Ecopoetry and Water

While globalization draws us together, industrialization and human population pressures continue to take their toll on natural habitats. So many species are being snuffed out and so quickly that ecologists refer to it as “the sixth mass extinction.” As a result, many of us find ourselves asking whether the view of human beings as a species independent from others justifies our exploitation of natural resources and sets dire consequences into motion. With regard to the environment, we live these days, as poet C.D. Wright declares, “in an unprecedented state of emergency.”

What humans have perpetrated on their environment certainly affects the means and material of poets. But can poetry itself be ecological? Can it display or be invested with values that acknowledge the interrelationship between human and non-human realms? Aside from issues of theme and reference, how might syntax, line breaks, or the shape of a poem on the page express an ecological ethic?

If the human experience is mostly palimpsestic or endlessly juxtaposed and fragmented; if events rarely have discreet beginnings or endings but primarily layers, duration, and transitions; if natural processes are already altered by and responsive to human observation, how does poetry register the complex interdependency that draws us into dialogue with the world?

There are, of course, long traditions of pastoral or “nature” poetry in both Eastern and Western-language literature. But whereas “nature poetry” often takes the so-called “natural world” for its themes, as though it were separate from the human world, ecopoetry asks how we are involved in—and a part of—all that surrounds us. Ecopoets attempt to offer insights, both formally and thematically, into the complex interrelationships between nature and culture, language and perception.

Because contemporary ecological writing varies so widely and focuses on such a wide range of environmental concerns, I focus on water motifs in this collection. Human bodies, as many of us learned in high school, are about 60 percent water—the bodies of infants are closer to 78 percent water. Water covers nearly 71 percent of Earth’s surface. Water is essential to life as we know it. Each of us has some kind of relationship with water, but many writers are rethinking that relationship with new urgencies.

Why are poets interested in doing this? The way we use language influences the ways we think about the world and vice versa. If we recognize that we are not only a part of nature but, as the poet Evelyn Reilly and the artist Paul Cézanne have noted, that there is no “outside” of nature, what then? If we acknowledge that our seemingly singular pulse is part of a chorus, a teeming mutuality, a world of pulsations—not only from other creatures but from the pulsating Earth itself—what new responsibilities do we take on?

Human DNA contains other creatures’ DNA that long ago became incorporated into human systems. Our armpits swarm with bacteria, parasitic worms squirm through our intestines, and resident microorganisms help us digest our food. Science and intellect tells us that we are conglomerate creatures, but is language adequate for sorting the ethical implications of what that means?

This collection of ecopoetry focuses on water, which has been called the “source of all life.” But these poets aren’t writing pretty, postcard-ready descriptions of ocean scenes. Samuel Gregoire links water to Haitian myths of origin. In the waves crashing on Chile’s coast, Raúl Zurita sees the bodies of those murdered during the bloody Pinochet regime. Tracy K. Smith braids multiple streams of data about water pollution and its effects on human lives. Ada Limón finds the watery depths inside herself. Coral Bracho writes a poem lush with the sound and rhythm of the sea. Stephen Ratcliffe writes serial poems, noting slight variations in the same scene of waves splashing against a cove outside his window. And Alice Oswald channels the voices of people who live along a river, noting that “all voices [in her poem] should be read as the river’s mutterings.” Although all focus on water, each poet takes a different approach and finds a uniquely necessary form for exploring the intricate correspondences between water and human experience.

Robert Creeley ends his famous poem “The Rain” with the sensual proposal to “Be wet/ with a decent happiness.” The speaker of his poem is addressing his love, but, in some critical way, all human happiness depends upon wetness.