Tacoma Chapter
Our solution to climate change? Democracy.
Books
Scroll down for Poetry
The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World, by Robin Wall Kimmerer, 2024.
The illustrious teacher, indigenous scientist, and author of Braiding Sweetgrass (my very first selection in BOOKS--see below) considers the ethic of reciprocity in this brief and thoughtful message. "Our economy is rooted in scarcity, competition, and the hoarding of resources, and we have surrendered our values to a system that actively harms what we love." The natural world, in contrast, embodies interconnectedness--the tree distributes its wealth—its berries—to meet the needs of its natural community, this distribution ensuring its own survival. "Wealth comes from the quality of your relationships, not from the illusion of self-sufficiency... all flourishing is mutual.” What a perfect mantra for environmental justice!
Treekeepers: the Race for a Forested Future, by Lauren E. Oakes, 2024. The (appropriately named!) Oakes
investigates recent tree-planting efforts and corporate claims of "saving the planet." She asks the scientists and participants around the world the who, what, how, and why's--will they flourish and bring the expected benefits? Exactly what is a forest? And especially, can these individual efforts help remedy the climate crisis? In this honest and ultimately optimistic account, "Oakes shows the complex roles of forests in the fight against climate change, and of the people who are giving trees a chance with hope for our mutual survival."
Overshoot: How the World Surrendered to Climate Breakdown, by Andreas Malm and Wim Carton, 2024. This scathing critique of proposals to push climate action down the road rather than reduce carbon emissions now can really open your eyes to the devastating power and self-interest of the fossil fuel industry and "business as usual." Even before the Paris Agreement and other toothless COPs, the seduction of "we will be able to fix this later" with carbon capture and other geoengineering schemes won out against "keep it in the ground." To the tune of record profits! A clear history of the problem and cast of bad actors, with amusing irony tempering the righteous anger in the tone.
Elwha, a River Reborn, by Lynda V. Mapes, photos by Steve Ringman, 2013. Thorough study of a win for nature--the Elwha River Restoration Act of 1992 and its implementation, co-published with The Seattle Times. "The removal of two dams opened more than 70 miles of pristine habitat and is one of the best chances for environmental restoration anywhere. Dam removal is reviving native salmon and steelhead runs and is reconnecting a legendary wild mountain river from its headwaters deep within Olympic National Park to its mouth on the Strait of Juan de Fuca." The long and difficult struggle included participants such as the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe, scientists, environmentalists, Port Angeles municipal leaders, dam engineers and business owners.
What if We Get it Right? Visions of Climate Futures, by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson, 2024. With essays, conversations, poetry, art, data, and charts, this energizing book explores visions of a transformed future that combines justice, health, culture, design, and science around climate change without dismissing the seriousness of the crisis. Johnson, who is also the editor of the excellent All We can Save of 2020 says, "Sometimes the bravest thing we can do when facing an existential crisis is to joyously imagine life on the other side: what if we get it right? To envision the world we want to create, it helps to know the many ways we are already creating it."
Playground, a novel, by Richard Powers, 2024. (Pulitzer-Prize winning author of The Overstory) "intoxicating, enthralling" panoramic novel set on a Pacific atoll that "interweaves beautiful writing, rich characterization, profound themes of technology (AI) and the environment, and a deep exploration of our shared humanity, in a way only Richard Powers can." Reverence for the ocean as a magnificent, endangered "playground" for so much of life on earth, is at its heart.
BOOKLIST!
"Best Books for Kids on Climate Change" article by Keith Forman of the Harvard Advanced Leadership Initiative, should be useful to all us grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles!
Nature, Culture, and Inequality, by Thomas Piketty, 2024. The latest from the highly acclaimed French socio-economist (see his overnight sensation in the field, Capital in the 21st Century) is quite brief, full of charts, and easy to read. The last chapter focuses entirely on climate change and human degradation of nature, stating that "no credible solution to the challenge of global warming is imaginable without a drastic reduction in inequality and without new progress toward a greater level of equality..." because the levels of emissions across nations and individuals (especially wealthy North Americans) is so starkly unequal.
We Are Puget Sound: Discovering and Recovering the Salish Sea, by David Workman, Suquamish Tribal Chairman Leonard Forsman, et al, in partnership with the Washington Environmental Council, with photos by Brian Walsh and others, 2019. Essays and photographs cover our inland sea's intricate web of wildlife and human economies, its beauty and declining health, and "provide inspiration as well as a call to action to protect this unique ecosystem."
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Life as We Know It (Can Be), by Bill Weir, 2024. CNN's Chief Climate Correspondent writes this as a series of Earth Day letters to his children, drawing on history, science, and his own experiences as a journalist. It's a "celebration of the wonders of our planet, a meditation on the human wants and needs that drive it out of balance, and an inspiration for communities to galvanize around nature and each other as the very best way to brace for what's next." Easy to read, full of clear-eyed solutions that blend psychology and technology, a blend that seems to me to be humanity's only possible way forward together.
Climate of Contempt: How to Rescue the U.S. Energy Transition from Voter Partisanship, by David B Spence, 2024. "Spence explores the effects of polarization*, partisanship, and propaganda on energy policy and considers how to build a broader climate coalition. He contends that cooperation on this crucial issue is still possible, but it will require sustained person-to-person engagement across ideological and partisan boundaries to foster a more productive dialogue. Providing a timely and incisive understanding of the politics of the energy transition, Climate of Contempt suggests new paths forward and offers hope for a net-zero future."
(* a mixture of ideology and social media which spreads half truths and falsehoods, and sows division and anger.)
Crossings: How Road Ecology is Shaping the Future of Our Planet by Ben Goldfarb, 2023. The author considers road ecology (the study of the devastating ecological effects of roads and highways) a "moral mandate" in the vein of Aldo Leopold: "a thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community." This can be through wildlife crossings (bridges, tunnels, culverts), providing nourishing roadside plants, mapping migrations routes, deconstructing logging tracks, etc. Roadkill is seen as the "inevitable cost of modernity...the allure of the car is so strong that it justifies it," a conundrum so similar to society's fossil fuel addiction! This book is a treasure trove of information and quite a cast of characters in the field. And it was gratifying to see sections on local efforts such as salmon passageways and the wildlife bridge on I-90.
Climate Resilience: How We Keep Each Other Safe, Care for Our Communities, and Fight Back Against Climate Change, by Kylie Flanagan, 2024. Spotlighting a myriad of exciting activists from diverse groups-- Native Rights, queer liberation, youth climate-justice, Latinx wilderness, Flanagan emphasizes the need for place-based, community-led action beyond "status quo solutions, Big Tech promises" and old ways of thinking about "saving the planet." From seed-saving to community-owned energy, this shifts the focus to ancestral wisdom and right relationships as the true key to weathering the storms ahead with justice. In the spirit of All We Can Save.
The Deluge,a novel, by Stephen Markley, 2022. One of the most significant works of climate fiction yet, a "ferocious, spectacular achievement" that not only "diagrams the complexity of our situation but maps a way out." Multiple characters grapple with a convulsing world and political chaos (all too familiar), and their stories intertwine as they sacrifice and find the courage together "to salvage humanity's last chance." Set from 2013 to 2030. A NYT Notable book by the acclaimed author of Ohio.
The Lorax, by Dr. Seuss, 1971. Can't believe that up til now I forgot this classic; Dr. Seuss's own favorite! Who can forget the Lorax, guardian of the Truffula trees from greed and destruction, who said,
"Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not!"
It is "appropriate for both younger audiences who are learning about the scarcity and fragility of natural resources, and also older children who can grasp the dangers of valuing short-term profits over long-term environmental harm."
The Heat will Kill You First, 2023, and his earlier book The Water Will Rise, 2017, by Jeff Goodell. "Through stellar reporting, artful storytelling, and fascinating scientific explanations" (Naomi Klein), Goodell
documents the effects of extreme heat and sea-level rise, and humankind's various ways of responding--or not responding--to it, in a way that is extremely relatable and affecting, yet not without hope. "At every level the greatest obstacle to transforming the world is that we lack the clarity and imagination to conceive that it could be different." NYT bestseller list.
The Parrot and the Igloo: Climate and the Science of Denial, by David Lipsky, 2023.
This story of prevailing attitudes towards global warming over the years is totally entertaining in the most infuriating way! His brisk account of the science, from the discovery of electricity to early warnings about CO2, and the anti-science denialists' "network of untruth," ruefully hits the mark. And he never misses a chance to expose the irony of repeated delays of climate policy by "hucksters, zealots, and crackpots" hired by Big Oil (many of whom had spun PR for Big Tobacco too). NYT Editor's Choice.
Am I too Old to Save the Planet? A Boomer's Guide to Climate Action by Lawrence Macdonald, 2023. By the vice president of the World Resources Institute. "This small book is a gem of great value: it will turn more of us older Americans from complainers and worriers into people who are fixing the problems that assail us. It makes a powerful case for generational action; if the kids can do it so can we!"--Bill McKibben. We boomers bear quite a bit of the responsibility for our current global situation. Offered here are concrete steps we should take as individuals and importantly, an invitation to join with others to bring about the systemic change that is needed.
I Want a Better Catastrophe: Navigating the Climate Crisis with Grief, Hope, and Gallows Humor, by Andrew Boyd, 2023. The basic premise of this book is so dire that I hesitate to recommend it to all, but for me personally it was an extremely useful, timely read and reread--and it's surprisingly funny! Lifelong activist Boyd asks various leading climate thinkers some very honest questions about how we can proceed to live and think and feel in the face of our current terrifying predicament. "The most realistic yet least depressing end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it guide out there."
Silent Spring Revolution: John Kennedy, Rachel Carson, Lyndon Johnson, Richard Nixon, and the Great Environmental Awakening by Douglas Brinkley, 2022. This thorough chronicle of the 1960-73 environmental movement in the U.S. held several surprises/reminders for me--the amazing number of important bills that passed with full bipartisan support, the horrible state of air and water pollution before such legislative action occurred, and the great strides made in preserving priceless natural sites during those years. The rhetoric of the times sounds almost exactly like that of today-- bemoaning human's disregard for the health of the planet and warning of our own self-destruction-- yet unlike today, they successfully acted on it together with enviable speed and energy.
Embrace Fearlessly the Burning World, by Barry Lopez, 2023. His last work, this posthumous collection of essays by a giant of literary nature writing asks us "not to give in to the temptation to despair even though we know the world is in flames" but to respectfully and deeply "pay attention" to the planet and all its beings. "We can no longer afford to carry on in a prolonged era of polite reflection and ineffective resistance."
(A warning--although as beautiful and moving as all his works, this book does include a section about his childhood suffering as a sexual abuse victim).
Black Earth Wisdom; Soulful Conversations with Black Environmentalists, 2023, edited by Leah Penniman, co-director of Soul Fire Farm and author of Farming While Black. She calls the 30 interviews "a conversation between African diasporic people who are carrying on our ancient ancestral practice of listening to the Earth to know which way to go.” Black environmentalism is healing--not only for Black individuals but for the planet itself.
We are Water Protectors, children's book (ages 3-7) by Carol Lindstrom, illustrated by Michaela Goode, 2020. "Written in response to the Dakota Access Pipeline protests, the book tells the story of an Ijibwe girl who fights against an oil pipeline in an effort to protect the water supply of her people." "Water is the first medicine, it affects and connects us all..."
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Not Too Late: Changing the Climate Story from Despair to Possibility, edited by Rebecca Solnit & Thelma Young Lutunatabua, 2023. "Absolutely beautiful, absolutely necessary, and absolutely right!" (Bill McKibben) "A powerful anthology of dispatches from the front lines of the struggle over the future of our planet, by some of the most important activist voices of our time." (Amitav Ghosh) Encouragement and practical suggestions are sorely needed to maintain hope these days, and this book provides them.
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The Climate Book by Greta Thunberg, 2023. Along with her "stories of demonstrating and uncovering greenwashing around the world," this book collects the knowledge of over one hundred experts on how to combat climate change. Full of urgency yet hope. "If a schoolchild's strike could ignite a global protest, what could we do collectively if we tried? It has to be us, and it has to be now."
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Earth for All, a Survival Guide for Humanity, Sandrine Dixson-Decleve et al, 2022. Inspired by the prophetic The Limits to Growth of 1972 and Doughnut Economics of 2020, this cutting edge "map to a better future" puts elimination of poverty and the social instability it creates front and center in the 5 critical turnarounds necessary for humanity's survival on the planet. "State-of-the-art computer modeling explores policies likely to deliver the most good for the majority of people." Johan Rockstrom is one of the leading scientists and economists who co-authors.
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Science in the Capital Trilogy, by Kim Stanley Robinson, 2015. 40 Signs of Rain, 50 Degrees Below, and 60 Days and Counting (of 2004-7) are now updated with the latest research and published in one volume, titled Green Earth. These "eco-thrillers" combine "cutting-edge science, international politics, and the real-life ramifications of climate change." Fans of the Ministry for the Future, (see below) take note! Robinson says "these days we live in a big science fiction novel we are all writing together."
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The Big Fix: Seven Practical Steps to Save Our Planet, by Hall Harvey and Justin Gillis, 2022. An accessible, inspiring how-to for concerned people to make the crucial switch from "green consumers" to "green citizens" in order to compel action on climate change. Praised by Al Gore, Bill McKibben, and Elizabeth Kolbert, who calls it "smart, honest, and down-to-earth."
Arctic Dreams: Imagination and Desire in a Northern Landscape, by Barry Lopez, 1986. Acclaimed National Book Award winner, a classic of nature writing. "Leads readers on a journey of the mind and heart into a place that grips the imagination and invigorates the soul." I recently heard a webinar panelist declare that this book changed his career path from corporate law to environmental policy!
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Erosion: Essays of Undoing, by Terry Tempest Williams, 2019. A beloved writer and environmentalist, "her fierce, spirited and magnificent essays are a howl in the desert" as she sees democracy, support for public lands, and the environment eroding. See her poem below, which accompanies The Council of Pronghorns in the installation section.
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Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr, 2021. A novel set between 15th c. Constantinople, Idaho in 2020, and space some time in the future. He says “The world we’re handing our kids brims with challenges: climate instability, pandemics, disinformation. I wanted this novel to reflect those anxieties but also offer meaningful hope.” It's a wonderful story by an amazing storyteller.
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Overstory by Richard Powers, 2018. Pulitzer Prize-winning novel about humans and trees and their deep connections. Magnificent writing and powerful eco-advocacy.
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The Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson, 2020. An amazing “what-if” mapping out a possible (mostly) positive scenario for the next 50 years. Chock full of great solution ideas, could it be a blueprint for real-life world leaders today?
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Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, 1993. Considered one of the first climate novels, a forerunner in treating climate change and social inequality with vivid action and characters.
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Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, 2019. (non-fiction) Essays intricately interweaving botany, personal experience, and indigenous wisdom. A truly outstanding book.
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Poetry
A bit of April foolery this time!
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Three of the Climate Vibe Limericks 2025 contest winners (names not complete), in Ayana E. Johnson's what if we get it right substack:
On earth here we have all the tools
to justly transition our fuels
protect lands of peat
eat kelp and less meat
and live in a future that rules
They tell us that it won't be easy
our leaders are often so sleazy
but call nonetheless
post, sue, vote, and press,
and harness the sun and the breezy
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What if we regenerate soil
and start using solar not oil
we'll dance in the sun
and make all the work fun
then maybe our earth won't boil
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Ecology, by Jack Collom, 2001. Try saying this one out loud! Fun!
Surrounded by bone, surrounded by cells,
by rings, by rings of hell, by hair, surrounded by
air-is-a-thing, surrounded by silhouette, by honey-wet bees, yet
by skeletons of trees, surrounded by actual, yes, for practical
purposes, people, surrounded by surreal
popcorn, surrounded by the reborn: Surrender in the center
to surroundings. O surrender forever, never
end her, let her blend around, surrender to the surroundings that
surround the tender endo-surrender, that
tumble through the tumbling to that blue that
curls around the crumbling, to that, the blue that
rumbles under the sun bounding the pearl that
we walk on, talk on; we can chalk that
up to experience, sensing the brown here that’s
blue now, a drop of water surrounding a cow that’s
black & white, the warbling Blackburnian twitter that’s
machining midnight orange in the light that’s
glittering in the light green visible wind. That’s
the ticket to the tunnel through the thicket that’s
a cricket’s funnel of music to correct & pick it out
from under the wing that whirls up over & out.​​​​​​​​​​
Instructions for not giving up, by Ada Limon, 2017.
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More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
Home, by Joelle Robinson, 2024. The Climate Solutions WA Field Director, Robinson added her poem to a post-election email, with "I am thankful for all of you who give of your spirit to protect, preserve, and restore this place we call home."
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I am thankful for the miraculous journey of the Northwest
salmon, a journey repeated for 10,000 years.
I am thankful for the fluffy eaglet who gains nourishment and
grows strong off the salmon
who has fulfilled her circle of life.
I am thankful for the snow-capped majesty of the North Cascades
and for its trees that speak to my heart.
I am thankful for the cold, clear water pulsing as veins
through the sacred land I am blessed to call home.
Home
Place
Solace
Refuge.
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No matter who wins, a post-election poem, 2024, assembled by Rebecca Faulkner from words sent by the Reasons to Be Cheerful weekly newsletter community (reasonstobecheerful.world). Faulkner (rebeccafaulknerpoet,com) is an award-winning poet besides being managing director of the newsletter. There were nearly 500 responses to their reader question: “No matter who wins, __________.”
Thanks to Elly Claus-McGahan for sharing this!
Dear Future Ones, by Jaqueline Woodson, 2024. (included in the book What if We Get it Right?, see discussion in Books above)
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Dear Future Ones who do not understand
an old woman puzzling over January crocuses
and the delicate shoots of tulips poking through winter leaves
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who shakes her head now thinking
Twenty years on this planet and my daughter can count
snowstorms lived through
on a single hand. Oh Dear
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Future Ones, I apologize
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for the magical thinking
that led me to believe this world as I knew it
would always be here and bred you into with my mind on
other freedoms cuz
how many dreams of freedom can a single body hold
now old, you see me back bent and frowning
grateful for iceless sidewalks all winter long
and terrified. Oh Dear Future
Ones. You do not know a world
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That isn't already burning, a time when flowers bloomed in seasons
we understood.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
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Invitation, by Mary Oliver, 2009. One of our most beloved poets, whose work epitomizes the deep human connection to nature: just pay attention! "it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in the broken world."
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Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air
as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude—
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,
do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.
A Bumble Cluster by Jessica J. Bloodsaw, and In Her Garden, by Kevin Miller, a couple of nature poems from the Poetry in the Park program that "connects people to nature by engaging our senses with the environment around us" from Tahoma Bird Alliance, Tacoma Public Library, and the Pierce County Library System. Seen on signs set up around the Rhododendron Garden in Point Defiance Park.
What Remains? by Kim Weaver, 2022. Part of the National Park Service Terminus Glacier Memorial Project, an "artistic elegy" to the disappearing glaciers in the Olympic Mountains. This poem is specifically in honor of Linsley's Glacier on Mt. Anderson.
Bear Pass Glacier Renga, by Benedicte Kusendila, 2022. Part of the National Park Service Terminus Glacier Memorial Project, an "artistic elegy" to the disappearing glaciers in the Olympic Mountains. Bear Pass Glacier is actually a series of small cirque glaciers at the head of the Hoh River drainage. Renga are Japanese linked poems. Click image to read the rest!
Lighthouse, by Ellen Bass, 2024.
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It's late and I'm pushing the baby in the stroller
through Lighthouse Field.
The grasses give off the damp straw smell of darkness coming on.
Walk, the baby commands.
So I unbuckle the strap and set her down.
It's February first and the ground's still swollen
from the atmospheric rivers that flooded California.
We were up till four in the morning,
with sump pumps and sand bags, schlepping
every sopping towel and blanket and bathrobe,
while the baby slept in her crib.
There are no cars here in the field
so she can have a little sovereignty,
as she wanders behind me. And faintly,
I hear her singing to herself,
Twinkle Twinkle.
The whole song. Like diamond sky.
She's almost two. I'm seventy-five.
I won't be here when the worst
of what's coming comes. I think about it
and then I try not to think about it.
And then I try to think
because if we don't--but I can hardly grasp it.
I mean her in it. The tiny glint of her voice.
Something starts to collapse.
Love and dread are brethren
said a mystic woman in the Middle Ages.
For a moment the sun
reclines on the bare branches of the maples.
They're rinsed with gold.
And then the light is gone. The tree is itself again.
It's time to return the baby to her father.
The long beam of the lighthouse strobes the path.
I put her in the stroller and start walking fast.
How I Hold the World in this Climate Emergency by Cath Drake, 2020.
Sometimes I hold world in one hand, my life
in the other and I get cricks in my neck
as the balance keeps swinging. I walk uneasily.
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Sometimes I am bent over with the sheer weight of world,
eyes downcast, picking up useful things from the ground.
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Sometimes one shoulder is pulling toward an ear
as if it’s trying to block the ear from hearing but can’t reach.
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Sometimes my body is a crash mat for world. I want to say
‘I’m sorry I’m sorry!’ but don’t say it aloud.
I am privileged so I should be able to do something.
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Sometimes I lie on my side and grasp world like a cushion.
I’m soft and young, and don’t feel I can change anything.
I nudge world with affection, whispering: I know, I know.
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Sometimes I build a cubby from blankets thrown across furniture.
There is only inside, no outside. When I was a child,
world was a small dome and change came summer by summer.
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Sometimes I make a simple frame with my arms to look at world.
I’m not involved directly. It carries on without me.
This way I can still love the sky, its patterns of clouds and contrails.
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Sometimes I’m chasing world through the woods, bursting
with hope and adrenalin. Oh God, am I running!
I want to keep moving. My mouth is full of fire.
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Some days are like bread and milk. I just get on with pouring
and buttering. I want the little things to be what matters most again.
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Sometimes I hold little: I’m limp and ill.
Days barely exist. It’s enough to make soup.
Playing with Bees, by RK Fauth, 2023. (Fauth asks, "what happens to my imagination, my language, my daydreams, every time a peg in the environment is removed?")
So the world turned
its one good eye
to watch the bees
take most of metaphor
with them.
Swarms—
in all their airborne
pointillism—
shifted on the breeze
for the last time. Of course,
the absence of bees
left behind significant holes
in ecology. Less
obvious
were the indelible holes
in poems, which would come
later:
Our vast psychic habitat
shrunk. Nothing was
like nectar
for the gods
Nobody was warned by
a deep black dahlia, and nobody
grew like a weed.
Nobody felt spry as
a daisy, or blue
and princely
as a hyacinth; was lucid as
a moon flower. Nobody came home
and yelled honey! up the stairs,
And nothing in particular
by any other name would smell as sweet as—
Consider:
the verbal dearth
that is always a main ripple of extinction.
The lexicon of wilds goes on nixing its descriptions.
Slimming its index of references
for what is
super as a rhubarb, and juicy
as a peach,
or sunken as a
comb and ancient as an alder tree, or
conifer, or beech, what is royal
as jelly, dark as a wintering
hive, toxic as the jessamine vine
who weeps the way a willow does,
silently as wax
burned in the land of milk and
all the strong words in poems,
they were once
smeared on the mandible of a bee.
Traditional Cree Proverb. (see tie-in with Aurora's The Seed, under Music section. It has often been used by environmental groups, including Greenpeace for their banners in 1983.)
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When the last tree has been cut down,
the last fish caught,
the last river poisoned,
only then will we realize that we cannot eat money.
X, by Imtiaz Dharker, 2015.
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Hand shaking on the stop-cock, she looks
at the X, the warning cross,
the water-tap unlocked, its padlock cracked.
Breath hacks in the throat, Check your back.
Turn it on and an anxious mutter swells
to thunder in the plastic bucket. Don’t spill it.
Fill it to the top. Lift to the hip, stop,
balance the weight for the dangerous walk
home. Home.
Don’t lose a drop.
From the police chowki across the track
a whistle, a shout. Run. Don’t stop. Don’t slip.
A drag at the hip. Hot, hot underfoot. Water slops
up and out in every direction, over the lip,
over her legs, a shock of cool, a spark of light.
With her stolen piece of sky, she has taken flight.
Behind her, the shouters give up. She puts down
the bucket. The water stills.
She looks into it, looks up to where the blue
is scarred with aimless tracks.
Jet-trails cross each other off
before they die out, a careless X.
Earth, Sometimes I Play it Casual, by Catherine Pierce, 2022.
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like Hey mercury, hey malachite, I'm busy today,
can't stop to marvel, but always my blood is saying
O god you starsprung miracle. It's self-preservation,
letting myself believe laundry matters,
letting myself believe there's anything other than
egrets and oceans and vast moss carpets and
the finite heart of every single person I love.
Earth, you terrify me—you are fierce green
and honeysuckle, you are herds of wild ponies,
and you are leaving, always. Is it any wonder
some days I look at my laptop instead of out
the window? Every time I glance up
there you are, quaking me with your fern fronds
and silver frost. O you of the rhyolite mountains.
You of the dew-hung web. You are lemon quartz
and quicksand. Muskrats and starfish. How
could I be any way but staggered? O blue spruce,
O white fir, O green forever, you know
my nonchalance is a sham. It's so hard to admit
our real desires. Earth, what I want is to sit gentle
under your twilight purple, watch your bats
hunt and dive. What I want is to know about
endings and still love each bat, each shade
of the boundless, darkening sky.
Untitled, by Robin Wall Kimmerer, 2013
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Even a wounded world is feeding us
Even a wounded world holds us,
giving us moments of wonder and joy.
I choose joy over despair.
Not because I have my head in the sand,
but because joy is what the Earth gives me daily
and I must return the gift.
Let Them Not Say, by Jane Hirshfield, 2014.
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Let them not say: we did not see it.
We saw.
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Let them not say: we did not hear it.
We heard.
​
Let them not say: they did not taste it.
We ate, we trembled.
​
Let them not say: it was not spoken,
not written.
We spoke,
we witnessed with voices and hands.
​
Let them not say: they did nothing.
We did not-enough.
​
Let them say, as they must say
something:
​
A kerosene beauty.
It burned.
​
Let them say we warmed ourselves by it,
read by its light, praised,
and it burned.
​​
What Kind of Times Are These, by Adrienne Rich, 1995.
​
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.
Mrs. Man, by Bonnie Mosse Funk, 2013.
​
She’s like the weather, he laughs,
moody and unpredictable;
but maybe she, like the sky and the sea,
has to accept what he does, this Man
who dresses her up in jeweled cities
and keeps her warm during winter
with carbon blankets and methane booze.
​
She’s like the weather, he laughs,
moody and unpredictable;
but maybe she’s not consulted
about his plans for her, his expectation
that she’ll be fruitful and multiply.
Lord knows, he provides her with enough
genetically-modified fertilizer.
​
She’s like the weather, he laughs,
moody and unpredictable;
but maybe this Man puts himself first,
like the time he spent the week-end
playing nuclear roulette with his buddies,
leaving the whole carcinogenic mess
for her and the grandkids to clean up.
​
She’s like the weather, he repeats,
moody and unpredictable;
but maybe her CO2 level’s just up,
what with his unreasonable insistence
that she be nice to his clients
who get high on fracked gas
and vomit crude in the domestic pool.
​
She’s like the weather, they’re now saying,
moody and unpredictable;
so maybe she should ask herself
if he’s really worth all that soot,
draped like a pall on her dawn.
But she, with nowhere to go,
sighs hurricanes, and waits.
​
Nature is What We See, by Emily Dickinson, 1860.
​
"Nature" is what we see--
The Hill--the Afternoon--
Squirrel--Eclipse--the Bumble Bee--
Nay--Nature is Heaven--
Nature is what we hear--
The Bobolink--the Sea--
Thunder--the Cricket--
Nay--Nature is Harmony--
Nature is what we know--
Yet have no art to say--
So Impotent our Wisdom is
To Her Simplicity.
​
​
Extinction, by Jackie Kay, 2015.
We closed the borders, folks, we nailed it.
No trees, no plants, no immigrants.
No foreign nurses, no Doctors; we smashed it.
We took control of our affairs. No fresh air.
No birds, no bees, no HIV, no Poles, no pollen.
No pandas, no polar bears, no ice, no dice.
No rainforests, no foraging, no France.
No frogs, no golden toads, no Harlequins.
No Greens, no Brussels, no vegetarians, no lesbians.
No carbon curbed emissions, no Co2 questions.
No lions, no tigers, no bears. No BBC picked audience.
No loony lefties, please. No politically correct classes.
No classes. No Guardian readers. No readers.
No emus, no EUs, no Eco warriors, no Euros,
No rhinos, no zebras, no burnt bras, no elephants.
We shut it down! No immigrants, no immigrants.
No sniveling-recycling-global-warming nutters.
Little man, little woman, the world is a dangerous place.
Now, pour me a pint, dear. Get out of my fracking face.
​
Hestia, by Ilona Inezita, 2014.
​
Claiming we’re gods,
Creating heaven,
When we’re nothing but men,
Destroying earth,
Creating hell.
​
Summer, by Abhijeeth, 2019.
​
It's a never ending summer
Every year is getting warmer
Stuck in an oven
A/C on twenty four seven
Nobody seems too worried though
busy dealing with life you know
Never ending summer
It's the new normal
Air around us filled with dust and smoke
Majestic whales filled with plastic
Nobody sheds a tear
Why would you care
For you it's only a slight discomfort
it's not an immediate threat
Why should I care about the oceans
Why should I care about the animals
They mean nothing to me and my life
This world is mine and mine only right
I am not gonna waste my time
thinking about humanity's crime
And besides what could I do to help
I am just a simple man busy with his life
I am not gonna reduce plastic in my life
I am not gonna raise my voice
Let these animals suffer
I got AC in my ivory tower
So let's burn our resources
Use plastic to fill our stomachs
And when it gets warmer next year
Don't worry.
It will just be the new normal.
​
Survival, by John Bartlett, 2021.
​
She's back again this year,
in heels and nuptial plumes,
coquettish
in pale eyeliner
--the white-faced heron
selecting twigs,
thinking of survival
​
What rush of rapture
bursts
--these birds
designed from
templates of dinosaurs
with songs that shiver
in the deep wells of the soul
​
So, despite
the cracking ice
in Greenland, the rift,
the cleft, the split,
the speld
​
Despite the smell,
the stench, the stink
of burning forest,
I see you still,
framed
by cross-thatched leaves,
your changing of the guard
with stilt-stepped stealth,
this private pact
between you,
this brooding hope
--triumphant.
​
Once I said that bubble wraps are a major source of noise pollution, by Jayant Kashyap, 2022.
and everyone laughed and I was happy about it. Then I said that we are all dying and everyone laughed again. So I thought it might have been funny
and told them about all the whales instead. And about forest fires and heat waves and defined anthropogenic activities. Some didn't agree that we
​
could cause avalanches to happen or tsunamis, tornadoes and other issues with funny names either,
said the bears and porpoises need to learn to
​
adapt to survive, quoted a bit of Darwin and laughed again. Everyone said I was being too dull or silly or boring or uninteresting and left me alone.
​
So I went to the library with a bottle of old red wine and read a bit more.
Rise: From One Island to Another, by Aka Niviana and Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner, 2018. Niviana, an Inuk from Greenland, and Jetnil-Kijiner, from the Marshall Islands, wrote and met in Southern Greenland to perform this offering between legendary "sisters" of two far-distant islands both imperiled by global warming. The cinematography and soundtrack of the film, produced by 350.org, are beautiful and moving as well.
​
Excerpt:
From these islands
we ask for solutions.
From these islands
we ask
we demand that the world see beyond
SUV’s, ac’s, their pre-packaged convenience
their oil-slicked dreams, beyond the belief
that tomorrow will never happen, that this
is merely an inconvenient truth.
Let me bring my home to yours.
Let’s watch as Miami, New York,
Shanghai, Amsterdam, London,
Rio de Janeiro, and Osaka
try to breathe underwater.
You think you have decades
before your homes fall beneath tides?
We have years.
We have months
before you sacrifice us again
before you watch from your tv and computer screens waiting
to see if we will still be breathing
while you do nothing.
My sister,
From one island to another
I give to you these rocks
as a reminder
that our lives matter more than their power
that life in all forms demands
the same respect we all give to money
that these issues affect each and everyone of us
None of us is immune
And that each and everyone of us has to decide
if we
will
rise
​
Earthrise by Amanda Gorman, 2018. (first National Youth Poet Laureate) A Climate Reality project dedicated to Al Gore.
Excerpt:
Climate change is the single greatest challenge of our time,
Of this, you’re certainly aware.
It’s saddening, but I cannot spare you
From knowing an inconvenient fact, because
It’s getting the facts straight that gets us to act and not to wait.
So I tell you this not to scare you,
But to prepare you, to dare you
To dream a different reality,
Where despite disparities
We all care to protect this world,
This riddled blue marble, this little true marvel
To muster the verve and the nerve
To see how we can serve
Our planet. You don’t need to be a politician
To make it your mission to conserve, to protect,
To preserve that one and only home
That is ours,
To use your unique power
To give next generations the planet they deserve.
​
Still, by Miriam Mosqueda (Indigenous Mexican/American poet and artist) 2021.
​
Where I call home
Corn stalks stretch to the sky
Intertwined with cables
And rooftops
A backyard
Not a farm or a field
But we still call this home
For the corn seeds and for us
We both ended up here
Trying to find new ways to be
New places to plant
To grow
We still call this home
Even if we live in diaspora
Forced displacement
On ever changing land
That we’re in relation to
And never in ownership of
As guests
On this soil that so graciously hugs corn seeds into sprout into stalk into life
For us
The year our skies were red with rage from wildfires
Ash fell from above
Floating down and coating our garden gray
Smoke in the air and our lungs
We still placed corn seeds to earth
When a refinery was built next to our family home in Mexico
Out the window we could see it
On the other side of large brick walls were tanks and metal cylinders
trucks moved in and out
Things we’ve never seen before
And we still placed corn seeds to earth
600 gallons of oil were spilled into the water near us this year
Closing access to waterways
poisoning all it touches
A danger greed refuses to see
And we still placed corn seeds to earth
We still call this home
Dad says corn is the gold
Our little soil bed of memories
A prayer held in seeds
Thousands of years old
Corn gives us life when life around us
is changing
We both ended up here
Trying to find new ways to be
New places to plant
To grow
And grow
And grow
We still call this home
​
​
Speaking Tree by Joy Harjo, 2015. (U.S. Poet Laureate, Myskoke Creek nation)
I had a beautiful dream I was dancing with a tree —Sandra Cisneros
​
Some things on this earth are unspeakable:
Genealogy of the broken—
A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre,
Or the smell of coffee and no one there—
​
Some humans say trees are not sentient beings,
But they do not understand poetry—
​
Nor can they hear the singing of trees when they are fed by
Wind, or water music—
Or hear their cries of anguish when they are broken and bereft—
​
Now I am a woman longing to be a tree, planted in a moist, dark earth
Between sunrise and sunset—
​
I cannot walk through all realms—
I carry a yearning I cannot bear alone in the dark—
​
What shall I do with all this heartache?
​
The deepest-rooted dream of a tree is to walk
Even just a little ways, from the place next to the doorway—
To the edge of the river of life, and drink—
​
I have heard trees talking, long after the sun has gone down:
​
Imagine what would it be like to dance close together
In this land of water and knowledge. . .
To drink deep what is undrinkable
​
​
The Council of Pronghorns by Terry Tempest Williams, 2011
​
We, the Council
of Pronghorn
have convened
as witnesses
to this moment
in time
when our eyes
wish to peer
into the hearts
of humans
and ask
what kind
of world
are you creating
when we can
no longer
run as Windhorses
but are relegated
to watching
behind fences
dreaming, dreaming
of Spirit
Migrations
​
James Franco, I Was Born in Into a World, 2016
​
I was born into a world
Before recycling was a thing,
Before oil wars,
When the biggest world
Threat was nuclear.
The only extinct thing
Was the Dodo,
We consumed and junked.
Then we were told about
Droughts, and disappearing
Rainforests.
About melting ice caps,
And we fought Iraq
For a second time,
Like father like son,
We needed our oil
Because we didn’t want
Those electric cars.
At one time there were
Huge monsters that
Walked where we walk,
Nature swallowed them easy.
Or maybe you believe
It all started with Adam and Eve,
But they too were kicked
From the garden
As are we,
With our poison beaches
Run down towns
And our atmosphere
That kills.
I write a poem
And preach to the converted.
We send out loud messages
To ourselves,
That our world is dying:
1984, Blade Runner,
Armageddon, The Road.
I’ve yet to read a book,
Or watch a film about a future
I’d like to live in.
Fortunately for me,
I’ll die before the earth,
But I’d like a place for my
Computer chip self
To click and beep
In bright, clean happiness.
​
Camille T Dungy, A Massive Dying Off, 2011
It begins with,
“When the fish began their dying you didn’t worry
you bought new shoes...”
For entire poem
​​