Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
MATSUO BASHOHe who creates three to five haiku poems during a lifetime is a haiku poet. He who attains to completes ten is a master.
More Matsuo Basho Quotes
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Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
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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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Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.
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Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old – / These fields and mountains!
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Breaking the silence Of an ancient pond, A frog jumped into water – A deep resonance.
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The journey itself is my home.
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There came a day when the clouds drifting along with the wind aroused a wanderlust in me, and I set off on a journey to roam along the seashores
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The universe and its beings are a complementarity of empty infinity, intimate interrelationships, and total uniqueness of each and every being.
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There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.
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Sadly, I part from you; Like a clam torn from its shell, I go, and autumn too.
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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice… Or backyard love?
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Not to think of yourself / as someone who did not count — / Festival of the Souls.
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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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Learn the rules, and then forget them.
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Learn how to listen as things speak for themselves.
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Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
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Spring rain leaking through the roof dripping from the wasps’ nest.
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Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone.
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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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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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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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A weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, piercing like a knife.
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Come out to view / the truth of flowers blooming / in poverty.
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Awakened at midnight by the sound of the water jar cracking from the ice.
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Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.
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Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
MATSUO BASHO