The secondary motif of finding harmony from machines is an interesting one for poetry, especially for a mystic like Snyder. It reminds me of Robert Pinsky’s “Machines”:

Machines

Leather and brass, wood, forged or die-cut steel.
Silicon, gold elctrodes, chased gear, bronzed pawl.
Silver wing, Iron Horse. Its hum or wail

Or white noise whispering of modern soul
Poured by makers into the tiny grail
Of escapement at my wrist. Or a roaring bull,

And I astride it, or inside at the wheel:
The animate engine a golem angel flail
Thrashing the germ of spirit from its hull.

Or magnetic speakers, that ape the primate pull
To lip the air, voice matter — the tongue of will
Cleaving the material to its euphoric call.

I still prefer my Zen in nature, but I do appreciate the recognition of the value of finding Zen in modern tasks and proletarian efforts.

REMOVING THE PLATE OF THE PUMP ON THE HYDRAULIC SYSTEM OF THE BACKHOE [For Burt Hybart]

Through mud, fouled nuts, black grime
it opens, a gleam of spotless steel
machined-fit perfect
swirl of intake and output
relentless clarity
at the heart
of work.

–Gary Snyder [from "Nets"]