earthweal open link weekend #5

Welcome to the mosh pit in the vale! Earthweal’s linking whamarama blasts off on Friday afternoon at 4 PM EST.  Share a poem, short or long, new or old, bluey or yahooey. Throw us a rope, for hope or nope!

Click on the Mr. Linky link which follows to add your link. Add your location after your name in the link so we know where on Earth you post from.

Be sure to visit your fellow poets and comment. Discussion as what on Earth your fellows are writing about is a renewable source; treat it as such.

Links will be accepted through Sunday night, followed by a Monday challenge focused on some aspect of our changing Earth and lasting til Friday.

Since the early earthweal challenges have all been an uphill slog into wrong & wronger, this coming Monday we shift gears with a challenge on Renewal.

Your fruitful and communal conversation is also welcome in the comments section.





Deep thanks and gratitude to Sherry Marr for her Animals of Climate change challenge here last week. It was a difficult challenge for many, but contributions were rich and diverse—quite a habitat for song. The animal toll from a violently changing atmosphere is immense—how to conceive of a billion animals lost to Australian wildfire, a million seabirds to ocean heat, whole ecosystems erased due to human intervention? One dead koala bids a thousand grieving poems; is there any way possible to sing the entire vanished population? Maybe our plural voices helped register the lament.

Some complained of how wearying and depressing it was to even try to write a poem under such weight. Silence is certainly one option, as much out of personal survival as not wishing to add to the burden of all.

But many of you did respond—it one of the richest forums for posting and comment at this new forum so far—and the result was love and grief and anger and sadness all reflected in a suffering animal’s eye.

Hard work, and it begs a difficult question: Why even bother? Does staring directly into catastrophe do anything to relieve suffering or provide hope?

It’s a good question, and the responses I’ve searched for are fragmentary at best.

First, we may not have much of a choice. It’s getting harder to find a space where poems can grow unaffected by climate change. Whether the prevailing winds of cultural mood are changing, or its weather driven by climate change, the interior landscape we write by seems less and less free to roam the former occupations of love, liquorish and languor. It’s said that when you make love to a 600 pound gorilla, the sex is over when the ape decides; climate change won’t go away, and the world it is remaking is the one we have to make poetry in.

The news has developed the ostinato cadence of catastrophe—what a week! Coronovius from a game market in China, volcanic eruptions in the Philippines and New Zealand, earthquakes in the Carribbean, flooding in Jakarta, wildfires edging close and closer to Australia’s parliament in Canberra as temperatures soar again. And now parts of Brazil are experiencing the most torrential rainfall ever recorded, with city streets turning into rivers and landslides knocking houses off cliffs and burying shanty towns. Meanwhile the jet stream wobbles ever more wildly as the Arctic melts causing unseasonable heat and cold; dangerous amounts of methane releases from melting permafrost as well as who knows what viruses, sunny day floods in coastal cities around the world, the Thwaites glacier in Antarctica melting fast and faster, Venice flooding, water shortages in major cities: Who doesn’t know the litany?

But where it once seemed like news from far away, indiscriminate events bring disaster nearer to us all—maybe not directly, but rounding ever closer.  Far fewer feel safe, and less have much confidence that the future will see any improvement. Why wouldn’t our poetry be similarly stained and strained, even maimed by such constantly darkening skies?

Should poetry be a haven from that—hunkering down into whatever relative comforts can be found elsewhere at hand? I could tell you about my history, my bad thirst, my love and loves, the grace of semi-wild things curled in my lap as I write: All noble topics, but is that really the news any more? Worse, do my occupations farther afield start to bear the ironic drone of the merely selfish, that very quality which now burns Australia and renders the poor of Brazil helpless against the assault of floodwater?

OK, but isn’t there a cost in writing for too long or deeply exposed to such harsh radiation? Despair of the theme of a damaged, fouling and heating Earth can become a telltale leitmotif, tocking inexorably like the footfalls of a reaping shadow. Lah de dah. What life that is still in us can feel squelched and drained. I sometimes wonder about themes which used to absorb me which I can’t find much interest in writing about. Where did my interest in them go? Maybe it’s true that I’m just getting to be an old poet whose drone suffices but cannot add; Helen Vendler once said that the peril of the lyric poet is a finite aging self. But then maybe the divining rod is pulling me toward a work I barely grasp. It feels like dying, but it also may mean renewal. New poems at least …

We can take climate change as a call to grow in ways we haven’t been willing to before. We can record nature with more love and devotion to think in its way, cherish what still remains.

I can become a more faithful disciple of the difficult, a quality which has always aided poets in writing better poems. Imagine a forum where that work is essential.

Besides, I owe something to the dead—remembrance, redress, amends—making the effort to numerate the species lost, elegize days which won’t return, listen to the lament of ghosts on a cold night’s breeze. The contributions this week to Sherry’s challenge brought us polar bears and river dolphins, wild horses and orcas, butterflies and joeys and careening birds: I’m grateful there is soapbox for that choir.

I also owe something to the future. Doubtful that anything I say or said will endure, I am still part of the moment’s conversation which others down the road—to future generations who will have to contend with ever-more dramatic losses—who will examine cultural remnants like this, asking, Did they know? Did they speak out? Was their grief loud enough to have the resonance of apology? Was their work an amends? Did it have enough substance for forgiveness, or at least was willing to be target for rage?

Most importantly, such poetry would be suffocating and pointless if it were only about a common problem and peril. We all can see where this is going. Is there also a common solution? Poets are solitary animals, singing alone on distant branches: community and communion we have more with dead poets than our living fellows. Poetry is also a vanishing art in the age of brassy online noise. The world is vanishing too. Can poetry be a celebration of both the living and the dead, the blooming and failing world?

We can all see pretty well how we got here and grieve the resulting affects. But does the work stop there? Nature is a cycle of death and renewal; is there a way of working poetry through its despair into an embrace of new possibilities? Jedidiah Purdy writes in After Nature: A Politics of the Anthropocene,

It is true that climate change, so far, has outrun the human capacity for self-restraint. As greenhouse-gas levels rise and the earth’s systems shift, climate change has also begun to overwhelm the very idea that there is a “nature” to be saved or preserved. If success means keeping things as they are, we have already failed, probably irrevocably. This is why climate change is the emblematic problem of the Anthropocene: It is both a driver and a symbol of a thoroughly transformed world.

We need new standards for shaping, managing, and living well in a transformed world. Familiar ideas of environmental failure and success will not reliably serve anymore. We should ask, of efforts to address climate change, not just whether they are likely to “succeed” at solving the problem, but whether they are promising experiments—workable approaches to valuing a world that we have everywhere changed, and to thinking how we will change it next. Climate change gives us a model of how familiar approaches to environmental problems can break down, and how the problems that disintegrate those familiar approaches can become the seedbed of new approaches. The old adage was never truer or more relevant: we make the road by walking. (249)

Can our weal turn a welted world into a well of new possibilities? It’s what the old shaman-poets did: made wombs out of wounds. Our words can become new worlds.

A poem by Wendell Berry suggest how to crack that door and begin to see what’s next:


Wendell Berry

Where the road came, no longer bearing men,
but briars, honeysuckle, buckbush and wild grape,
the house fell into ruin, and only the old wife’s daffodils
rose in spring among the wild vines to be domestic
and to keep the faith, and her peonies drenched the tangle
with white bloom. for a while in the years of its wilderness
a wayfaring drunk slept clinched to the floor there
in the cold nights. And then I came, and set fire
to the remnants of the house and shed, and let time
hurry in the flame. I fired it so that all
would burn, and watched the blaze settle on the waste
like a shawl. I knew those old ones departed
then, and I arrived. As the fire fed, I felt rise in me
something that would not bear my name—something that
bears us
through the flame, and is lightened of us, and is glad.

from Farming: A Hand Book (1970)


By Sherry Marr

It has been a hard month, with kangaroos and koalas burning, suffering and dying in the Australian wildfires. Due to drought (and unregulated corporations buying up fresh water sources), rivers are drying up. Thousands of platypus have perished, among the billion beings lost.  I nearly lost it when someone proposed shooting 10,000 camels “because they drink too much water.” Typical human thinking: as if we are the only species that matters.

The exhaustion and gratitude in this orphaned baby joey’s face pierces my soul. The wild creatures lived in harmony with the natural laws of Mother Earth until the last couple of hundred years, when the dominant species began extracting more than our share of resources. Humankind is too slow to recognize that we are all interconnected. What the wild things are experiencing now, we will experience too, likely sooner than we expected. In fact, many of us are already climate refugees, as the cascade effect accelerates.

Governments are too slow to act. “Economic interests” still come first, as global systems falter and wreak havoc.

The animals are suffering all over the world: remember Tahlequah in 2018, carrying her dead calf on her nose for seventeen days of grief we shared. Near me, on the West Coast of Canada, wild salmon stocks, infected by fish farm pollution, are dying; the result is starving whales and bears, and collapsing ecosystems. Grey whales are washing up with stomachs full of plastic; dolphins are trapped in driftnets. A million seabirds were killed in the hot waters of the Pacific Blob.

The numbers of creatures suffering and dying is too vast for comprehension.

Up north, polar bears are dying excruciatingly slowly of starvation; photos show only their empty skin left behind in the spots where they finally mercifully perished. Habitat and food sources are running out for the wild ones. Last fall, a mother bear and her three cubs searching for food  in a city suburb near me were shot as they tried to flee back into the forest. Bees, that pollinate our crops, are disappearing.

Did you see the recent photo of the orangutan trying to physically fight the bulldozer that was destroying his habitat to grow palm oil? He reminded me of the lone young man facing the tank in Tiananmen Square in 1989. Courage born of desperation.

We now know that the lives of animals in factory farms are horrendous. We need a movement just to liberate them, and return to small sustainable farming. Without pesticides. Animal agriculture is one of the biggest sources of CO2.

This listing could push us right into despair, and heaven knows my heart breaks every day for the animals. But we need to feel there is hope, and my heart lifts at the people rising up to care for the injured animals in Australia, and the many raising funds to help them heal. The best in human nature is always evident during times of crisis, clear evidence that we humans can – and must – find a better way to co-exist with the other beings on this planet.

There is much we can do, individually and collectively, to help the animals of climate change. We can donate, we can care, we can push for legislation to protect the wild ones. We can choose a more plant-based diet. We can write poems.

Today let’s speak for the animals. We can look at the big picture, which is devastating, and requires human action, human change. Or we can take whatever creature speaks to us, whatever struggle has captured our hearts in these past weeks, and write about that. The animals are crying out to us for help.  Big blessings to those humans on the ground who are helping the helpless, terrified creatures of climate change.

(In future prompts, I will look for good things happening to reverse climate change, as well. Stay tuned. I won’t always be depressing. But the animals are always first in my heart in perilous times, because they have no voice, and they are suffering because of us.)

In hope, and love for the animals,


Sherry Marr posts from Tofino on Vancover Island, off British Columbia and the west coast of Canada. She is the first to submit a guest weekly challenge and will be back. The earthweal weekly challenge runs from Monday through Friday afternoon; then at 4 PM EST an open link weekend kicks off.  Feel free to contribute multiple times if helps scale the theme.Include your posting location on Earth, include a link back to this challenge somewhere in your post and be sure to read and comment on your fellows’ posts. We carry this work together.

earthweal open link weekend #4


‘Tis now the witching hour! Earthweal’s linking free-for-all kicks off every Friday afternoon at 4 PM EST.  Share a poem, new or old, long or short, hopefully in the theme of this forum but all wells are really open for business as long as your contribution is a poem.

Click on the Mr. Linky link which follows to add your link. Add your location after your name in the link so we know which corner of Earth you hail from.

Links will be accepted through Sunday night, followed by a Monday challenge focused on some aspect of our changing Earth and lasting til Friday. This coming Monday, Sherry Marr takes over the reins with a challenge on The Animals of Climate Change. Let’s build an ark of verse!

As always, your fruitful and communal conversation is welcome in the comments section.


australia fire 12 2019 3

Photo: Jenny Evans / Getty


After a lull which brought cool and wet relief to some but not all of Australia’s drought-stricken, fire-ravaged regions, dry heat and stiff winds have returned and so too the brushfires. Suburbs south of Canberra were threatened and a 600,000-acre blaze burns out of control near the south coast towns of Moruya and Bermagui.

It’s hard—very hard—to go on with this, even from this distant porch in Florida, but imagine the daily dose of climate reality for most Australians, where the smoke of 25 million burning acres of homeland infiltrates everything and -body with dread and the dead.

One survey showed that more than half of Australians have been directly affected by the blazes, with a quarter experiencing health effects and a third changing their daily routine as a result of the conditions. The ultrafine particles in smoke can bury in the lungs and enter the blood stream, causing infection and an increased chance of heart attacks, lung disease, urinary tract infections and renal failure. Several players at the Australian Open have required medical care for breathing problems, while NASA reports that Australia’s wildfire smoke encircles the globe, resulting in a dense haze in South America and redder sunsets around the Southern Hemisphere.

For Australian journalist Amy Coopes, the last round of fire around the New Year was too much: “We all know someone who has lost something; everything. Photos from friends of a wall of fire racing across paddocks, engulfing life as it was once known. Everything is gone. The scars on our landscape will heal, but will we?”

Before we can take in the depth and damage of those scars, the fires return.

Elsewhere, American President Donald Trump and Greta Thunberg had at each other at the World Economic Forum in Davos, with Trump scolding Thunberg and other climate activists for peddling doom in an age of deregulated economic prosperity.  To which Thunberg tartly replied in a separate venue: “Our house is still on fire.” She said world’s investors have a choice between pulling their money out of fossil fuel stocks or face telling their children why they failed to protect them from the climate chaos they created.

Treasury Secretary Stephen Mnuchin came to his boss’s rescue a few days later by saying Thunberg ought to study economics before offering climate proposals, which is rich, because Mnuchin keeps a steadfast gaze away from economic facts by saying that the Trump 2017 tax cuts were paying for themselves, even though the federal deficit has climbed over $1 trillion. “His defiance of reality probably pleased President Trump, who likes lieutenants to pretend everything is going according to plan,” said a New York Times editorial on Jan. 23. “But Mr. Mnuchin would better serve his country by encouraging his boss to confront reality.”

But why bother with that? Take a cue from Craig Kelley, the conservative Australian politician who “argues that the fires are no worse than in the past, that arsonists and socialists are to blame for the blazes, that coal is winning, that Arctic ice is not melting — and that those who disagree are no better than the censors in Orwell’s ‘1984.’ (Damien Cave, New York Times).

Denial is the opiate of the asses, for sure. And when the truth gets tough for these jerks, they commence twerking all the more wildly.

Rather than throw more of those stones at the painfully obvious, today I’d like to turn instead to the pot I’m a-boil in. One of the most maddening things about life in the Anthropocene is the sense of how pervasively, perhaps inextricably, all of us live in the problem, so much so that me talking here is a criminal waste of juice, breath, and care. It makes any sense that humans can work their way out of this climate dilemma rather absurd.

In order to blunt and lower the curve of rising heat (and keep all the tipping-points from springing on us like the Devil’s Jack-in-the-Box), fossil fuel extraction has to stop—now. But what a task that is! Billions of humans now clamor for the basics of beyond-survival living — fresh water, good housing, a fridge stuffed with food, a/c for the heat, a streaming TV and cellphone and gas-guzzling conveyance, the bigger and more fumous the more elegant.

All of the standard conveniences of modern life demand power—lots of and with more and more billions clamoring for it, the load is nigh impossible. An upward spike: half of the nearly 2 degrees C temperature rise we’ve seen since 1880 is the result of consumption during the past 20 years.

To wit, my daily life is threaded and connected to fossil fuels in too many ways to count. I have a 50-mile daily commute to work. I’m on a computer all day.  (Data centers around the world now consume annually some 650 terawatt hours of electricity, and that number surges every year in the demand for more and more cloud computing. ) My wife and I go through mountains of packaging every week getting to our food. Suburban life is the ultimate fossil fueled convenience with its vast vista of single-family houses inured from summer heat and winter cold, stocked with food, with one room dedicated to entertainment—comfy chairs, low lighting, a media system comprising of TV, computer, streaming device, stereo, MP3 player, old video and DVR players, etc.

I don’t have to go anywhere, I just hang out at home and consume. But then, most suburbs lay a distance from urban centers where most work is found, which means you drive for everything.

This dream is repeated millions– billions—of times around the world, in increasing numbers, density and heights of consumption.

The modern convenience dream is so complete that there’s a Matrix-like blindness to what’s happening just outside that shimmering wall. Truth is, humans are devouring the world fast and haven’t a clue how to live in any truly sustainable way. Our lifestyle and cloud of conveniences work only with a much, much smaller population—500 million or less–and there isn’t any way to teach that but through the hardest lessons.

But we are a long way from learning that—decades maybe, though the timeline sure seems to be compressing as wildfires take off around the world.

Meanwhile we hunker down in our addictions, at rest and complete in fictive baths where warnings don’t sink in, climate truths are denied, powers that be steal what they can for their few and a president is denied due process and a fair trial just so things can stay as they can’t be. That contingent is not leaving the Titanic’s ballroom, no matter how crazy the angles.

Back in Australia, locals are sorting out that they aren’t in Kansas anymore. “Sometimes you can see the end of the old world and the beginning of the new one as clearly as a seam,” Brigid Delaney writes. “Transformations that were once barely perceptible, recognisable only after the fact, this summer have become akin to a crossing. You can see the line as you step over it.”

Maybe the seam is still hard for some to perceive, but then there’s so much smoke getting in our eyes these days. We can’t see the carbons overpopulating the atmosphere; nor does the surface of the sea belie the growing emptiness below. But we can see the smoke, and through it our invisible fate is coming into view

Back to Amy Coopes for a close: “As our climate becomes more hostile, perhaps the single greatest risk is that, in tandem, so do we. The learned helplessness of neoliberalism not only invites us to believe that we, as individuals, are powerless, it depends on it.”

Here our poems don’t have to be helpless.

And so let’s dance!





weekly challenge: WATER

Photo: StockSnap

Greetings all,

As earthweal slowly wheels out its well for the global commonwealth of Earth, how wonderful to see participation from such corners of the world! From England to Australia, South Africa to India to Canada and Sweden to the USA, with way-stations ranging from Michigan to Florida to Pennsylvania to Michigan to Oklahoma. Does this forum begin to feel to you like a global hangout for local muses? Keep it coming—and keep including your port of call in your link.

On to earthweal’s third weekly challenge. In these themed prompts, poets are asked to submit a poem with local perspectives on global events and / or illustrate it through the lens of your artistic expression and development. The weekly forum sails forth first thing on Monday and remains open until Friday afternoon at 4 PM EST when the earthweal’s open link weekend kicks off. Feel free to contribute multiple times if helps scale the theme.

Next Monday, Sherry Marr takes over the reins with a weekly themed challenge on ANIMALS. Our wild world needs some poetry to envoy their presence! She will return again with future prompts as well.

If WATER is all you need to start working on your poem, Mr Linky follows. A dive into the theme follows.

Anchors away!





Photo of Earth by Voyager 1 from 3.6 billion miles away, June 6, 1990, as the probe was leaving the solar system.


earthweal week 3 challenge: WATER

The space probe Voyager 1 has been a busy camper since it left the Earth in 1977. It passed Jupiter in 1979 and Saturn in 1980, sending back to Earth the first detailed images of our largest solar system cousins. Though the mission had only intended to work that far, Voyager 1 kept sailing—it’s now about 14 billion miles out—and as long as nothing bigger collides with it, the probe will take about 300 years to reach the Oort Belt in the outermost ends of the Solar System,  another 40,000 years to get within 1.6 light years of the star Gliese 445, and 300,000 years to pass by the porches of the MTV star TYC 3135-52-1.

As Voyager 1 was leaving the solar system in 1990, it was commanded to turn its camera back for a last shot of Earth in the vast expanse of space. If you check out the photo which began this section, you can just make it out inside the bright vertical band toward the right. When he reflected on the photo, the astronomer Carl Sagan labeled it Pale Blue Dot and made that the title of a book exploring humanity’s relationship with the Earth and cosmos. Human pride made us Earth-centered, he writes, but astronomy eventually pulled our gaze away, helping us see that we are not the core of the heavens. Sagan concluded that if we are to survive, we must thrive elsewhere as well in space.

The pale blue color of Earth observed in the photo comes both from the scattering of sunlight in the Earth’s atmosphere, as well as the massive sprawl of oceans which 70 percent of its surface. Air and heat and water and voila, Pale Dot Earth. Before we leave this planet—spat out into the ether like watermelon seeds and/or some errant virus—let’s take a warm soak in one of our defining elements and look for new poetry there.

First, this confession: I’m a water baby. Maybe my mother’s uterus was just so damn comfy. Maybe the sound of her voice over the sea when we visited Jacksonville Beach made crashing surf sound like a welcome. Maybe a spell of wonder permeated my waking conscious mind when at 3 years old I fell into the deep end of a swimming and hovered there amazed at the shifting blue til a frantic lifeguard’s hook retrieved me. Who knows.

I agree with Fiona MacLeod: If you get splashed a certain way by the wave, yearning becomes part of you, your story, your song. I was baptized in the Atlantic Ocean off Melbourne Beach in Florida when I was 14, and the wave that washed over me while I was submergedwashed my entire soul.

Falling in love was like rebirth in water.

My tarot card is the Page of Cups.

My thirst for firewater comes from the burning abyss.

My poetry blog is named after a mythic well on Dun Manannan on the Island of Iona.

My online namesake is a hybrid of voyager and seal-man.

The sound of rain on the tin roof of this house has the murmur of blessing.

The ocean waves crashing harder and louder against the shores of my state of Florida are disturbing.

If you want to understand water, you should get to know the sea. One of the great books for this education is Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us. Published in 1951, the science has evolved some since—current cosmology has our Moon an errant planetary visitor, where Carson’s time believed it was born from depths now occupied by the Pacific Ocean—but as a poetic book of scientific wonders, you can’t get more satisfying draught.

To paraphrase the tale of water from Carson:  Two billion years ago, after our Earth had cooled enough from its formational fury, rains began to fall, steadily and incessantly for years, millennia, aeons, slowly filling the ocean basins and flooding higher ground. As mountain ranges eroded, minerals flowed back into the waters and the seas slowly turned saline. Life began to brew in the fertile soup, feeding first on inorganic matter and then developing chlorophyll, the process by which carbon dioxide in the air could be mixed with water to build organic substances. The oceans greened with undersea forests. Other life evolved to feed on this aquatic plant life, building shells from carbon stored in the water, followed by life which fed on plant eaters, then bigger life to prey on that life: And so the food chains evolved.

About 600 million years ago life crept ashore and the bare rock of dry land slowly turned green with plant life.  Some life grew lungs to breathe on land, legs to move about and wings to navigate an ocean of sky. Reptiles grew huge while tiny mammals evolved in their shadow. 50 million years or so some animals returned to the sea, becoming sea lions and dolphins, seals and whales.

Life on Earth rose and fell five previous times due to cataclysmic events like meteor strikes or major volcanic eruptions and the massive release of methane stored in seabeds, vastly changing the composition of Earth’s atmosphere. The most devastating was about 250 million years ago in the Late Permian Age, when 70% of all land life and 96% of the sea life went extinct. (The prevailing theory for that extinction event was that massive releases of volcanic gases resulted in a killing acid rain.)

All the while, water circulated in the oceans, evaporated into the sky and fell back down again as rain or snow. 100,000-year cycles of glaciation occurred as atmospheric CO2 rose and fell. At the height of the last glacial period in the Pleistocene, ice sheets covered vast areas of North America and Europe and the oceans were about 400 feet lower than they are now.

Humans appeared late in this story, only 3 million years ago, and it’s only been in the last 10,000 years have we developed tools which have allowed us live and thrive just about anywhere on Earth. To accomplish that, we have had to beat water at is work. Fire and flint spears kept us alive in frozen Paleolithic caves; irrigation provided water for agriculture; boats carried us far over the oceans; aqueducts fed cities with water; lighthouses helped voyagers navigate perilous shores; barrels stored drinking water; fermentation turned water into whoopie parties.

There is water in the ocean as old as the Earth. Ocean currents circulate water from surface to abyss and around every continent, so that the entire ocean—and most of Earth’s history—is represented by one drop. The salinity of ocean water is exactly the same percentage as what’s in our blood; we are more ocean than we think. As human embryos develop they lose vestigal fish-tails, and gills form into ears. Freshwater supplies derive from lakes scoured into place by past glaciations, and snowmelt from mountains which erode via rivers into the sea.  About a million billion snowflakes fall every second, yet each ice crystal bears the signature of the wholly unique.

Water is a mystery and sacrament, the very font of life and a tidal rhythm strummed across the Earth. It is also deeply part of our peril on a changing planet. Ice cores taken from Antarctica in scientific missions of the latter 20th century revealed dramatic changes in the Earth’s atmosphere in recent centuries; carbon dioxide levels were rising dramatically due to industrialization and burning fossil fuels, creating greenhouse conditions which would warm the atmosphere, melt the polar ice caps, dramatically raise sea levels and create a host of interwoven climate impacts, from more intense storms, drought, wildfire and freshwater loss, reduced growing seasons to a massive die-off of life in a sixth extinction event. The very thing which allowed humans to master their environment is now killing off and long-term chance of its survival, and the human ape proving exceptionally bad at foresight and care of its future.

We don’t have far to look for local news. Jakarta has been flooding from torrential rains, and spring rains last year caused massive agricultural disruptions in the American Midwest. Major cities around the world have had water crises, including Cape Town in South Africa and Chennai in India, with Cairo, Sao Paolo and Mexico City headed there. The recent Australian brushfire catastrophe is the result of a three-year drought and record high heat. Giant kelp forests offshore the southeastern corner of the content have been killed by record heat in the ocean, and blob of hot ocean in the northeast Pacific is said to have killed a million seabirds.

Without drastic steps to cut fossil fuel emissions over the next three decades, global warming will unleash upwelling impacts for centuries; we talk about sea level in 2100 as possibly ten or fifteen feet higher—flooding many coastal areas—but as Greenland and the Arctic and Antarctica melt, oceans will rise more than 250 feet in the centuries to come (bye bye, Florida), and large swaths of the world, including Australia and most tropic regions, will be uninhabitable due to swelter, storm and fire.

In their speculative fiction The Collapse of Western Civilization: A View From the Future, scientists Naomi Oreskes and Erik Conway tell the story from 23d Century—200 years from now—unfolding the tale of scientific discovery, climate denial, catastrophic events, government collapse and retreat and retrenchment into human world reduced to half a million people living in the northern reaches of Canada, Europe and the Russia, the final temperate islands on a flooded Earth.

There are those who are earnestly seeking technological fixes to this massive problem, from carbon traps to interplanetary geoforming missions as Carl Sagan imagined. Maybe one will come along in time. Nearby places like Venus and Mars are poor substitutes for Earth, the former an 800-degree nightmare example of runaway climate change, the latter a dry, cold and barren rock, having lost most of its atmosphere due an opposite effect of climate change. It’s a long, long way to our nearest star neighbors, and science fact is distant from runaway fictions of star ships zipping around the universe. More like crossing the monstrous Indian Ocean in thimble with a shingle for a sail.

For those stuck here in the early 21st Century, we have to deal with a changing relation to water. Seas are rising, storms are intensifying, rivers are flooding, plains are drying out and burning, clean drinking water is getting harder to find and summer swelter has a killing edge to it.

For this week’s challenge, write a poem about water in one of its myriad manifestations—in sea or river or bath; in tides and waves; falling from the sky or upwelling from down under; as rain or snow or sleet or hail. Write about water as thirst quenched and parched; as porch to voyage or adventure; as common element in womb and heart and brain and liver; as drainage and effluent, sweat and lubricant and abyssal reach and frozen edge.

How is water changing your Earth?


earthweal open link weekend #3

Icelandic poppies. Photo by my brother Timm, who loved filling his camera lens with flowers.


NOTE: For those of you came by first thing to link, sorry that Mr. Linky was expired. FIXED.

Welcome to Earthweal’s third open link weekend. Our linking free-for-all kicks off every Friday afternoon at 4 PM EST.  Share a poem, new or old, long or short, hopefully in the theme of this forum but all doors are really open as long as your contribution is a poem.

Click on the Mr. Linky link which follows to add your link. Add your location after your name in the link so we know where in the Earth choir you’re singing from.

Links will be accepted through Sunday night, followed by a Monday challenge focused on some aspect of our changing Earth and lasting til Friday. The Jan. 20 Monday Challenge will be WATER.

Would love to read your thoughts and responses in the comments section. Conversation has fruitful and communal.



Poet Mary Oliver, who joined the deep blue fray a year ago today, 1/17/19.


Thanks again to all who have been coming by to link and comment. You magnify the hive with so much charged pollen in the form of dreams, angst, insights, rants, grief, poetries. It’s still very early, but earthweal shows promise as a place to hurt and heal under the canopy of changing Earth.  We have much, much work to do …

In his new book This Land Is Our Land: The Struggle for a New Commonwealth, Jedidiah Purdy (a professor of law at Columbia University) makes the case for “a new narrative of civic friendship” of shared resources and common purpose which is based on land—the very thing which holds us together and tears us apart. The wealth of the land is something we have shared and fought over; in many places, our common weal has become the wealth of the few. As we waken to the nightmare produced by our extractions, the way forward is the way back—toward a renewed sense of bonding, not only by the human community but with the animal, vegetable and mineral kingdoms we reside among.

Purdy writes,

In a commonwealth—which we might also call a democratic Anthropocene—value will lie in work that does what is necessary and sustains its own conditions of possibility, in rest that contemplates a broken but still wondrous world, in play that keeps joy vivid among monuments and ruins and helps ensure that new life will grow there. No one can choose these values alone because they depend on the shared commitments of others and on the shape and terms of a built and shared world. The heroic work of building that world must clear the space for living humbly. (150)

Heroic work, perhaps, but as I’ve previously quoted Wendell Berry, “its hardship is its possibility.”

The thought of a building a world for humble living gives me hope in the face of so much climate despair there is to carry. I read a piece in The Guardian online yesterday, “How scientists are coping with ‘ecological grief.'”  In it, Steve Simpson is a professor of marine biology and global change at the University of Exeter. For decades he participated in diving expeditions into the Great Barrier Reef, studying marine life and the coral ecosystem. Though coral reefs take up only .1 percent of the ocean’s surface, more than a quarter of marine species live in them. “They’re rainforests of the sea,” he says.

But the oceans have been warming due to climate change, and in 2006 he observed the first great bleaching event. A vast and vibrant ecosystem “had turned into a graveyard.”  “It looked weird,” said Simpson, “because the fish were still brightly coloured, like someone had gone in and painted them on an otherwise black-and-white photograph. It was completely devastating to see individual corals that we knew and loved and had spent so long studying, now dead.”

Asked how he was dealing with his grief, Simpson replied,

We come back from our field seasons increasingly broken. You can either think: I can’t do this, I’m going to have to change the science I do; or you might try to internalise all of that pain that you feel. Lots of scientists do the latter – they feel we should be objective and robust, not at the mercy of our emotions.

Increasingly, we’re realising that we can use that emotional response to form new questions. Working on the bleached and dying coral reefs is enormously important to understanding how those environments are changing. There is a real urge to want to do something about it, rather than just chart the demise. And that’s where our research is heading now. We’re trying to restore some coral reef communities, or a fishery, or replant a mangrove forest. We’re just trying to find ways of protecting pockets of really diverse, vibrant life, which might reseed much larger areas when we tackle the big issues.

Grief of loss on such a scale we’re seeing also in the Amazon rainforest and global smokedrift from the burned Australian bush, in mountains whose gracious crowns have been ripped apart for clearcut mining and the polluted haze of New Delhi. Pick a place, you don’t have far to go. Lovers of the Earth today have to be tough-minded, like scientists, understanding that raw sights and sad vistas are part of life everywhere on the planet. But along with that damage there is much still to embrace and love and work to save.

Simpson was then asked what advice he could offer to those also experiencing climate grief:

It’s really important that we find ways of communicating the grief that we’re feeling and work together to support each other. Then we can become stronger, we can start to develop the science that takes our knowledge and turns it on its head – turns it into a solution, rather than just a negative story.

I think that finding any way of fostering a love of the natural world in the next generation is critical for them to be part of the solution.

Earthweal’s despair is also its possibility. It is a place to shoulder our common grief and then turn our eyes onto the world which is still alive and present and embraceable.

In that sense, venting that despair is like singing a sad country song—heartbreaking but you feel better after listening through, less alone and strummed by something wild and deep inside. I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel eager to get back to work.

So sing your despair, ask your questions, praise the world and give some hope!


Mary Oliver

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn’t a place
in this world that doesn’t

sooner or later drown
in the indigoes of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But also I say this:  that light
is an invitation to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it’s done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?

(from New And Selected Poems: Vol. 1, published 1992)

(Looking for Mr. Linky? Top of the post.)