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A Postmodern Sublime




Eco+poetics is not something synonymous with, or equivalent
to, Nature poetry. If traditional Nature poetry is a meditation on 
the pastoral beauty of an idyllic landscape, that it is about the 
bird but not the bulldozer, is a transcendent prayer filled with 
elevated insight into the majesty of Nature simply because the 
writer has gone out-in-the-wild, it presumes a colonial view 
that tracks and contains Nature as Other, traps it in a dichotomy 
(Nature vs Humanity). If that isn't predatory, then it is voyeuristic, 
even as it revels in that rare glimpse of something wild without 
ever actually considering the possibility of a relationship with 
other life forms. 


Writing a poem is like terraforming, using available resources 
to create an artificially assembled but self-sustaining ecosystem 
of thought; the (poem's) 'elements' interact with an environment 
(readers and their sociopolitical context make its meaning). 


James Englehart in his Ecopoetry Manifesto describes ecopoetry 
as connection. And while I don't agree with everything he declares, 
I accept his notion that it is; 

"a tension between numerous disciplines that surround it - an  interdisciplinary creature, whose purview includes science and the arts." 

This implies a poetic call to action, an ethos of  concern. 
The poet-observer is an agent for environmental change. 


In today's climate (literally), there is no current landscape, no 
ecosystem on this planet, that is currently untouched by the clang 
of human intervention, by technology spiralling out of control and 
its threatening by-products soaking the edges of everything. 
Writing a poem about Nature that ignores this historical context 
seems hypocritical. 


It also makes the 18th C. notion of the Sublime seem irrelevant. 
Distinct from beauty, the Sublime fears and reveres Mother Nature 
as magnificent and powerful. It also portrays it from a safe distant; 
the beauty of a hurricane contained in a painting, a close-up of 
blood thirsty carnivores captured in a scope. However, it needs 
to be revised, a Revised Sublime that reveals the ecological 
impact of humanity on the world. The awesome spectacle of 
ecological disaster, the breathtaking devastation of war; a 
Revised Sublime illustrates that tension. Oil on water, 
acid on earth.


Ecopoetics describe an environment-in-crisis and as such, offers 
an urgent call. At best, it is a tool for political resistance. What 
justifies the prefix 'eco' to any poetic might be its insinuation of, 
or underlying question about interconnectedness, a redress for the 
falsity of the Human vs. Nature dichotomy. Maybe a desperate 
plea to expand the Golden Rule, to apply it equally to every thing 
on the Planet. And maybe a recognition of aboriginal values. A 
Revised Sublime exposes the impact of large-scale human activity 
on an ecosystem. Pipelines and starving polar bears aside, ecopoetics 
speak to the toxic air we share, to our interconnected breath. Richard 
Lowe's scheme to get-kids back-to-nature (and to sell books) implies 
that we have first somehow left it. As if we can actually ever be 
somehow separate? Really?! 


Ecopoetics serves to remind readers that bulldozers and birds share 
the same landscape. Aware of the poet/poem/poetics and all related 
industries (from lumber to EMF emissions), it goes well beyond to 
become the voice of change within a larger literary 'ecosystem', it 
is a habit of mind that recognizes the unavoidable connection between 
sociopolitical realities and ecological problems. And then wages war.


As it turns out, anyone with lungs and breathe has a voice, if not a 
responsibility, to speak for (an ethos of) interconnection. 
Terraforming one word at a time.


Simple, really.

.

"Love is so short, forgetting is so long."

(Pablo Neruda)

You are that relentless flap of wings across

an endless sky through cloud-into-cloud,

or a last drop of rain that clings to the edge

of something offshore. Whereas I am a ladder,

a shadow that leans against double dead dusk

and reaches up to a fleet of incoming stars,

which is where you last hid.

.

.

at the bottom of a pot, he finds a small degree

of fault and therefore reasons that the glaze's

way too thick. a simple problem to resolve;

no poetry required whatsoever. he then goes

on to state that yellow salt's to blame. use

mostly white at cone 10 gas. the alchemy

is key, the random stirring up of things.

but ash glaze over yellow salt will work.

he states this, knowing his word lingers

longer and that's the way he always

wants it.

.

Whichever way you travel,

through Einstein's space

or Van Gogh's sky,

through Buddha,

Jesus, or Mohammed;

it's all the same divinitas.

.

To displace a conventional view of Iraq,

Mark Cousins creates a documentary in

the style of magical realism. War is on

the edge but intermingled with the

crunch of juicy pomegranate seeds,

the flow of sheep through open fields

and the dreams of children. He gives

the children of Goptapa their first

taste of cinema, projected across bed

sheets that waft in the open night air.

It is the first time that film has been

seen there. He shares a lyrical view of

their village in spite of its history; a

town that was gassed in a series of

genocidal attacks from 1986 to 1989.

The children speak of 1988 as The Anfal,

and reminisce about its chemical rain;

many died. And yet, Cousins portrays

this village with undying beauty, its

pearly light and orange palm trees,

birds perched on cacti that foreground

a war-ravaged horizon.

Overlaid against Cousins' thesis is

the magical flight of little Mohammed,

his dream of flying over Goptapa, and

equally airborne is his plea to all of

Goptapa's children, and perhaps to

endless youth everywhere, that

imagination can counter war.

The First Movie

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On the Ingenuity of Birds

This past spring, I hung a small set of chimes

from my balcony ceiling, all the while knowing

that they were way too close to the roof to get

enough wind momentum. It was tucked into

a sheltered corner of a balcony and although

I had some vague plan to eventually lower

them for more wind exposure, never did.

Soon after the last spring snow melted,

a pair of barn swallows scouted this area

for secluded nesting sites and appropriated

my chimes; the actual chimes were supported

by a flat vertically-hung 4" x 4" glass

decoration. And from their point of view,

a great surface on which to build a nest.

And so, their daily task of spitting tiny

mouthfuls of mud against the 'chime glass'

began. Back and forth all day long, each

time soaring low off the balcony into

nearby trees, and returning with yet

another mouthful to splatter. And

gradually over a two week period,

the form of their nest emerged.

Occasionally, they would spend more time away,

presumably foraging for tasty bugs or water. But

generally, theirs was a relentless task that never

let up from first light til sunset; this kind of

dedication was admirable. The weight of their

completed nest displaced my chimes only slightly

to one side. But best of all, whenever they arrived

back at the nest, I always heard the chimes jingle.

Like Pavlov's dogs, this sound always sparked

a joyful race to the window to see what they

were up to next.

Their next task was to line the nest and

to that end, both birds plucked breast feathers

daily. But all this during an exceptionally

stormy spring, one wrought with high winds,

cold temperatures and record rain falls.

Through all of this their nest was well shielded

from intense winds; they had chosen well. Still,

I wondered about the structural integrity; would

the mud absorb too much rain water and bit by

bit, or all at once, slide off the glass during the

next heavy storm? Or later in the spring, in

dryer weather, would it crack and crumble under

the added weight of eggs or newborns? Each night,

I watched them settle in, to sleep perched atop

their nest, and even took to chirping them a

goodnight call.

Meanwhile, I devised various crisis intervention

schemes, just in case the nest gave way, therefore

laying cushions and blankets directly below the

nest on the balcony floor. But just as an aside,

not only are barn swallows exceptionally beautiful

birds, not only do they portray an endearing spirit,

but they are excellent engineers.

At the other end of this balcony, hung a silver

orb that reflected the entire balcony along

with a panoramic view of everything beyond.

The male liked to perch above it when he wasn't

doing nest duty, and so there, atop a silver orb

he sang to his mate. It became my habit to sit

directly beneath him and mimic his musical phrases.

Our duets lasted throughout spring; him singing

first, then pausing just long enough for me

to repeat it, my inarticulate reply followed by a

new sound pattern from him and my subsequent

attempts at mastery. I discovered that swallows

have a complex language. Also, that the spring

of my personal discontent was suddenly populated

by these glorious avian solitudes filled with song.

I am now truly convinced that he was amused by

my dedicated efforts to sing in 'swallowese' because

if not, it is doubtful that he would have continued

his sing-and-pause pattern throughout the egg

incubation period. Both birds seemed to enjoy

my presence as much as I enjoyed theirs and so,

I am also convinced that (these) birds lead rich

emotional lives.

When they perched on top of their nest, their heads

barely cleared the ceiling. Apparently, swallows like

this feeling of being enclosed. Ironic that they would

desire this since I had just emerged from 2 grueling

years of feeling trapped by my neighbours' airborne

toxins. My own sense of entrapment had seemed

inescapable and these birds added a delightful

distraction. While searching online to learn more

about swallows, I hit a host of sites that uniformly

promoted quick and fatal solutions to the "swallow

problem". Apparently, there is no species on the

planet that someone, somewhere, does not consider

a threat to humanity.

But so it went, that the nest was built and snugly

lined with down. The female began her monotonous

task of egg laying and egg sitting. But whenever she

needed relief, her mate became an equal partner,

'sitting the eggs' for extended periods while she left

to find food or to stretch her wings. And then one day,

I found an empty egg shell on the floor beneath their

nest. A cream coloured shell with brown speckles.

Clearly, the eggs were beginning to hatch and

occasionally, I glimpsed a little pink head pop up.

Interestingly, the parents were not concerned by

my presence. Until one day, I found the last egg

splattered on the balcony floor. An infertile egg

that had been nudged out to make way for

growing babies. It took almost two weeks before

I was able to count 4 featherless heads. But most

astounding was their parents' backandforth tenacity,

flying off to catch a bug in midair and then return just

long enough to stuff it into any open mouth. Their

findandfeed food excursions were exactly like their

nest-building habits. Incessant. All day long from

first flight til last light. Filling up their babies'

hungry bellies was an all-day affair.

Another week passed; babies now had feathers

and wings. Also, the nest was becoming a rather

crowded place since all 6 birds slept there (with

absolutely no sign of nest slippage or crackage).

Until the first born began to perch atop the rim,

wobbling and fluffing his untested wings. Ultimately,

three out of the four babies began this daily wobble

on the edge until the oldest fluttered off and landed

on the nearby balcony railing. Soon, the second and

then the third one followed. But the fourth was

tentative. A few days later, the first three were

taking daily flights, short circles off the balcony

and back again to the nest. All four were still being

fed by both parents but the youngest was alone in

the nest for longer periods of time. Eventually, he

also wobbled off but fluttered to the balcony floor.

Disoriented, he eventually made his way back up

to the soft security of the nest. The next day, he

tried again with the same result. The wobbly edge,

the flutter and fall. And so, I sat next to him for a

moment, until he. he lifted and landed on the

balcony railing. His entire day was spent wobbling

on various nearby edges with no intent to push off.

I worried that he might be disabled. But his siblings

were playful and continued to fly past him until he

was entirely convinced of flight. When he finally

did lift off into the open expanse, that was the

last day this family used their nest for sleeping.

My swallow family had finally flown the coup.

Nesting swallows is a fantastic video that depicts

a 30 day nesting period shot on someone else's

balcony two years ago; I have watched it many

times. At some point, the videographer Andrey

Yeliseyev aptly describes swallows as birds that

keep their nest very clean. I had also observed

my swallow parents continually cleaning the nest

of debris. Afterall, 4 growing babies make a mess

and I had noted daily how the babies would perch

on the edge of the nest with head pointed inward,

about to poop; their parents were quick to strategically

position their heads directly underneath, ready to

catch the little bundles by the beak, a midstream

capture that then sent them flying off the balcony

to make yet another dirty drop somewhere far

away from the nest itself.

But even now, weeks after the nesting extravaganza

came to an end, I continue to count a cluster of six

swallows playfully swooping and soaring through

the open air just beyond my balcony. One or two

of them often venture in, flying within an inch of

their old nest and hovering like a humming bird

just long enough to peer inside, perhaps to reaffirm

that it is still there, or that it is still theirs. Their

swoopandpeek visits are still a daily event. And

so, it is my intention is to leave it hanging there,

in hope that it might get used again and out of

respect.

Mainly, what I've learned is this; that birds share complex

social relationships, lead rich emotional lives, speak in a

subtle language not entirely discernible to our ears, and

actually want to know us in some peaceful way. I happen

to live beside a fresh water bay and close to the tree tops

where I hear and see many kinds of birds flying past my

balcony at eye level. But I always make it a point to search

for the swallows, have newfound respect for who and what

they are, and appreciation for what we shared. Or to be

more accurate, for what they chose to share with me.

Swallowese, indeed.