Live.

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

Basho

Forget.

Learn the rules, 

Then forget them. 

Basho

Itself.

Sitting quietly, doing nothing

Spring comes, and the grass grows

by itself

Basho

Nobody.

Poortvliet, A Gnome and His Rabbit Friend Waiting for Nightfall, 1976

On this road

where nobody else travels

autumn nightfall

Bashō

Dream.

Autumn approaches

and the heart begins to dream

Basho

Beside.

In Basho's house
there are no walls,
no roof, floors
or pathway -
nothing to show

where it is,
yet you can enter
from any direction
through a door
that's always open.

You hear voices
though no one
is near you -
you'll listen without
knowing you do.

Time and time
you get up to greet
a stranger coming
towards you.
No one ever appears.

Hours and seasons
lose their names -
as do passing clouds.
Rising moon and setting sun
no longer cast shadows.

Sounds drift in
like effortless breathing -
frogsplash, birdsong,
echoes of your
own footsteps.

It all ceases
to exist in Basho's house -
the place you've entered
without knowing
you've taken a step.

Sit down. Breathe
in, breathe out.
Close your tired eyes.
Basho is sitting beside you -
a guest in his own house.

Peter Skyzynecki

Sound.

Winter solitude –

in a world of one color

the sound of wind.

Basho

Keeps.

Mackintosh, Larkspur, 1914

The temple bell stops
But the sound keeps coming
Out of the flowers

Basho

Now.

Bloch, Rising Moon, 1803

Barn’s burnt down —

now

I can see the moon.

Basho

Wander.

I am a wanderer

so let that be my name–

the first winter rain

Basho

Admire.

Chatham, Moon Over Sangre de Cristo Mountains, 2000

pine and cedar

to admire the wind

smell the sound

Basho

Flood.

Overcome.

In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind.  This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when i was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over the others.  Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind and another. At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its unquenchable love of poetry.  The fact is, it knows no other art than the art of writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more or less blindly.

Saigyō in traditional poetry, Sōgi in linked verse, Sesshū in painting, Rikyū in tea ceremony, and indeed all who have achieved real excellence in any art, possess one thing in common, that is, a mind to obey nature, to be one with nature, throughout the four seasons of the year. Whatever such a mind sees is a flower, and whatever such a mind dreams of is the moon. It is only a barbarous mind that sees other than the flower, merely an animal mind that dreams of other than the moon. The first lesson for the artist is, therefore, to learn how to overcome such barbarism and animality, to follow nature, to be one with nature.

It was early in October when the sky was terribly uncertain that I decided to set out on a journey. I could not help feeling vague misgivings about the future of my journey, as I watched the fallen leaves of autumn being carried away by the wind.

From this day forth

I shall be called a wanderer,

Leaving on a journey

Thus among the early showers.

Basho

Home.

I felt quite at home,

As if it were mine,

Sleeping lazily

In this house of fresh air.

Basho

Wander.

Wyeth, Baleen, 1982

Days and months are travelers of eternity. So are the years that pass by. Those who steer a boat across the sea, or drive a horse over the earth till they succumb to the weight of years, spend every minute of their lives travelling. There are a great number of ancients, too, who died on the road. I myself have been tempted for a long time by the cloud-moving wind — filled with a strong desire to wander.

Basho

Together.

Monet, Haystacks at Sunset, 1890

Come, butterfly,

It’s late—

We’ve miles to go together.

Basho

Live.

Matisse, Study, 1951

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

Basho

Turn.

Autumn eve – please
turn to me. I,
too, am stranger.

Basho

Seek.