roam on a withered moor.

Crossing long fields, frozen in its saddle, my shadow creeps by.

It rains during the morning. No visitors today. I feel lonely and amuse myself by writing at random. These are the words: Who mourns makes grief his master. Who drinks makes pleasure his master.

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Bashō, born Matsuo Kinsaku, then Matsuo Chūemon Munefusa
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Japanese Haiku Poet, Zen Monk