Old pond, frog jumps in – plop.
MATSUO BASHOOld pond, frog jumps in – plop.
MATSUO BASHOFarewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
MATSUO BASHOHow I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
MATSUO BASHODo not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
MATSUO BASHONot to think of yourself / as someone who did not count — / Festival of the Souls.
MATSUO BASHOYear’s end, all corners of this floating world, swept.
MATSUO BASHOFor this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.
MATSUO BASHOWinter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
MATSUO BASHOTraveler’s heart. Never settled long in one place. Like a portable fire.
MATSUO BASHOLearn how to listen as things speak for themselves.
MATSUO BASHOSummer grasses — all that remains of great soldiers’ imperial dreams.
MATSUO BASHOFirst snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
MATSUO BASHOWhy so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice… Or backyard love?
MATSUO BASHOReal poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
MATSUO BASHOLearn the rules, and then forget them.
MATSUO BASHOApril’s air stirs in Willow-leaves, a butterfly Floats and balances.
MATSUO BASHO