black
grey
blue
red
brown
white

Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die.

Matsuo Basho

For this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.
MATSUO BASHO

Flower Food Love Poverty Togetherness
I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
MATSUO BASHO

Eat Fast Glory Morning Myself
Do not resemble me-Never be like a musk melon Cut in two identical halves.
MATSUO BASHO

Be Yourself Identity Imitation Myself Original
How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers.
MATSUO BASHO

Desire Flower Moon Myself
Old pond, frog jumps in – plop.
MATSUO BASHO

Old Pond
Traveler’s heart. Never settled long in one place. Like a portable fire.
MATSUO BASHO

Fire Heart Place Travel
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.
MATSUO BASHO

Clear Conscious Purity Realize Service Water Yourself
Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops.
MATSUO BASHO

Drop Spring Tree
The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.
MATSUO BASHO

Avoid Believe Break Desire Divine Human Myself Noise Silence Sound
I hope to have gathered To repay your kindness The willow leaves Scattered in the garden.
MATSUO BASHO

Garden Hope Kindness Pay
Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
MATSUO BASHO

Existence Plant Rope Twisted
The journey itself is my home.
MATSUO BASHO

Home Journey Myself
Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.
MATSUO BASHO

Calm Rock Serene Sound
Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
MATSUO BASHO

Insect Old Pond Sing Winter
The fact that Saigyo composed a poem that begins, “I shall be unhappy without loneliness,” shows that he made loneliness his master.
MATSUO BASHO

Beginning Lonely Master Myself Poem
Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
MATSUO BASHO

End Fan Myself Old Summer

Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die.

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Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die.

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Popular Authors

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