How does a poem begin?
Things aren't going well. The globe warms. Oceans acidify, glaciers melt, seas rise, species die off. Poetry persists, but I often wonder why; or rather, I ask myself what role poetry and other aesthetic pursuits has in helping to stave off the sixth mass extinction. It's probably this question, more than any other, that troubles my own writing practice, perhaps driven by a semi-conscious guilt that I need to be doing more than playing with language when faced with such existential threats. But what is that "more" in a poetic context? The American poet Forrest Gander, like Emerson before him, says the goal of poetry is "To see what's there and not already / patterned by familiarity."[1] From an ecocritical perspective, this means paying attention to the ways the ecological itself has been "patterned by familiarity," and seeking a language capable of liberating representations of Nature from an Enlightenment rationality that has taught us to see it as either resource for human consumption or pastoral space for human retreat (which kind of amount to the same thing). Writing ecologically today must be more than writing about "Nature," with all the culturally constructed codifications that term brings to bear. Such nature writing is guilty, consciously or not, of externalizing the ecological, positing it as something outside of us, as the less privileged term in a Nature/culture binary that continues to exalt human (and humanist) interests above ecological embeddedness. Too often, in Stacy Alaimo's words, it "removes us from the scene and ignores the extent to which human agencies are entangled with those of nonhuman creatures."[2] Ecological writing today must chip away at this binary by focusing on the embodied entanglements of ecology and organism.
The challenge of ecopoetics, as Cary Wolfe writes in relation to Wallace Stevens, is to "listen, watch, observe, and be . . . in the context of our multitasking, ultra-distracted mediascape."[3] As if we are looking at Stevens's blackbirds. Doing so, however, requires commitment to what Timothy Morton has termed "the ecological thought," which he characterizes as "a virus that infects all other areas of thinking."[4] To think ecologically, for Morton, is to deconstruct Nature as both ideology and reified commodity. It recognizes that writing ecologically does not necessarily mean writing of forests, rivers, landscapes, or oceans. Rather, the ecological thought is "a practice and process of becoming fully aware of how human beings are connected with other beings--animal, vegetable, and mineral. Ultimately, this includes thinking about democracy."[5]
For me, how to write the ecological thought is a consuming question. How does one locate a poetics that, in Wolfe's words, "reproduces rather than represents the complex logic of physical (and, specifically, biological) systems in ongoing acts of meaning-making that are, at the same time, processes of individuation."[6] One possible path is through the weird, what Morton refers to as "global weirding": "In the term weird there flickers a dark pathway between causality and the aesthetic dimension, between doing and appearing, a pathway that dominant Western philosophy has blocked and suppressed."[7] Not just paying attention but paying attention to what has always been there but has not always been seen outside of its ideological contexts. Like when Don Domanski writes of "the physical music / and the physical body / and that papery feeling / behind all physical things." (18).[8] Or when Christopher Dewdney reminds us that "the eye of the needle / is still the eye of the storm" (15).[9] It's that "papery feeling" or the "eye of the storm" that ought to direct ecological poetics, an autopoiesis that foregoes knowing in favour of letting be known, a search for the irreducibly strange, for that which renders clear the falsity of the Nature/culture binary, the logic of domination that overdetermines language in its domestication of the ecological. Easier said than done, but a direction for those of us writing on the precipice of ecological collapse.
[1] Gander, Forrest. "Unto Ourselves:
To See What's There." Twice Alive. New Directions, 2021.
[2] Alaimo, Stacy. Exposed:
Environmental Politics and Pleasures in Posthuman Times. University of
Minnesota Press, 2016. pp. 144
[3]
Wolfe, Cary. Ecological Poetics, or, Wallace Stevens's Birds. University
of Chicago Press, 2020. pp. xii.
[4] Morton,
Timothy. "The Ecological Thought." The Norton Anthology of Theory
and Criticism. Third Edition. Eds. Vincent Leitch et al. Norton, 2018. pp.
2621.
[5]
ibid.
[6]
Wolfe, Ecological Poetics. pp. xiii.
[7] Morton, Timothy. Dark Ecology.
Columbia UP, 2016. pp. 5.
[8] Domanski, Don. "An Evening in Cape
Breton." Wolf Ladder. Coach House, 1991. pp. 18.
[9] Dewdney, Christopher. "This My
Emissary." The Radiant Inventory. McClelland and Stewart, 1990. pp.
15.
Adam Beardsworth is the author of No Place Like (Gaspereau 2023), and the critical book Confessional Poetry in the Cold War (Palgrave 2022). He is the editor of Horseshoe Literary Magazine and a professor of Literature at Grenfell Campus, Memorial University. He lives with his family in Steady Brook, NL.