And another, found through Google, when I wanted to see if its searchy spiders had found this place, yet. What’s the odds of it? Another blog, begun in the spring of the very year, linking affections for compost and zen.
One diff, you might learn some from this one about actual composting, which here, you won’t, I don’t think so, no. The blog: zencompost.wordpress.com.
Coupla interesting connects, the last 24 hours, to other minds of compost. One came by way of Facebook.
A jar a day on its way to soil. Lovely.
The blog: mycompost.tumblr.com.
And this find—audio recordings by a number of Black Mountain poets—made while checking the spelling of processual.
This just in from a student — an online archive of avant-garde and Modernist journals. Looks like a treasure trove.
Blast, Little Review, Apollon, Der Dada, Poesia … enjoy!
And, one more of an evening, this excellent essay by Forrest Gander on George Oppen, whose “World, World—” gave me the title to one below.
This from citylightsbooks:
On the City Lights Blog: 3 poems from O’Hara’s Lunch Poems as we continue to celebrate the new 50th Anniversary Edition of the book.
This from momalibrary:
One of the great book titles. Bucky Fuller’s I Seem to Be a Verb. Designed with Jerome Agel and Quentin Fiore.
You can be a fragment of a noun.
Can’t be a fragment of a verb.
First I typed, fragrant.
A link to Stephen Burt’s essay on the “new thing” poetry. Or the new “thing poetry.” Need to reread it, but what I remember is, how grateful I am to find a name for what I’ve thought to be up to.
He sets as an epigraph a favourite passage by a favourite poet.
The self is no mystery, the mystery is
That there is something for us to
stand on.
– George Oppen, “World, World —”
Oh and just for funs, since I’m about to head back down to Samish for the last of Norman Fischer’s dharma talks, let’s put Oppen beside Dogen.
To study the Buddha Way is to study the self.
To study the self is to forget the self.
To forget the self is to be realized by the ten thousand things.
– Eihei Dogen
Grasses trees and broken bricks reach out to wake you up.
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.
the art of compost 