Metaphor has fallen out of my work almost completely. I think there’s one in the whole of Dumuzi. Why is that? (Not a rhetorical question.) Something in metaphor feels violent to me — wrenching a thing out of being-as-it-is so it can be yoked to some other thing and lend to its glory.
A metaphor is, at the least, a lie, and to go along with it, we need to split our consciousness in two — the one who accepts the lie, and the one who knows it for a lie. (Compare to the split induced by accentual-syllabic meters — one ear attentive to concrete particular speech rhythms, one to an abstract metrical pattern.)
Donald Revell on mixing metaphors: “A good way to kill the damn things off.”
Metonymy seems gentler, letting its two terms hang out together equably.
Both enlarge consciousness — one by an abrupt rending, the other by a steady gentle pressure outward.
I wonder, is compost, what actually happens in the compost bin, the vegetal smushing, closer to metaphor or metonymy?
So this is The Art of Compost and it’s a blog. Because what the world really needs is another blog. It began with my prep for a course of the same name and soon took on a life of its own at plural intersections of my reading thinking teaching writing speaking feeling looking wondering.
Pretty sure to go in the bin are my thoughts on and misunderstandings of
- 20th and 21st C. poetry and poetics in North America, esp. objectivist and Black Mountain traditions — what Stephen Burt has called The New Thing.
- A mostly subterranean lineage connecting us to Very Old Things — busted up clay tablets, cave paintings, the intelligence of stones (sitting still).
- Whatever collapses, rots, blends, merges, fosters, nourishes.
- Stray thoughts on teaching, writing, reading, appearing, disappearing.
The impetus comes from Jed Rasula’s This Compost but he has neither reviewed nor approved this usage. Time for a picture of a nurse blog.
I hope you’ll check it out. If you like what you see, you can follow on by clicking the “Follow me …” button. Or watch for new posts on Facebook. (If you Like the Facebook page you’ll hear about new posts. I think. Pretty sure.)
And let me know what you think! Leave a comment in the comment box …
While we’re on the subject, a few pretty monsters, and g’night.
Monsters in the British Library
This from erikkwakkel:
A love story hidden in a hat
You are looking at a medieval book from c. 1270, but it has a most unusual shape – and a most ironic story. In fact, you are looking at fragments of a such a book, which form a research passion of mine. In the early-modern period bookbinders cut up medieval manuscripts because the handwritten objects had become old-fashioned after the invention of printing. As a result, we encounter snippets of manuscripts on the inside of bookbindings, as I explain in this blog about such beautiful destruction – a more recent discovery is presented in this blog.
Occasionally the recycled parchment sheets were used for other purposes: the pages in this image form the lining of a bishop’s mitre – onto which the cloth was subsequently pasted. What’s remarkable about the hat is not just that the poor bishop had a bunch of hidden medieval pages on his head, but that they were cut from a Norwegian translation of Old French love poetry (so-called lais). Lovers were chasing each other through dark corridors, maidens were frolicking in the fields, knights were butchering each other over nothing. All the while the oblivious bishop was performing the rites of the Holy Mass. It’s a wonderful historical clash; as well as the mother of all irony.
Pic: Copenhagen, Den Arnamagnæanske Samling, MS AM 666 b 4to (c. 1270, Strengleikar, Norse translation of Old French love poems). More information about this wicked item here.
Still taking this one in. Jeez. Or should I say swounds. Which Urban Dictionary confirms is to “God’s wounds” as Jeez is to Jesus, darn to damn, frack to f**k. Language is the king of all compost piles.
One more. Norman Fischer in his poetical being. He was the clearest speaker I saw at the AWP convention in Seattle back in March. Asked to speak on the supernatural in poetry he spoke of the awe you might well feel at the fact of food on your plate.
Norman Fischer via PennSound