Tag: Climate Change

Who will hold the ocean?

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A stirring trailer builds the reader into a frenzy. The poems do not disappoint

Book cover of 'Not Quite An Ocean' by Elizabeth M. Castillo

Oceans can be overwhelming. To the untrained eye, an ocean is too vast, too wild, too changeable to be understandable. Elizabeth M. Castillo is an astute tour guide, for she is knowledgeable enough to know how little humans know of an ocean’s true depths.

Come with me;
I will show you how the roots are
fibrous here, like lace, like macrame,
dancing across the dirt

In Not Quite An Ocean, deference to nature is assumed. Humans are nothing but a brief irritation on Earth’s back. ‘Beneath the mountain, Gaia sleeps, weary from the angry years of men waging war across her skin, and plundering her depths with impunity,’ the poet writes in ‘When Mother Nature will not Wake’.

The poet knows that nature has the power to devour humanity. In ‘Things that have replaced my Father’, she evokes ‘this dark cloud that I watch, helplessly, as it swallows him whole’. Mythical allusions reinforce the insignificance of individuals.

One of the collection’s best poems is ‘Storm Tower’, which moves quickly from an individual influencing nature (‘… as if coffee | spilled from your cup had stained atmosphere’) to the natural world’s desperate attempts to tell humanity to change its destructive ways (‘Words are | travelling to you, a message, swollen, begging | to be deciphered’). In the end, the poet urges realism: ‘Steady yourself. Gather your clothes | and wits about you. You can’t outrun the storm’.

If that all sounds pessimistic, it is not. Not Quite An Ocean is a collection that breathes life into wearied souls and offers a brief vision of harmony.

The collection is a rallying feminist cry: ‘The earth was held between two breasts / warm | and safe from the beasts inside’. Only by acknowledging that we are children of Mother Earth can we live peacefully within nature, instead of using and abusing her abundance.

Especially moving is ‘For Sarah, and all those whose names I’ll never know’, in which the countless victims of male violence are remembered:

Prisoners
of war, victims of the Congo saga.
Mauritian
wives, Mauritian daughters, cowering in their kitchens.
Desaparecidas, at Mexican borders, in Argentine towns […]

The poem’s refrain (‘What do we have to do for you to stop killing us?’) washes over the reader with rising intensity. Anger and purpose and the hope of something better are contagious; the prospect of a better future is threaded poignantly into a crescendo that compels the reader to rise up and take a stand.

Castillo’s stylish, imagistic poetry brings people in and invites them to think beyond the page. Like the seasons, the collection offers a varied, sometimes unpredictable, reading experience.

Unsurprisingly for a seasoned fiction writer (see, for example, ‘This thread’, which appeared in Issue 4 of Briefly Zine), prose poems play a starring role, sprawling across the page, defiant and untameable. The poem, ‘In summer I am beautiful’, is one of many examples where poetic form enters into conversation with nature: ‘Winter where shadows creep and creep, where trees are naked, when hope decides to hibernate’.

Hope and despair come in waves. On the blurb, Not Quite An Ocean is described as ‘a paean to the feminine, to motherhood and to the natural world’. Certainly, female power is lauded and nature’s force celebrated. But the poems are far from triumphant.

In ‘When Mother Nature will not Wake’, for example, ‘There is vengeance inside this girl, but she keeps it under lock and key’. In ‘Who will hold the ocean?’, the burden is not shared and the Earth is starting to collapse: ‘Who will breathe life into her wearied sinews, shore up the arms that | hold the continents apart?’

It is a timely question. Unless drastic action is taken, the world’s oceans will contain (by weight) more plastic than fish by 2050. In 2023, the temperature of the world’s ocean surface has already hit an all-time high – a shameful record that will be broken again and again in the coming years and decades.

The cruelty and self-centredness with which humans have used the planet and callously abused other living beings is hard to express in words. Not Quite An Ocean does not quite condemn humanity in the starkest terms. But it does accept our collective guilt: ‘and I must learn the hard way: | the deadliest thing in here is me’.

Elizabeth M. Castillo, Not Quite An Ocean (Nine Pens, 2023). Available here.

Cover of 'Not Quite An Ocean' by Elizabeth M. Castillo.

Seeing things and seething

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Julian Bishop, We Saw It All Happen (Fly on the Wall Press, 2023)

Seeing is ambiguous. Less active than ‘watching’ or ‘looking’, it nevertheless involves some level of engagement with the world around us. A witness might proudly declare “I saw it all” when giving testimony; God (in various guises) is often described as all-seeing; when flicking through Twitter, we often see things we can’t help but click. Whether informants, deities or doom-scrollers, we are all seeing the Earth weep.

Some see with open eyes; others with a shifty sideways glance. Many are peeking through the gaps between their fingers. And too many are trying to keep their eyes shut. We are seeing one third of Pakistan submerged by floodwater. We are seeing more than 8 million tons of plastic end up in oceans every year. And we are seeing insect populations plunge, threatening 40% of species with extinction within decades.

Different types of observer fill the pages of Julian Bishop’s We Saw It All Happen. There are angry seers. Sad gazers. And detached viewers, who watch on, Gogglebox-style, as though the burning world were only on TV. At times, readers might themselves feel uncomfortably implicated: in a climate emergency, should we even be reading poetry?

The only riposte to such (legitimate) doubts about poetry’s utility comes from poetry itself. In one of the collection’s best, the poet alludes to ‘Four Forms of Denial’: ‘[idle]’, ‘[CARNIVORE]’, ‘[personal]’ and ‘[PRESIDENTIAL]’. In the final section, the deranged voice bellows,

YOU | DON’T NEED MONEY TO FIGHT WILD FIRES | WHAT YOU SEE AND READ IS NOT WHAT’S HAPPENING

With (wilful) climate change denial still staggeringly prevalent, the step from apathy to authoritarianism is dangerously narrow. Bishop’s catalogue of catastrophe is the perfect counterweight to the Orwellian ‘greenwashing’ (and outright lies) of Big Oil and the Meat Lobby. When ‘The Party’ tells us to reject the evidence of our eyes and ears – ‘their final, most essential command’ – more voices are needed to remind us that what we saw really did happen.

The starting point for We Saw It All Happen, as is often true of the most powerful poetry, is personal experience. Bishop, a former Environment Reporter for BBC Wales, uses poetry to turn the lens on himself. Reflecting on his career in the ‘Preface’, he writes that he used to hope that,

my reports might go some small way to change hearts and minds. I think it’s fair to say I failed which might explain some of the frustration and sadness expressed in many of the poems

Frustration permeates the whole collection. Humans are pirates, who ‘keelhauled the lot to give us more space’. In ‘Highlights of Mining for Gold in Indonesia’, the consumer is squarely held as culpable for the devastating effects of deforestation. ‘Look inside the lovely ring, at a gold chain, your piercing…’ the poet urges, and you will see ‘a gold vein threading | together diminishing jungle but an inconvenient gorilla | to the two men with chainsaws’.

From Cinnabar moths to dung beetles, the collection plays host to hundreds of tiny creatures that are too often overlooked. When you can’t see something, you can’t see that it is disappearing. ‘Strange that catastrophe should announce itself |on such small feet’ the poet muses.

In drawing attention to the extraordinary biodiversity that ‘make[s] the world go round’, the poet advocates for a new way of seeing: photographers fawning over tigers neglect the beetle in the same way that people, so wrapped up in the pursuit of personal goals, forget to nourish the Earth that ensures their survival.

To reinforce this need for visibility, the beautifully produced collection – published by (the aptly named) Fly on the Wall Press – features an illustrated flip book of beetles. Seeing is believing, which makes foregrounding something that is usually invisible a powerful act. Flipping the beetles away serves as a vivid visual reminder of the extinction that humans are inflicting upon the insect world.

Indeed, poetry itself encourages a different kind of seeing. Different perspectives compete; different voices compel attentive listening. Bishop’s collection is a graveyard of humanity’s errors. This graveyard is so huge and overwhelming that the best way to (try to) understand it is on the personal level. That is poetry’s place.

‘To All the Insects I Ever Squished’ is a deceptively poignant elegy to the vast range of insects the poet has killed – deliberately or otherwise. His apology to wasps (‘for prizing a sandwich more than your lives’) is especially telling. It is hard to read this poem without feeling a tidal wave of despair but its ending is too glibly defeatist. Pleading that the deaths were the result of a ‘congenital human urge to eliminate’ leaves no hope for redemption – and, more importantly, it undermines the sincerity of the poet’s apology. We can help it. We need to help. However hopeless the battle might seem, we cannot simply throw in the towel. Having made this mess, we owe it to every squished insect to at least try to clean up.

Bishop is right to focus on the worst perpetrators. Fossil fuel, meat and dairy, mining and aviation companies hold the keys to a liveable future for all. To Big Oil, he says, ‘You barrelled across the Earth like you owned it | and to a degree or two you did’. He satirises the politicians complicit in these ruinous activities in ‘Eton Mess’. His recipe involves mixing ‘No deep thought or application’ with a sprinkling of Latin, a perfect summary of the last decade of British politics. Naturally, the finishing touch is to ‘Dust conservatively with icing sugar (or cocaine)’.

When addressing Starbucks (proxy for big, immoral business), the consumer is also to blame: ‘we cradle the stain | of a disposable cup in our hands’. Indeed, amid the hopelessness of stopping the wealthy from taking short-haul domestic private jet jaunts, we need some reminders that individuals are not innocent bystanders.

This is most apparent in the title poem. The walrus scene in Our Planet is a tragic visualisation of the effects of climate change. Ice-free waters are forcing walruses to return to land to rest; exhausted and overcrowded, they then topple to their deaths. The poet uses this horrifying image – and the walruses’ helpless wails – to mirror humanity’s guilt and shame at having caused such suffering. The twin images of a family eating a fish feast on the sofa and the walruses plunging to their deaths create an excruciating echo:

now we’re all wailing
kill the sound

In a book centred on the power of sight, it is sound that has the most enduring effect. The poet heightens his message through exceptional command of white space. The page becomes a scene of failure, the meeting point of cause and effect, a space for the slow-motion playing out of something that could have been avoided.

The repetition of ‘I’ve got the zapper in my hand’, so rich with meaning, is a refrain for the age. We have the power to change the channel and pretend it isn’t happening; or we can stare in horror for a few long minutes, then go back to eating our takeaway. Or we can turn up the volume, take responsibility for our mistakes and do something to correct them. We Saw It All Happen is essential reading for the poetry world – and anyone who still cares and hopes. In ‘Ash’, the closing poem, Bishop makes clear that he does,

A desperate last gasp to save the planet,
I want the world to warm to my plan.

Julian Bishop, We Saw It All Happen (Fly on the Wall Press, 2023). Available here: https://www.flyonthewallpress.co.uk/product-page/we-saw-it-all-happen-by-julian-bishop

Someone Else’s Dream

Silk~

earth losing its shine the moon so uninspired

his thoughts a pool of mist in the sunken valley

whispered wishes where there are no wells

hills no longer rolling they simmer

tides don’t just rise they sigh and swell

horsetail fall into someone else’s dream

Silk~ is a poet.

Beyond Unbinds the Dragonfly

Kristina T. Saccone

My daughters dart in the dreg, still wingless nymphs fresh from the egg. They feed from a school of tadpoles — a feast — then molt in the algae bloom. I stretch my wings to test for an escape.

Before he visited my silted lake, I knew nothing of the beyond. He beckoned in turquoise, glistening veins vibrating in the spring shade of the pond. We coupled, his wings across my abdomen like a veil at rest, whispering about clear streambeds and unsullied waters.

In tandem, we dropped our eggs into the mire. Then, in a moment, his cobalt and sapphire vanished, gone to a far-off somewhere. The ovae, an anchor, held me here. 

But now my nymphs need blood, larvae, and the worm, not a mother who yearns for other shores. So when the kayak floats by, I drift onto its prow. I tremble with the lull of the boat before the oars dip. Together, we launch into the beyond.

Kristina T. Saccone crafts flash fiction and creative nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Six Sentences, The Bangor Literary Journal, Emerge Literary Journal, and Unearthed, and she curates Flash Roundup, featuring the latest releases in flash fiction. Find her on Twitter (@kristinasaccone) or haunting small independent bookstores in the Washington, D.C. area.

The Group

Jeff Skinner

We come back each week
strangers to ourselves

going round in circles
of what if, if only –

taking turns to cry
white tissues the flags

of surrender, of solidarity.
Someone to do nothing with, that’s what I miss.

I say something new happening
is worse: the return

of the rose, flourishing careers
assiduous love prepared the ground for

that letting yourself one spring morning
into the house you cannot share.

Jeff Skinner, longlisted in this year’s Briefly Write Poetry Prize, has been published in a number of journals with poems to come in the Fenland Poetry Journal and Poetry Salzburg in 2022. Third in the 2021 Poetry Space competition, he has also been published in several competition anthologies.

Re: Action

Alisa Golden

Plum tree
cut to the quick
swarming with termites

I regret
complaining about
sticky sidewalks

Alisa Golden writes and makes art in a one-square-mile, California city. She is editor of Star 82 Review, author of Making Handmade Books, and her stories and poems have been published in Blink-Ink, Nanoism, and Litro, among others. www.neverbook.com

Two Photos

Fabrice Poussin

Too Far

Safe

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications. 

Three Photos

Sarah Leavesley

a space as wide as the sky

“Being outside with a sense of space and open sky reminds me that my part in this world may be small but that I am part of it”

city frowns

“It can be easy to vilify cities in environmental terms when they may in fact play some positive roles (reducing long commutes and some transportation pollution). Important questions remain though: are our cities as environmentally friendly as they could be? And are those at the helm paying enough attention to this?”

before whole worlds disappear

“William Blake saw “…a World in a Grain of Sand | And a Heaven in a Wild Flower” (‘Auguries of Innocence’). Each small creature reminds me of how many worlds we could lose through climate damage and species extinction”

Sarah Leavesley is a prize-winning photographer and writer, whose current work draws heavily on nature and environmental concerns. See more on her website.

Hotel Extinction

Julian Bishop

A view to die for from any of our last resorts: whether
remote island or sapphire lagoon, the outlook is
unremittingly the same. We’re frighteningly easy
to travel to, our portfolio global. Another branch
opens daily. Most guests are driven here. Many fly.
All animals welcome. We apologise for the poor air
conditioning. We guarantee a good sleep. Beware
of a sudden proliferation in insects – rest assured
we are committed to total elimination. Everything
in the Ice Breaker Tavern is on the rocks, 24/7.
We don’t do a Happy Hour. Think Hotel California:
check out any time you like but you can never leave.
Daily wake-up calls are free. Sunset at the infinity
pool is unforgettable. Every room always has flowers.

“I’m calling my forthcoming book of eco poems We Saw It All Happen because I’m staggered at how the world can let catastrophe unfold in plain sight. I fret at the edges, cutting out meat and unnecessary travel but I like to think, as a writer, that I have a more important role to play. Auden’s famous (mis)quote that poetry makes nothing happen perhaps needs to be counterbalanced with a lesser-known quote from the master:

But once in a while the odd thing happens,
Once in a while the dream comes true,
And the whole pattern of life is altered,
Once in a while the moon turns blue.

(Once In A While The Odd Thing Happens)

And that’s precisely why I write.”

Julian Bishop is a former television journalist who’s had a lifelong interest in ecology and worked for a time as Environment Reporter for BBC Wales. A former runner-up in the Ginkgo Prize for Eco Poetry, he’s also been shortlisted for the Bridport Poetry Prize and was longlisted in this year’s National Poetry Competition. He is one of four poets featured in a 2020 pamphlet called Poems For The Planet. 

Project report

Angela van Son

Issue

Trees in danger of extinction

Problem

Nose swaps don’t seem to work

Counter measure

Huge field of facemasks planted

Doubt

Will they mature on time?

Status

Open

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s the planet fighting back, trying to get rid of the current top of the food chain. How to help this greediest of species make themselves extinct? Future aquatic archaeologists may wonder about those two legged creatures who once lived above the water surface. In ancient times, when land covered the seas…”

Angela van Son lives in Utrecht, the Netherlands. She writes poems and very short stories about the strangeness of being human. She likes to put a twist on things, whether it’s dark, humorous, philosophic or playful. As a coach she helps people change their life stories by making things happen.