Welcome to earthweal open link weekend #65. Share a favorite poem and visit your fellow linkers and comment.
Links accepted until 12 PM EST Sunday, April 18.
The poetry which is attracted to a forum like earthweal is what is called, in literary circles, eco-poetry, a poetry of Earth. As much as I may yammer on about political, environmental and philosophical issues which are driving and besetting our Anthropocene existence, the crafting of poems is the essential work here, and it helps to keep a north star in sight as earthweal rows deeper into its namesake.
In his essay “Gary Snyder and the Post-Pastoral,” Terry Gifford traces a path to earthweal that begins with pastoral poetry and its celebration of rural life. You can find it in ancient Sicily in the Idylls of Theocritus (d. 260 BC), who wrote eidos or “little poems” — idylls — about bucolic settings where shepherds and classic deities sport. Theocritus’ back-to-naturei poems addressed a sophisticated court audience in Alexandria, and were written as a corrective for the excesses of that sophistication. “What was institutionally sponsored from the court produces a poetry that is counter-institutional,” Gifford writes. Pastoral poetry down the years continued to take this position from Sydney’s Arcadia (1590) to the plush romanticism of Alexander Popes’s Windsor Forest (1713). There is also in pastoral poetry a disconnect between art and life; “metaphors can remain aesthetic rather than conceptually challenging, endorsing complacency” — always a danger, especially now.
An “anti-pastoral” vein of poetry opened up to challenge such praise of the lord’s manor. Is nature pastoral? What does wilderness itself has to say? And so we get rough-hewns like Wordsworth and Whitman, Jeffers and Hughes—those whose unsponsored embrace of nature was revolutionary and anti-authoritarian. There are also “anti-romantics” whose modernism refuted the bucolic rococo — Frost, Eliot, Stevens, Moore, Williams.
Out of these lyric approaches to nature comes what Gifford identifies as “post-pastoral poetry”—“literature, like the best of Gary Snyder’s poetry, that avoids the traps of both idealization of the pastoral and of the simple corrective of the anti-pastoral.” Getting to this wild means leaving behind both nature and wilderness, and to accomplish this, the poets Gifford identifies as “post-pastoral” and which many now call “ecopoets” are learning to address six essential questions. Think of your own work as you read them.
So many shades of green,
with brown and ochre in between,
and flowers sewing up the edges
with wild brambles and tidy hedges.
I often long for higher hills,
a mountain would be better still,
but this flat landscape stretches wide,
and touches an enormous sky
on a horizon laced by wind-sculpted trees
that dips to kiss the cold North Sea.
The crumbling coast is bothered by waves
erasing our existence day by day,
while we walk its beaches in sun and cloud,
wrapped in its ghostly sea-fret shroud.
Red for Danger
Darkness lit by a red
more sinister than blood.
The sky a shriek of red,
trees and creatures dead.
The pungent smell of red
chokes throat and nostrils hard.
The new death-colour: red.
(Black comes afterward.)
Ain’t it just like you and me, Sea
when we dance together,
I barefoot on the sand, you
lapping at my toes?
Ain’t it just like we’re two parts of
the same whole:
I was born of you, and you
bring me to life once more?
Ain’t it just like you and me, Sea?
And we’ve always been together
dancing a saline tango in the sun.
Ain’t it just like you and me, Sea?
When I hit stormy weather
on your shore I’ll wind up, by the wild winds
Say, it’s just like you and me, Sea;
I can hear you calling:
your echo fills my silent afternoon.
And that was all I wanted to say, Sea:
When I’m far away from you
I feel your surge in me which swells into
a tide to take me home.
Sarah Connor’s “Spring in the woods” , her contribution to the Imbolc challenge (Sarah will be back in a couple of weeks with a May Day challenge), finds human intimacy in the sacred embrace of the woods:
Let’s go to the woods. We should go now
because the woods are full of candles,
lit for a celebration. Small flames somehow
pushing up through thick soil, spangles
of red fire on dull brown twigs,
fat green candles, plump and swollen
gasping for life, waiting to be lit.
The woods are burning, green smoke rolling
over the hedgerows, just blurring those
sharp scratched winter lines. The woods are singing,
full of music. Don’t ask me how I know
I just know that we are candles, flinging
light across the space between us, light
that will burn and spread, flames that take flight.
My father’s father, whose namesake
you are, told my father this, he told me,
and I am telling you: we make
this healing, the land’s and ours:
it is our possibility. We may keep
this place, and be kept by it.
There is a mind of such an artistry
that grass will follow it,
and heal and hold, feed beasts
who will feed us and feed the soil.
Though we invite, this healing comes
in answer to another voice than ours;
a strength not ours returns
out of death beginning in our work.
Though the spring is late and cold,
though uproar of greed
and malice shudders in the sky,
pond, stream, and treetop raise
their ancient songs;
the robin molds her mud nest
with her breast; the air
is bright with breath
and bloom, wise loveliness that asks
nothing of the season but to be.
I remember standing on the road
in the Summer of ’93,
hundreds of us, holding placards,
hearts high on hope, and singing.
We stopped the trucks from rolling in.
It took the love of thousands.
It is 28 years later (!!!)
There are only a few
ancient forests left
on this Island that I love.
And now they’re coming
for the big trees at Fairy Creek.
I can hear the Old Ones
sorrowing on the breeze.
Cry of raven, song of wolf
plead with us to save
their forest home.
The trees tremble in fear,
holding hands across
the forest floor,as the noisy
grappleyarders move in.
Bring out your drums,
Put on your jingle-skirts;
don your medicine bundles.
Shore up your hearts with
love of wilderness,
of life, of the hope
of a tomorrow for all beings.
Shine up your courage;
fortify your hearts.
Meet us on the road;
there will be dancing
until the trucks roll in.
The law will tell you to disperse.
Stand strong! This is not
the time to falter or to bend.
Time to listen to the trees,
who are speaking with
their leafy tongues:
Thank you for coming.
We are with you.
We see the kindness
in your hearts.
The last of the Standing People
are calling. We place our bodies
on the road. We will stand firm.
If the Old Ones fall at Fairy Creek
there won’t be much of a story
left to tell.
I am ever reminded that my responsibility as a poet is always first to the poem, but the poetry of earth demands that poems grow roots in my life in this fast-changing earth. And there’s always news from science — permafrost melting too fast, a species of whale discovered just on the edge of its extinction, the Amazon rainforest developing emphysema for the world as it is burned down for agriculture and beef herds. That news is ever finding its way here, as it must.
… we sit in the blue flicker light
of a telling of the world
that will surely
be the death of us
and somewhere outside the window
there is a sound almost familiar
half heard in the noise of the world
and strength of titans
you lean forward in your chair
find the remote
switch off the tv
and in the silence that buzzes
you wait breath held
until the bird outside your window
sings once more
and you remember
that you have forgotten something
and it lives like a hunger
waiting to be fed.
For this challenge, think about your poetry and consider how it works or doesn’t in relation to these six questions. You don’t have to address all—pick one, if you like—but give us a feel for what eco-poetry is about and where it should go.
Let’s get a feel for eco-poetics!
PS, A favorite poem of mine by Gary Snyder sets the tone of all ecopoetry —
Washing Kai in the sauna,
The kerosene lantern set on a box
outside the ground-level window,
Lights up the edge of the iron stove and the
washtub down on the slab
Steaming air and crackle of waterdrops
brushed by on the pile of rocks on top
He stands in warm water
Soap all over the smooth of his thigh and stomach
“Gary don’t soap my hair!”
—his eye-sting fear—
the soapy hand feeling
through and around the globes and curves of his body
up in the crotch,
And washing-tickling out the scrotum, little anus,
his penis curving up and getting hard
as I pull back skin and try to wash it
Laughing and jumping, flinging arms around,
I squat all naked too,
is this our body?
Sweating and panting in the stove-steam hot-stone
cedar-planking wooden bucket water-splashing
kerosene lantern-flicker wind-in-the-pines-out
sierra forest ridges night—
Masa comes in, letting fresh cool air
sweep down from the door
a deep sweet breath
And she tips him over gripping neatly, one knee down
her hair falling hiding one whole side of
shoulder, breast, and belly,
Washes deftly Kai’s head-hair
as he gets mad and yells—
The body of my lady, the winding valley spine,
the space between the thighs I reach through,
cup her curving vulva arch and hold it from behind,
a soapy tickle a hand of grail
The gates of Awe
That open back a turning double-mirror world of
wombs in wombs, in rings,
that start in music,
is this our body?
The hidden place of seed
The veins net flow across the ribs, that gathers
milk and peaks up in a nipple—fits
The sucking milk from this our body sends through
jolts of light; the son, the father,
sharing mother’s joy
That brings a softness to the flower of the awesome
open curling lotus gate I cup and kiss
As Kai laughs at his mother’s breast he now is weaned
wash each other,
this our body
Kai’s little scrotum up close to his groin,
the seed still tucked away, that moved from us to him
In flows that lifted with the same joys forces
as his nursing Masa later,
playing with her breast,
Or me within her,
Or him emerging,
this is our body:
Clean, and rinsed, and sweating more, we stretch
out on the redwood benches hearts all beating
Quiet to the simmer of the stove,
the scent of cedar
And then turn over,
murmuring gossip of the grasses,
Wondering how Gen’s napping, how to bring him in
soon wash him too—
These boys who love their mother
who loves men, who passes on
her sons to other women;
The cloud across the sky. The windy pines.
the trickle gurgle in the swampy meadow
this is our body.
Fire inside and boiling water on the stove
We sigh and slide ourselves down from the benches
wrap the babies, step outside,
black night & all the stars.
Pour cold water on the back and thighs
Go in the house—stand steaming by the center fire
Kai scampers on the sheepskin
Gen standing hanging on and shouting,
“Bao! bao! bao! bao! bao!”
This is our body. Drawn up crosslegged by the flames
drinking icy water
hugging babies, kissing bellies,
Laughing on the Great Earth
Come out from the bath.
—from Turtle Island (1969)
I want to start with a quote I used in last week’s challenge, from novelist Arundhati Roy:
The first step towards reimagining a world gone terribly wrong would be to stop the annihilation of those who have a different imagination—an imagination that is outside of capitalism as well as communism. An imagination which has an altogether different understanding of what constitutes happiness and fulfillment. To gain this philosophical space, it is necessary to concede some physical space for the survival of those who may look like the keepers of our past, but who may really be the guides to our future.”
An imagination which has an altogether different understanding of constitutes happiness and fulfillment. — In this earthweal wold, that would be a green imagination, cultivated and composted in our poems, as a radical alternative to the limited horizons on of an only-human culture. It means that turning points away from the dead-ending of nature await in every next poem.
I for one am delighted in the notion that it’s not all cliffs and screams in the dark. A green imagination is not determined by the ends of only-human culture, nor can it be so managed. Yes, we are living into the brutal reality of an over-human Earth, a preter-human world of capitalism and endlessly powerful tools, all of which threatens to deliver us to an lonely human world and then a completely dead one. That is not the only possible end to the story!
Our world teems with possibility, but humankind has plowed straight path through it. Whalers of the 19thcentury slaughtered 300,000 whales helping the new industrial economy keep the lights on and whalebone corsets tight. And for every catch recorded, many more fled off wounded to die. In the century, commercial whaling interests killed about 3 million whales until the populations all but vanished.
Preservation efforts now try to save whales from extinction, but the minimums are not sufficient to save their teeming. In Fathoms: The World in the Whale, Rebecca Giggs wonders if “what we call extinction would ever be expanded to include the disappearance of animal cultures, as well as animal species.”
A focus on animal abundance means that endangerment may not be the threshold at which our concern for a species warrants interventions to preserve it; preserving numerousness might matter more in ensuring resilience of ecology, and all organisms that compile it. Likewise, diversity within a species – the diversity of cultures, say, as it is represented by ecotypes — is one thing we miss when we concentrate on numerousness alone and disregard the located histories of populations of animals. That three may be individuals of a species held in one zoo can lead us to overlook the importance of preserving distinct, separate groups of one species of animal, in multiple different environments.
The resilience of a species might be expanded by its cultural diversity, which increases the opportunity for a greater range of adaptations to novel threats. So it matters not just that we sustain populations of animals, but that we preserve the evident range of possible contexts in which they can continue their unique behaviors. (133)
To write of the earth is to offer voice to the environment in which we live. Every poem teems with possibility.
In some important even radical way, we have to step outside of our only-human world to find that witness. David W. Orr writes in Ecological Literacy: Education and the Transition to a Posmodern World that reading, writing, and calculating are primarily “indoor” skills. “Ecological literacy . . . requires the more demanding capacity to observe nature with insight, a merger of landscape and mindscape.” It is driven by a search for knowledge, a sense of wonder, and “sheer delight in being alive in a beautiful, mysterious, bountiful world.” Without that affinity for with all living things, literacy of any other sort will not much help. He also states that development of an affinity for the living world is dependent on aesthetic appreciation of all that is beautiful and alive in the world. It means developing a sense of place, which requires more direct contact with the natural aspects of a place—with soils, landscape, and wildlife.
How passionate must we in this? Kathleen Dean Moore, director of the Spring Creek Project for Ideas, Nature, and the Written Word at Oregon State University, put it this way:
To love—a person and a place—means at least this: 1) To want to be near it, physically. 2) To want to know everything about it—its story, its moods, what it looks like by moonlight. 3) To rejoice in the fact of it. 4) To fear its loss, and grieve for its injuries. 5) To protect it—fiercely, mindlessly, futilely, and maybe tragically, but to be helpless to do otherwise. 6) To be transformed in its presence—lifted, lighter on your feet, transparent, open to everything beautiful and new. 7) To want to be joined with it, taken in by it, lost in it. 8) To want the best for it. 9) Desperately. (quoted in Bruce)
Desperately but not despairingly. We are only alone in this only when we think so. The world teems around us. We have only to listen, nourishing a habitation akin to the Wendell Berry poem “The Peace of Wild Things”:
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Heather E. Bruce, director of the Montana Writing Project, wrote a seminal essay in 2011 about the teaching of eco-literature, “Green(ing) English: Voices Howling in the Wilderness.” In it she outlined teaching approaches to teaching the reading and writing of environmental literature.
As English teachers, we may not think that we have direct power to reform these systems. However, it is well within our capacity to help others understand the ethics that support either “man against nature” or a reciprocal interdependence of human nature, the land, and nonhuman species. It is well within our capacity “[to consider] nature not just as the stage upon which the human story is acted out, but as an actor in the drama” (Glotfelty xxi). It is well within our capacity to think about human character as environmentally or ecologically embedded rather than immune. And it is well within our capacity to introduce students to writers that can open minds to the notion that human actions affect the ecosystems we depend on and “proclaim a lofty new mission for self-government: to energize and empower the ‘millions to whom the beauty and the ordered world of nature still have meaning that is deep and imperative’” (Carson, qtd. in Gore xvii).
English teachers specialize in questions of vision, values, ethical understanding, meaning, point of view, tradition, imagination, culture, language and literacy—“keys to today’s environmental crises at least as fundamental as scientific research, technological know-how, and legislative regulation” (Buell 5). Our expertise in addressing the aesthetic, ethical, and sociopolitical implications of the most pressing human concerns of our time enable us also to reach toward embrace of environmental problems. In doing so, we can engage those in whose power change will occur more likely than scientific explanations alone might. It is in these ways that we can make a substantial contribution to environmental awareness and citizenship.
As the embodiment of that teaching, our poems can’t innovate carbon capture at scale or stop oil extraction, but they can be an alternate energy source for the imagination. We can fuel humanity’s yearning for an Earth in teeming weal!
For this week’s challenge, TEEM. Write a poem that introduces the reader to the environment you live in –a landscape shaped by time with a culturally diverse ecosystem (with human, animal and non-animal elements). Widen the focus, deepen the gaze and green the voice. Be wild. Gallop and fly and dive a textures of suburban spring afternoon. Language is your friend and opponent here: be florid and peculiar but particular. What is in the petri dish of the verse-captured moment that undulates and cavorts and cha-cha-chas at the end?
Let’s give those teachers of green English a teeming harvest!
WALKING ABOUT IN THE EVENING
The brook’s slab-gray dry except
for flickers at a sloped slate’s
narrow: all this gold, though a man just
down the street died young today:
I think to chasten the brook,
its diddle-flickers too brilliant
catching sundown, that it run smooth or
bend evenly for a change: but brooks
pay no mind: and, anyway
maybe the flickering shells out a magic
that will spell this man over millenia
back to a prefect reconstitution in light.
— from Brink Road, 1996
BACK YARD BOOGIE WOOGIE
I look at the back yard—
sur le motif, as Paul Cézanne would say,
Nondescript blond winter grass
Boxwood buzz-cut still dormant with shaved sides, black gum tree
And weeping cherry veined and hived against the afternoon sky.
I try to look at landscape as though I weren’t there,
but know, wherever I am,
I disturb that place by breathing, by my heart’s beating—
I only remember things that I think I’ve forgot,
Lives the color of dead leaves, for instance, days like dead insects.
Most of my life is like that,
scattered, fallen, overlooked.
Back here, magenta rosettes flock the limbs of the maple trees,
Little thresholds of darkness,
Late February sunlight indifferent as water to all the objects in it.
Only perfection is sufficient, Simone Weil says.
Not even mercy or consolation can qualify.
Good thing I’ve got this early leaf bristle in my hand.
Good thing the cloud shadows keep on keeping on, east-by-northeast.
from Appalachia (1998)
A CERTAIN KIND OF EDEN
It seem like you could, but
you can’t go back and pull
the ruoos and runners and replant.
It’s all to deep for that.
You’ve overprized intention,
have mistaken any bent you’re given
for control. You thought you chose
the bean and chose the soil.
You even thought you abandoned
one or two gardens. But thos things
keep growing where we put them—
if we put them at all.
A certain kind of Eden holds us in thrall.
Even the one vine that tendrils out alone
in time turns on its own impulse,
twisting back down its upward course
a strong and then a stronger rope,
the greenest saddest strongest
kind of hope.
from The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, 2010