River of Play

The Language Habitat: an Ecopoetry Manifesto

Ecopoetry is connection.  

It’s a way to engage the world by and through language. This poetry might be wary of language, but at its core believes that language is an evolved ability that comes from our bodies, that is close to the core of who we are in the world. Ecopoetry might borrow strategies and approaches from postmodernism and its off-shoots, depending on the poet and their interests, but the ecopoetic space is not a postmodern space. An ecopoem might play with slippages, but the play will lead to further connections.

Ecopoetry does share a space with science. One of the concerns of ecopoetry is non-human nature (it shares this concern with the critical apparatus it borrows from, ecocriticism). It certainly shares that concern with most of the world’s history of poetry: How can we connect with non-human nature that seems so much more, so much larger than ourselves? How can we understand it? One way is to laud nature unrealistically. Another is to praise of the human control of nature. Ecopoetry, though, pushes past the traditions of the pastoral or the georgic; as in science, nature is neutral and can only be approached with the understanding that non-human nature will forever remain non-human. It is profoundly Other and starkly confronts us with what it means to be human. As poets, we can approach and explore non-human nature, but the connection will always retreat. Science, however, allows the poet to name things carefully. And it looks into the mind that makes and reads poems and points the poet toward compositional, structural, and aesthetic strategies.

Some ecopoetry wishes to engage nature as a spiritual space, but we live in bodies, not spirit. We can only speak from a bodied connection to the world. The body is a genetic space as well, and that means that family is a natural concern of ecopoetry. The family that came before us, the family around us, the family we create and that will outlive us. Families form culture, they connect us to culture; they are where culture begins. Families come out of histories and places. Thus, a successful family ecopoem must look outside the immediate, constrained concerns of the nuclear family.        

The ecopoem must connect to the culture and society that it inhabits. You might ask, How can it not? But when thinking about an ecology, it’s easy to overlook aspects of the system, including the largest aspects. Culture is a product of evolution; it is a product of non-human nature, yet we recognize it as our own, human product. The ecopoem must contend with this paradox; it must connect here. Culture. Non-human nature. It is around these indissoluble differences that ecopoetics searches for the transitional phases, the ecotones, the shifting boundaries that yield language, insight, struggle. But of course these differences aren’t differences at all. We are natural beings building cities as naturally as bees build hives. Unlike the bee, however, we are aware of the hives we build, why we built them, how they connect, intellectually, to other hives, other people. Also unlike the bee, when we look to other creatures, we understand that we cannot know them. Thus, the differences swirl back up to surround us and the search for poetry begins again.      

The ecopoem is connected to the world, and this implies responsibility. Like other poetic models that assume a connection and engagement (feminism, Marxism, witness, etc.), ecopoetry is surrounded by questions of ethics. Should the ecopoem do something in the world? But how can a poem be said to accomplish anything? Or is that position only of a poetics that recognizes only aesthetics? Is there a rhetoric to ecopoetry? Can the ecopoem be compelling as an object and as a political call? Is the meaning of non-human nature stable? Does—can it?—have a meaning at all? These are questions that remain open, that the community of ecopoets must track down, investigate, turn their minds to again and again.

Lastly, the ecopoem must connect to the human capacity to play. More so even than our animal cousins, we are creatures who play. Ecopoems must allow our full range of joy and experimentation as we try to connect to our world and the other creatures here with us. Play allows for interdependent coevolution that explores the contingent within connection, that lets the mind roam without limit. Play reveals deep connections.  

Even as we try to understand and make sense of a world that will ultimately evade us, as we decide what responsibility we should exercise, as we work to bring culture and science into our work, ecopoets must remember our bodies, our families, and push the range of our language.

The Ecopoetry Anthology

I've been talking with Ann Fischer-Wirth about this anthology project for years, and it's great to see it's out and available. 

And if you click over here, you'll see a fantastic interview by a fantastic poet, Derek Sheffield. Is ecopoetry necessary? Hell yes!

 

 

Resisting Despair

In a recent opinion piece over at the Chronicle, Pascal Bruckner argues for ecologism (a sort of conservation-minded ideology) as the new hairshirt for the world. Tales of ecological collapse—driven by humans and their desires—evoke a guilt as heavy and unavoidable as original sin.

We, those affected by such dolor, need to get a grip. We need to shake off our despair and embrace progress. Bruckner rallies around this call:

A race has begun between the forces of despair and those of human ingenuity. In other words, the remedy is found in the disease, in the despised industrial civilization, the frightening science, the endless crisis, the globalization that exceeds our grasp: Only an increase in research, an explosion of creativity, or an unprecedented technological advance will be able to save us. We have to try to push back the boundaries of the possible by encouraging the most fantastic initiatives, the most mind-boggling ideas. We have to transform the increasing scarcity of resources into a wealth of inventions.

Shame! And get a sweater.

 

As well as this final flourish: “Above all, we have to save the world from its self-proclaimed saviors, who brandish the threat of great chaos in order to impose their lethal impulses.”

The piece left me thinking that maybe an American raised outside of Catholicism doesn’t feel the weight of guilt drag so heavily. Or maybe it’s that I don’t mind taking short showers and wearing sweaters. Or it may be that I don’t participate enough in the mainstream of my culture and so the messages he resists are muted for me. And, really, “lethal impulses”?

I’ll say this, though, bootstrapping isn’t the answer. Our ability to leverage our technology seems suspect at best (I’ll just reach back to Alfred Nobel to get the ball rolling). However, I agree that “What is at stake is the pleasure of living together on this planet that will survive us, whatever we do to it.” And we certainly need “trailblazers and stimulators” to insure that survival. But there’s a balance to be found, and the search for that balance is not served well by Bruckner.

Oh, and the comments are lively!

Very Emerald, Not So Licious

The editor comments are back. Substantial but not unfair. In our defense, Jeremy and I generated 10k words in two weeks. We were expecting heavy notes, and so it wasn't a shock to return to the essay. But it's still a lot of work. 

And ASLE is wrapping up. My tribe--and Jeremy's--disbanding for another two years. So I'm in a deeply ecocritical state of mind that doesn't shut off when I'm reading books to Wendy.

Enter The Apple-Pip Princess and Emeraldalicious.

The former is a kind of re-telling of theParable of the Talents. The daughter, in this version, who wins approval works hard with her mother's magic to re-grow the kingdom. In Emeraldalicious--

I'll cut to the chase: how epic is this fail?

The book is another in the "-alicious" franchise begun by Pinkalicious. The art is intriguingly awkward and the story--for the first one--is unsteady and perhaps objectionable. Perhaps not. So we've read other books in the series because they get high-profile launches and library space, and they're fine, I guess, if forgettable.

Short answer: epic.

In this book, Pink and her brother are in a park. They discover a trash heap (not Marjory) in their favorite part of the park and use egocentrism and magic to remove the garbage. Now, I could spend a bit of time going over the details of the fail, but I'll narrow it down to one criticism: Change takes work--not magic, not wishing. I don't mind magic in a story, and if magic had helped her to contact all her friends to come help clean up the park, then I wouldn't be all cranky (in this scenario, Twitter=magic). Change isn't magic. It's us.

I had Dana read it with the only preface being that I was suspicious. She put it down at the end and tucked it back into the libary bag. She only raised an eyebrow at me. We've talked about it, of course, but it's the beauty of libraries: you don't own the books.

 

Over the Silence

I've been filling my free time with the revival of a project I had thought long-abandoned. My colleague (and good friend) JD Schraffenberger and I had put together a proposal for an

Bonus: Cranes in Fairbanks. Very close to what Wendy and I saw yesterday at Creamer's Field.

ecopedagogy chapter of a creative writing pedagogy anthology. The book proposal got bounced around, finally picked up, and then our chapter got cut. Alas. 

Ah! But two weeks ago we were contacted by the editors asking if we'd put the chapter together; another participant had to withdraw. So I've been crashing back into the world of ecocriticism, pedagogy, and all things academic.

It's been quite exciting, actually. Nice to remember that I actually (shameful admission) liked grad school.

Right. The kicker: it's due June 1. So we're typing furiously into Google Docs.

I also have some thoughts on the future of books, or where we are with ebooks, or some other thoughts along those lines, but I'll get to them later.

Unsustainable Arctic, Unsustainable You

A friend spent a late afternoon and evening with us a week ago, and I’d add that she’s a new friend, but pretty much all our friends up here are new friends, so the phrasing seemed redundant. We were talking about the ship poised off the west coast of Alaska that’s set to deliver diesel to Nome—a maneuver that will require the ship to run about a mile or so of pipeline over landfast ice to the town. We both started to giggle: what could possibly go wrong?

After we refreshed our tea, we started talking about sustainability in the far north. It’s clearly an issue because we can’t grow enough plant-based foods or supply enough fuel for almost any of us to live up here. Yet, here we are. And many of us are deeply concerned about the environment. So, really, what the hell are we doing up here? 

Not an easy question to answer, particularly if you look beyond the charisma of the landscape, which has both grandeur and subtlety—a particularly attractive combination, but not a sufficient answer to the question.

We decided to flip the question, though. 

When we lived in the lower 48, and a lot of us have come from somewhere else (really, it’s almost as bad as living in Atlanta), how many of us had truly sustainable lifestyles? What happened to us when we came up was that our attention became very focused on the illusions, and illusions get stripped away pretty quickly up here. This place is not a temperate zone, and when it’s forty-five below zero, you can’t just suck up your gut and brave the cold. No one can. You will die. Quickly. Brown bears and wolves live within walking distance, and you are a tasty and easy snack unless you’re prepared. Those are easy examples, but you can walk into a grocery store and tell immediately if the latest truck broke down on the way up. Or, for example, I couldn’t buy grapes today. Simply none were on the shelves. But how many times did I buy grapes in January wherever else I’ve lived and not given another thought to the supply chain?

That issue of the supply chain, and the very odd gaps that appear in stores, becomes the foundation of every choice you make up here. But of course it’s the foundation of every choice you make everywhere. Almost everywhere else, though, the chain is invisible, and that’s what frustrates those of us devoted to environmental issues. 

 

Designing Global Warming

Dana and I went to get new cell phones recently (thereby completing our move of resources up to Alaska—our phone numbers had languished as Nebraska numbers), and I had had a conversation fairly recently about issues surrounding anthropogenic global warming. Together, these topics had me thinking about teleology. 

Not teleology in the formal sense, but a more general feeling of “onward and upward.”

Since our families are not anywhere near the Arctic Circle, and our jobs require us to travel, we went with smart phones that are part of an international provider’s network instead of a local carrier. It’s easy to be seduced by the seemingly unstoppable implications of Moore’s Law—OMG a better camera! better reception! more…stuff! And we fell for the seduction.

As we were figuring out how to set up voicemail, it struck me that these phones are not the future. I mean, of course they are the future, but they aren’t what’s going to make life better, reset our economic imbalances, or solve the pressing issues of food and energy. The phones—and the technology they represent—are important pieces of the solution, but they are also, and perhaps equally, part of the problem. 

We speed along though, don’t we, without thinking about the issues. We might well need more energy…but why? We must upgrade the apps, design, and capabilities of our phones, microwaves, cat box systems, and so on. The idea of not moving forward seems against nature, against evolution. 
As if evolution was teleological. 

Teleology is our own, human, creation. Like money. Like justice, or fairness, or art. Any solution to global warming will rely in part on technology. It seems clear that we will not be content to give up our smart phones, Wii consoles, and movies on demand. It also seems clear that we will not be able power those devices by long-dead biological matter. What we need beyond focus and attention (which is to say, engineering) is an evaluation of our own interests, a better sense of our needs. 
When we come to the issue of needs we come to a dead end. Who ever wants to reconsider—or closely consider—our needs? And do you want to share your resources with people you’ve never met, on the other side of the planet, who might not understand you and your culture? But our technology won’t solve that problem. The technology has no design beyond its own, and the bigger engineering challenge is the larger design. But that design, that progress, always and only relies on us. 

To steal a phrase, we must be the teleology we want to see in the world. The re-engineering of our approach to our wants, though, looks to be much harder than building a multi-touch screen for your coffee table. And in a consumer society you simply don’t get the message to want less. I’ve learned some fun things to do with my phone, so I hope you’re better than me.

 

Writer as a Listening Body

I was talking with a friend of mine a few weeks ago about writing about place. We’re both new(-ish) to Alaska, and we both try to engage the place we’re living—the idea of the place, the reality of the place, the deep history, the non-human… So many aspects. But Alaska is making us mute. Not literally mute, or even figuratively. And yet, we’re having a hard time with the words.

When I lived in Nebraska, writing about the place came a little easier. Though I wasn’t born there, the interest I had in the place felt like I was pouring water into a channel that was subtle—more so because it was ignored. The energy of the water moved smoothly; the water itself was welcome. In flyover country, you’re just happy to be noticed. Beats the hell out of being ignored and taken for granted.   

But Alaska… Alaska’s a tourist destination. It’s a state that conjures images of gold, oil, wilderness—Romance. People from all over the world want to travel to Alaska. And the stakes are much higher when a writer engages that energy.

The reverse of that energy is the protective feeling that the people who live there year-round harbor. If you’ve ever lived in a tourist area, you know what I’m writing about. And you’re immediately suspicious of anyone who drops in for a week or so, takes notes, and then zips away to write their “insights” into the place. I grew up in the Southern Appalachian region, and history of people coming down to tell us our errors and how to save ourselves is long. And hated.

 So what’s a writer and scholar interested in place supposed to do? In a word: Listen. To people. To history. To land. To the non-humans living in the place with you. Listen for complication, for confusion, for the awkward spaces where issues and populations overlap. I’m frequently not very good at it. But I’m trying. And this is a great place in which to be listening.

 

 

Folklore, Women, and the Great Plains

I'm still early in this poetry project, a handful of early drafts of poems, and I'm beginning to feel a bit of momentum as well as a sense of the various attractors. So it seems like a good time to step back and look at the concerns of the project. 

Since I'm working from an ecopoetic stance, I have a sort of mental checklist of what I want to look toward as basic materials. History. Science. Culture. And this ecopoetry is place-based, so I'm trying to absorb more information about the place around me. Place meaning land, the non-human lives  on that land, and the people who interact with those others. My last project built out from a narrow focus, and I wanted to go larger. Plus, I wanted to explore a bit of the fantastic, a bit of whimsy, something more fictional and fun. So I turned to folklore.

The folklore has been quite rewarding, but at this point, as I step back to look at what's going on, I see a glaring problem: women. Or, rather, the absence of women. This is fairly basic stuff, women's studies 101, really, but it's always a shock to come across it. Again. One of the small ironies, here, is that I'm relying on Louise Pound's Nebraska Folklore as a source. Of course, there are women in the book and in the stories. Usually, they are unnamed wives or wise women mostly working in the background to move the hero along. The Native American tradition fares a bit better, but I don't feel nearly as comfortable exporting that tradition wholesale. There's a bit of touchy history, and a great delicacy is called for. 

So. I'm thinking about women of the Great Plains. If anyone out there knows of folkloric women heroes, let me know. I don't want to expropriate Dorothy Gale, though. Maybe I'll ship Joan of Arc over...

One of the ways this point got driven home was a game group that meets on Sundays at a coffeehouse in town. The group is all male. Nice guys, but still, a curious experience.  

And Back Again

The trip to U of Northern Iowa was uncomfortable, but only as far as the driving was concerned. Rain mixed with snow. Thunderstorms. Wind hammering the car with 30 mph bursts of entirely unnecessary energy. My time with Jeremy Schraffenberger and his students (and, later, the family) was a treat.

They had been reading ecopoets and ecocritical articles the entire semester and engaging the idea of ecopoetry. They had also read my ecopoetry manifesto. The conversation we had was wide-ranging and exciting, but at some level it felt very odd to me. Who was this Engelhardt we were all talking about? Did he really write these things? Can we extend his argument? And, if so, why were they all looking at me?

Great students. It seems clear that UNI is doing a fine job attracting engaged, dedicated students. And if any of them of bouncing over to this post: hello!

I'll add a picture of the building in which we all huddled into a corner to talk about the outside world (though we had a bright green young pine tree outside one window that we used as an object lesson the entire evening).

Jeremy and I went for a very tasty dinner in the short length of Main Street that houses a cluster of neat shops, good coffee, and a clutch of good restaurants. We talked poetry, poetics, university politics, children, and on and on well into the night. If you're ever in the Cedar Falls area, look the man up.

The next morning, I rolled out of town, battled the elements, and prepped for Saturday's game day at the house. (Which games? Thanks for asking! Furstefeld, The Hobbit, and Municipium.) Later today, there's a poetry reading at the main Lincoln library. Busy weekend. And I'm still feeling good.