Compost

Walt Whitman once wrote a long-lined poem about composting. And I can understand why. There's something compelling about the world's rot. It's the way we're all headed, and if you have Transcendental predilections, it's a metaphor for the cosmic tilling of life forces into the eternal loam. I don't know about these things, though. All I have are a few suppositions and a thing I call intuition.

But I built this huge, raccoon-proof compost bin because, for the first time in over a year, we finally live someplace where we can start composting again. This is a huge relief. Seriously. I hate sending perfectly good organic matter to the landfill when I can, you know, put it in a miniature landfill in my backyard. Yeah, all "green" justifications aside, I suppose composting satisfies that neurotic, pack rat part of me that doesn't way to say goodbye to banana peels and toenail clippings... "there's got to be a use for this!" (Now there is: the worm farm!) It's actually pretty sick, but whatevs.

In preparation for my Creative Writing class (which I'll be teaching on Thursday mornings), I've been brushing up on my favorite poetry lately. Here's a good one about maggots (who, along with earthworms, countless flies, and ants, can be seen on the compost scene):

Ode To The Maggot

Brother of the blowfly
And godhead, you work magic
Over battlefields,
In slabs of bad pork

And flophouses. Yes, you
Go to the root of all things.
You are sound & mathematical.
Jesus, Christ, you're merciless

With the truth. Ontological & lustrous,
You cast spells on beggars & kings
Behind the stone door of Caesar's tomb
Or split trench in a field of ragweed.

No decree or creed can outlaw you
As you take every living thing apart. Little
Master of earth, no one gets to heaven
Without going through you first.

by Yusef Komunyaaka