Not an essay, though there is probably a whole dissertation hidden in this title. Just a Sunday selection of a few poems I’ve read recently that have said something recognisable to me about how the act of witnessing climate collapse elicits a whole load of emotions, a grab-bag of throat-lumps, a pick and mix of angers, a bran tub of what the f**k do I do with this now?
Not only do the emotions come in a tangle, but they are inevitably either linked to, or fighting for mental space, against all the other absolute horrors that simultaneously require our attention, activism, energy, anger, empathy, time and money. Scroll on.
This poem is from the beautiful An/Other Pastoral by Tjawajgwa Dema, illustrated by Tebogo Cranwell, and published by No Bindings Press (sadly sold out). Parenting during pandemic, anyone would be forgiven for having no mental space to contemplate climate crisis; but the enormity of some environmental disasters force their way into our consciousness, shedding light on the interconnectedness of all our systems of exploitation and oppression.
An astounding number of people would rather simply not believe the evidence of science and their own damn eyes when it comes to climate stuff. It’s less terrifying that way, perhaps? You can shrug off the need for any personal responsibility and be a little pixie of conspiracy quirks; you can look away from the gut-wrenching realisation that literally no-one in power is going to make the right decisions to save us; you can keep prioritising the pleasures of your consumption. This poem is so full of the human – narcissism, denial, failures of empathy, fear of death, the uncertainty around meaning, purpose, what’s it all for… does it act on you as a wake up call? You can find it, and the following poem, in Out of Time: Poetry from the Climate Emergency ed. Kate Simpson by Valley Press.
In Dema’s poem, a huge eco-disaster intrudes into an already pandemic-fraught life. In this one, biodiversity loss and our current steady mass extinction pops up during what should be an idyllic time in Nature. It’s not even the first issue to raise it’s head, but it effectively shuts down the conversation – the last thing in the poem. This is every conversation I have these days – a litany of appalling things interspersed with attempts to look around and appreciate my surroundings or the luck of my life, all of it eventually cut dead by listen, the birds are dying off – until I rally myself for the next attempt at normality and joy. I try not to say the dead birds bit out loud to most people, just in case I stopped getting invited to parties! And I do feel lots of joy! But also, I do count birds…
It’s poems like this that remind me there really isn’t (or shouldn’t be?) any such thing as nature poetry anymore. Nature has been used as a salve and an escape and an inspiration and a metaphor for human yearnings and philosophies for so many centuries. We’d like to keep doing that, it’s beautiful. But it’s tainted. Is it even possible anymore to look, but not to see what we’ve done, what we do?
I’m finishing with this banger from Holly Hopkins’ collection The English Summer from Penned in the Margins, which I heartily recommend. Here’s parenting again, with the added ingredient of feminism. Every word of it true! I love it, and I absolutely acknowledge that this is one of the HUGE drawbacks to climate activism that focuses on individual responsibility – the work of clearing up messes of any kind is likely to fall much more heavily on women. At least, it always has done, no reason to think anything will change any time soon when you look at the rising popularity of brutal misogyny absolutely bloody everywhere. Its a problem. I ain’t got no solution – but I’m offering you this little selection of poems I suppose as a provocation to see how it’s all linked. The sexism, the fascism, the consumerism, the capitalism, the genocide, the racism, the ecocide.
All the same death grip.
There you go, nice little blog for a Sunday!
Kirsten Luckins 