earthweal weekly challenge: TOWARD AN ECOPOETRY

Gary Snyder


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.

  1. Can we gain the humility which comes from the awe we feel when tuning in to the energies of nature? Such humility dissolves human centrality; the ego that controls the writing has no ownership of the knowledge it gains. Mastery is ever foiled by humility; the ten thousand things just are. Patti Wolf’s “A Tale,” contributed to the Teeming challenge here at earthweal, makes everyday discoveries of a pond viewed from the back porch a source of astonishment. Kim Russell has almost religiously delivered deeply-crafted paeans to place (in her case, Norfolk in the United Kingdom), with sight and sound compressed in a wonder which is its own reward. “This Green and Pleasant Land” was a contribution to Sherry’s Re-Wilding Our Souls challenge last August:

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.

  1. What are the implications of recognizing the creative-destructive cycles of the universe of which we are a part? Can we accept the “fearful symmetry” of a nature which creates both killer whales and seal pups? Rilke dove headfirst into this in his Elegies and Sonnets to Orpheus; writing to a friend he put it this way: “Whoever does not, sometime or other, give his full consent, his full and joyous consent, to the dreadfulness of life, can never take possession of the unutterable abundance and power of our existence; can only walk on its edge, and one day, when the judgment is given, will have been neither alive nor dead.” Ghosts are difficult, but fire is worse, as we discovered early here. Rosemary Nissen-Wade submitted this from Australia for our first weekly challenge, Fire, in January 2020:

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.)

  1. If our inner lives echo natural rhythms without, how can we come to understand the inner by growing closer to the outer? Ingrid’s “You and me, Sea” found breadth and depth inside facing the sea.

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.

  1. If we all live in one ecosystem of diverse cultures, isn’t nature culture and culture nature? The modern version of this question is: how can we use out culture, our imagination, specifically our poetic imagination, as a tool for healing alienation from culture? Gary Snyder makes this point in A Place in Space: “ … language as a wild system, mind as wild habitat, world as a ‘making’ (poem), poem as a creature of the wild animal.” We explored it here last June in our Culture and Nature challenge. I quote again briefly here from Wendell Berry’s 1982 contribution to A Timbered Choir, which makes the case for husbandry as mind in the active care of nature, something our best poems strive for.

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.

  1. If our evolved consciousness gives us conscience, how should we exercise our responsibilities toward our material home? The science of climate change moves fast: new atrocities and solutions come at us almost daily. How to be fleet of mind and active of foot? I take Sherry’s poem “Fairy Creek” as a fine example of this, struggling to accept the change with a full heart and an activist’s commitment to fight for what’s left.

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,
fine people.
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
and fellowship
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.

  1. How can we best address the issue that our exploitation of our environment has emerged from the same mind set as our exploitation of each other? What about that old patriarchal, colonial, extractionist, capitalist mind? How other is it in all of us? I write from with the pleasure and leisure of the gentleman farmer who rises early to write at his convenience, or the sixteenth-century warlord in James Clavell’s novel Shōgun who contemplates the transitory nature of life while listening to a Portuguese sailor being boiled alive. Are poetic themes something to be consumed in the name of something next to do, or do they demand nurture and cultivation and indenture to its land? Lindi-Ann Hewitt-Coleman, who we used to hear from in South Africa, contributed a poem titled “re-visioning” to the Modernity’s Hero Quest challenge, about the universal need to revoke that old mindset in order to see the real world:

… 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!

— Brendan


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
our mouth—
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
from, we
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,
talking firewood,
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)


earthweal weekly challenge: THE TEEMING


Greetings all,

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!




A.R. Ammons

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


Charles Wright

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.
Whew …
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)



Kay Ryan

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

earthweal weekly challenge: TURNING POINTS (CHTHULUCENE SQUIGGLES)

Endosymbiosis: Homage to Lynn Margulis, Shoshanah Dubliner, 2012


For me, reading and writing, walking and listening are the earthly rhythms of poetry. In all of these there have been turning points which led me through new doors.

First: A found experience: I met a woman, once, twice, who knows how many times, with all the waves in the world crashing nearby. Lyrics I was scrawling for a rock lobster anthem softened something to my eye. I happened on the poetry section at the local library where found slim volumes of wonder by Mary Oliver and Ranier Maria Rilke. I took notice the canopy of trees in my small town on a morning’s walk. Words lifted from their leaves.

In every experience it was like waking from a dream into the greater one I call, in private, with you all, Poetry. A watery experience, natal and juvenile, both the whale and her baptismal font. A transit and a discovery, first shore to Ultima Thule, of an awareness borne. (Ergo my screen handle of Brendan.) And then: the change.

Spring is uproarious here in Central Florida, daily temps topping into the 90s, the air a drench of citrus blossom and jasmine, the afternoons breezy and cloudless. (So begins the wildfire season.) The rainy season is a month or two away — who knows, with our Earth’s climate a poked angry bear. When it comes amid the tumult storm and worse, resulting in high and higher humidities drenching this state with an equivalent of sea-level rise already accomplished, drowning us in mosquito-thick air. It is a soppy heaviness of the spirit which does a wintry thing to poems, freezing them with drowning infinitude. (Come June we live in total air conditioning.)

Thus, here, I prepare. Yesterday I planted two rose bushes where they should savor the wild sun. Gotta get the sunpatiens and vinca in behind the back porch, trim the crepe myrtles, replace the white petunias in the flowerboxes and do something else for ground cover on the island in front of the kitchen window.

Such local springtime activities par with the world’s emergence from the long shadow of pandemic. A slow and raw spring tide of resumption. Here in Florida where in the name of good business we have few safety rules, spring breakers have overrun Miami Beach. Local health officials have put in a curfew on many nights and tensions run high among threatened. The COVID variants are dominant from Tallahassee to the Keys. A fourth wave of infection is blooming with the jasmine in the Sunshine State, so the pandemic is far from over.

Post-pandemic spring is, like our future, unevenly distributed. Where you read this may be back of this moment; far south of here, autumn leaves are falling. We have friends in town who are moving to New Zealand where a seemingly wiser future is well underway. But no matter where we live, we all are witness to changes happening to our beloved Earth that will be measured in millennia for humankind and millions of years for whatever remnant of life survives us.

Earthweal wakes to its second year asking where there is to go and grow. In 2020 we were busy taking stock of the moment, observing elemental changes in storm and rising seas and wildfires, in vanishing wildlife and the insanity of human mastery. We looked for sacred landscapes and our entanglement with orders living and nonliving. We grieved for the lost and heard the songs of ghosts. We celebrated seasons and festivals. We explored the relations of nature and culture, we sought a language for resistance and found mentors in masks and shamans and wise women. We felt joy and reverence and gratitude amid our despair and fury and shame.

A busy year. Have we said it all? Have we found a way into a better future or does it feel like we are circling the same doom?

Poetry – the art of dreaming next rooms — suggests we keep trying.

For this challenge, I’d like to play with the notion of a turning point of the human dominated end of life on earth to a squiggly pluriverse where we are just one star of a known galaxy in vast universe of joy we do not.

This turn of truth is out in wide view for some, but for me I had to wander to this point, reading and writing and walking and listening.

About five years ago, one book woke me to the harrowing advent of the Anthropocene and its unscrolling road of climate catastrophe. (I was late to the party.)

The Collapse of Western Civilization: A View from the Future by Naomi Oreskes and Erik M. Conway (Columbia University Press, 2014) is a science-fictional account of our next 300 years. In their tale, based on a shared pedigree in the history of science, no one gets around to addressing climate change fast enough, coastal cities flood, continents burn and pestilence spreads. Governments fail to address the problems of food scarcity and mass migration and just about everything collapses. (China, the only country with a central government strong enough to relocate millions, and dominates for a time.)

Lets pick up their narrative set in a time fifty years forward of our current inaction addressing the brewing problem. The account by this 23d century scientist of the Second People’s Republic of China describes the catastrophic events later in this century:

Over the course of the next two decades (from 2073 to 2093), approximately 90 percent of the ice sheet broke apart, disintegrated, and melted, driving up sea level approximately five meters across most of the globe. Meanwhile, the Greenland Ice Sheet, long thought to be less stable than the Antarctic Ice Sheet, began its own disintegration. As summer melting reached the center of the Greenland Ice Sheet, the east side began to separate from the west. Massive ice breakup ensued, adding another two meters to mean global sea level rise. These cryogenic events were soon referred to as the Great Collapse, although some scholars now use the term more broadly to include the interconnected social, economic, political, and demographic collapse that ensued.

Analysts had predicted that an eight-meter sea level rise would dislocate 10 percent of the global population. Alas, their estimates proved low: the reality was closer to 20 percent. Although records for this period are incomplete, it is likely that during the Mass Migration 1.5 billion people were displaced around the globe, either directly from the impacts of sea level rise or indirectly from other impacts of climate change, including the secondary dislocation of inland peoples whose towns and villages were overrun by eustatic refugees. Dislocation contributed to the Second Black Death, as a new strain of the bacterium Yersinia pestis emerged in Europe and spread to Asia and North America.

in the Middle Ages, the Black Death killed as much as half the population of some parts of Europe; this second Black Death had similar effects. Disease also spread among stressed nonhuman populations. Although accurate statistics are scant because twentieth-century scientists did not have an inventory of total global species, it is not unrealistic to estimate that 60 to 70 percent of species were driven to extinction. … (31)

The only thing that saves humanity from complete extinction is the release of a genetically-altered lichen around 2090 which devours enormous amounts of carbon from the atmosphere and slows the runaway effect, giving humanity a chance to rebuild. Eventually about a half million survivors live in floating houses in the swamps of the 23d-century North Pole.

A sprung freak lichen sounds like a ghost in the machine, but if that’s what it takes to save us, yay. And while there’s nothing like a backward glance to see clearly what’s happening in our present, other books I soon encountered put the problem of the Anthropocene more straight-forwardly succinct, like Elizabeth Kolbert’s Field Notes from a Catastrophe: Man, Nature and Climate Change (2006), Bill McKibben’s The End of Nature(1989) and David Wallace-Wells’ planetary pot-boiler The Uninhabitable Earth: Life After Warming (2019).

Such works paint a devastating picture of the Anthropocene. But how did we get here, and what can be done? For that I found another descriptor of the problem: Capitalocene. Naomi Klein’s This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. The Climate (2015) clearly and convincingly describes the forces of free market fundamentalism which have trapped us into this oncrushing cycle.

At the heart of this material fundamentalism is the time-worn belief that Earth is lode of oil, minerals, gold, food and other resources ripe for endless extraction. It is, she writes,

The mentality that allowed so many of us, and our ancestors, to believe that we could relate to the earth with such violence in the first place—to dig and drill out the substances we desired while thinking little of the trash left behind, whether in the land and water where the extraction takes place, or in the atmosphere, once the extracted material is burned. This carelessness is at the core of an economic model some political scientists call “extractivism,” a term originally used to describe economies based on removing ever more raw materials from the earth, usually for export to traditional colonial powers, where “value” was added. And it’s a habit of thought that goes a long way toward explaining why an economic model based on endless growth ever seemed viable in the first place. Though developed under capitalism, governments across the ideological spectrum now embrace this resource-depleting model as a road to development, and it is this logic that climate change calls profoundly into question.

Extractivism is a nonreciprocal, dominance-based relationship with the earth, one purely of taking. It is the opposite of stewardship, which involves taking but also taking care that regeneration and future life continue. Extractivism is the mentality of the mountaintop remover and the old-growth clear-cutter. It is the reduction of life into objects for the use of others, giving them no integrity or value of their own—turning living complex ecosystems into “natural resources,” mountains into “overburden” (as the mining industry terms the forests, rocks, and streams that get in the way of its bulldozers). It is also the reduction of human beings either into labor to be brutally extracted, pushed beyond limits, or, alternatively, into social burden, problems to be locked out at borders and locked away in prisons or reservations. In an extractivist economy, the interconnections among these various objectified components of life are ignored; the consequences of severing them are of no concern.

Against this titan presence in all of our lives — the global supply chain and its endless appetite for convenient consumption is buttressed by an imagination factory of ad agencies and lobbyists —  Klein urges radical change along a dozen practical venues, from blockades of drilling and pipeline infrastructure, divestment of extraction assets, clearing the skies and promoting renewal. She writes,

Resistance to high-risk extreme extraction is building a global, grassroots, and broad-based network the likes of which the environmental movement has rarely seen. And perhaps this phenomenon shouldn’t even be referred to as an environmental movement at all, since it is primarily driven by a desire for a deeper form of democracy, one that provides communities with real control over those resources that are most critical to collective survival—the health of the water, air, and soil. In the process, these place-based stands are stopping real climate crimes in progress.

Sherry’s challenge last week about deforestation at Fairy Point and the lengths loving people go to save the ancestor old growth (how little of it remains anywhere today!) is full-heartedly to this point.

The Green New Deal was the possibility on the horizon that climate change could be addressed and structurally remedied, at least in spirit (much like the Affordable Health Care Act). But then came The Empire Strikes Back and Donald Trump and his Death Star pro-industry berserker cabinet, tearing up decades of environmental regulation. For four years we’ve been soaked in misinformation, nasty-ass whiteman glory and shrill FOX News horns, a badass brass which captured headlines and turned stomachs worldwide.

That this woebegotten excuse for a human being could garner 70 million votes failing to get reelected speaks largely to the power of Capitalocene enchantment, that spell which blinds but the very richest to the traps and binds and damage it ultimately wreaks on the believer.

But if Trumpism were not enough, our joyride in extractionist market fundamentalism was crossed by the pandemic, itself climate feedback loop that crippled, for a time, the world’s economy and sent everyone into a wounded, wondering hiding. For a brief while, nature silenced what we could not, jets were grounded, cars didn’t drive and animals crept back into deserted city spaces from the wild.

But now we’re back – Trump is gone, Trumpism’s stinky is out of favor and the vaccinated world slowly emerges back into the commons. A $1.9 trillion dollar COVID relief bill cleared a bitterly divided US Congress almost intact — a jaw-dropping accomplishment that suggest the party line on Capital Hill has little resonance on Main Street.

Now a $3 trillion dollar infrastructure bill with renewable energy at its core is coming forward, and it may not encounter the same vitriolic response than when it was a Green New Deal election year punching bag. People want jobs and the weather extremes are getting old.

Have we reached a collective turning point? Klein quotes the 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.”

We’ll have to see. Will it be soon enough, and enough to budge the needle of the ages to come? So far all of our Anthropocene and Capitalocene miasmas are in crippling sight, from extreme flooding in eastern Australia to the constipated Suez Canal where a grounded freighter has the shipping colon of the world thoroughly blocked.

How to get moving out of this mess? It would seem a devouring Minotaur awaits both the Anthropocenic and Capitalocenic approaches; as I learned in AA, you can’t fix a diseased life with a broken brain.

Donna J. Haraway proposes a third course in her book Staying With the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (2016):

I am aligned with feminist environmentalist Eileen Crist when she writes against the managerial, technocratic, market-and-profit besotted, modernizing, and human-exceptionalist business-as-usual commitments of so much Anthropocene discourse. This discourse is not simply wrong-headed and wrong-hearted in itself; it also saps our capacity for imagination and caring for other worlds, both that exist precariously now (including those called wilderness, for all the contaminated history of the term in racist settler colonialism) and those we need to bring in alliance with other critters, for still possible recuperating pasts, presents and futures.

I don’t know about you, but I’m all for a view of this mess loaded with latent possibilities waiting to be explored, a way around the ends of humanity whose only proper response is guilt and despair. Well, why not invite everyone to the party? Haraway, again:

Unlike either the Anthropocene or the Capitalocene, the Chthulucene is made up of ongoing multipspecies stories and practices of becoming-with in times that remain at stake, in precarious times, in which the world is not finished and the sky has not fallen—yet. We are at stake to each other. Unlike. the dominant dramas of Anthropocene and Capitalocene discourse, human beings are not the only important actors in the Chthulucene, with all other beings able simply to react. The order is reknitted: human beings are with and of the earth, and the biotic and abiotic powers of this earth are the main story. (54-5)

The term Chthulucene first started for Haraway with a spider of the Northern California forest, Pimoa chthulu who “gets her generic name from the language of the Goshute people of Utah and her specific name from denizens of the depths, from the abyssal and elemental entities, called chthonic. (31) It was a small step then for Haraway to adjust the second name to chthulu, “a name for an elsewhere and elsewhen that was, still is, and might yet be: the Chthulucene. I remember that tentacle comes from the Latin tentaculum, meaning ‘feeler,’ and tentare, meaning ‘to feel’ and ‘to try’: and I know that my leggy spider has many-armed allies. Myriad tenacles will be needed to tell the story of the Chthulucene.”

Searching for a nonvertebrate ally to this cause, Haraway then became entranced with octopuses, “called spiders of the sea, not only for their tentacularity, but also for their predatory habits… They are good figures for the luring, beckoning, gorgeous, finite, dangerous precarities of the Chthulucene. This Chulucene is neither sacred nor secular; this earthly worldling is thoroughly terran, muddled, and mortal— and at stake now.” (55)

Such critter-like thinking does expand the mental horizon past the linear metronome of Me, Me, Me, Me. What about us, cried the seals to St. Moling. We, too, are sons and daughters of God. Such relations were possible for the monotheism of Only Homo Sapiens, back when our cortexes were diffuse and relational and echoleate for survival in trees. And there is a way back to it. As Daedalus knew, the mystery of the Labyrinth was solved by a decisive turn at the middle.

Haraway writes of a turning point in the disciplines.

A complex systems engineer named Brad Werner addressed a session of the meetings of the American Geophysical Union in San Francisco in 2012. His point was quite simple: scientifically speaking, global capitalism “has made the depletion of resources so rapid, convenient and barrier-free that ‘earth-human systems’ are becoming dangerously unstable in response.” Therefore, he argued, the only scientific thing to do is revolt! Movements, not just individuals, are critical. What is required is action and thinking that do not fit within the dominant capitalist culture; and, said Werner, this is a matter not of opinion but of geophysical dynamics.

Haraway adds, “Werner is not the first or last researcher and maker of matters of concern to make argue this point, but his clarity at a scientific meeting is bracing. Revolt! Think we must; we must think. Actually think, not like Eichmann the Thoughtless. Of course, the devil is in the details—how to revolt? How to matter and not just want to matter?” (47)

How to matter and not just want to: That’s the challenge this week. What is the turning point that gets us out of this labyrinth of fated humanity? Who or what must we embrace? How do we find our way into the Totality? What are our responsibilities as the only critter in that mix with the power to shape according to our will? How to merge with the squiggly collective when we can’t come close to herding the collective will of Humanity?

There’s a poetry for this, ripe with turning points, gazing at the portals of possibility beyond. Maybe these turning points will suggest a course ahead for earthweal out of guilt and despair.

Take your shoes of and jump in the mudpuddle: There’s plenty of room for all and spring is full of gusto! What does your reading and writing and walking and listening say to you?

— Brendan




W.S. Merwin

A migrant tribe of spiders
spread tents at dusk in the rye stubble
come day I see the color
of the planet under their white-beaded tents
where the spiders are bent
by shade fires in damp September
to their live instruments
and I see the color of the planet
when their tents go from above it
as I come that way in a breath cloud
learning my steps
among the tents rising invisibly like the shapes of snowflakes
we are words on a journey
not the inscriptions of settled people

from The Compass Flower (1977)




Mary Oliver

And now as the iron rinds over
the ponds start dissolving,
you come, dreaming of ferns and flowers
and new leaves unfolding,
upon the brash
turnip-hearted skunk cabbage
slinging its bunches leaves up
through the chilling mud.
You kneel beside it. The smell
is lurid and flows out in the most
unabashed way, attracting
into itself a continual spattering
of protein. Appalling its rough
green caves, and the thought
of the thick root nested below, stubborn
and powerful as instinct!
But these are the woods you love,
where the secret name
of every death is life again — a miracle
wrought surely not of mere turning
but of dense and scalding reenactment. Not
tenderness, not longing, but daring and brawn
pull down the frozen waterfall, the past.
Ferns, leaves, flowers, the last subtle
refinements, elegant and easeful, wait
to rise and flourish.
What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty.

from American Primitive (1983)




Galway Kinnell

On the tidal mud, just before sunset,
dozens of starfishes
were creeping. It was
as though the mud were a sky
and enormous, imperfect stars
moved across it as slowly
as the actual stars cross heaven.
All at once they stopped,
and as if they had simply
increased their receptivity
to gravity they sank down
into the mud; they faded down
into it and lay still; and by the time
pink of sunset broke across them
they were as invisible as
the true stars at daybreak.

from Mortal Acts, Mortal Words (1980)