Fear and Loathing of Nature
Naturalists and nature writers attempt to convince people not to fear the woods, the ocean, and the world of night. We quote nature-friendly poems such as “To Know the Dark” by Wendell Berry. I can recite that one.
Meanwhile Hollywood throws horrifying nature images at the public ranging from piranhas and sharks to a man in a hockey mask stalking a summer camp. Such films range from terrifying best sellers to cult classics such as The Attack of the Mushroom People.
In his New Yorker article “The Problem of Nature Writing,” Jonathan Franzen suggests nature writers take a new tack because readers are disappearing, even as the number of nature writers grows exponentially. He compares nature writers celebrating the beauty of nature to evangelists celebrating the glory of the divine. He admits that polemics, such as the argumentative prose of Edward Abbey, might get a response, but that is only one approach. Are there others?
What if we celebrated the terror of nature? What of its fecundity? Annie Dillard touched on these subjects in Holy the Firm, with the destruction of a moth drawn to a flame and a girl burned in an aviation accident. Elsewhere she described a frog eaten by a predaceous diving beetle and her horror at seeing two insects mating. Her book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek won her a Pulitzer Prize.
I am not suggesting we terrify readers and convert nature writing to a horror subgenre, but what if we present the gritty face of nature? Would you enjoy writing or reading that sort of work? Franzen suggests we begin an essay with, “I Hate Nature.” I won’t take it that far, but here are some works that are not typical nature poems. I would love to hear your response in the comments section.
The Guardian She is the guardian and protector of the wilderness. She circles among the rocks. Her belly swells with new life. Transparent eggs open as expelled, snakes born alive. The young will have a rattle, just like Mom. They warn before striking, but beware their presence. Beneath the flowering azalea, or within a handhold on a rock face, the guardians may be there. “Don’t tread on me,” the buzzing rattle warns. This is her domain, assuring that travelers go warily onward. So long as the guardians remain, fewer travelers camp on top of wild orchids, fewer wander off the trails. Speaking of Nature I Kali, the patron goddess of Kolkata, is a nature goddess. She personifies the destructive forces of nature. Kali rules the typhoon and earthquakes. The tidal wave is in her domain. She wears a necklace of human skulls. She is the bringer of enlightenment, but her wisdom has a price. Aerial photographs of an area hit by a typhoon. reveal human bodies awash in an ocean. Some may be alive and waving hands in hopes of summoning an unlikely rescue. We moderns want new beginnings, without endings, gain without sacrifice. and unity without reconciliation. Kali puts an end to such foolishness. She is an incarnation of Shiva’s wife. She is sometimes depicted with her foot on her husband’s chest, his heart in her upraised hand. II You say, "Speak to us of Nature, " and I reply, Nature is a messy business. Life begets life. Ancient peoples saw the planet Venus appearing for nine months at a time and she became a fertility goddess. She governed erotic love. Her appearance stimulated human impulses, and the mating of livestock and wildlife. Gray whales en route to Baja are bound for an ancient ritual. Every gray whale calf was conceived in those mystic waters. Imagine a pair of forty-ton leviathans mating in water. Sink, and they drown in spasms of erotic ecstasy. A male whale supports them on his back. This ancient ritual of Magdalena Bay is an orgy. The parentage of the wale calves could only be determined by Genetic testing. III Do you wish to hear about nature? When wolves returned to Yellowstone they happily set about killing elk. Trees browsed to anemic decline recovered, and the forest regained its health. The herds became strong under the predators’ watchful eye. Beavers returned and dammed the streams. Rivers slowed down, and marshes grew. Fish populations thrived. Small mammals flourished. IV Buffalo Bull addressed the crowd at Yellowstone National Park. Where have my prairies gone, with the big bluestem and compass plant that tickled my belly? They have been plowed and planted with corn and wheat as the plowman’s children sang Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam. We fed the native people for centuries and they honored us in their ceremonies. A buffalo skull was a sacred object. We had an agreement with them. We took care of the land. The prairie grass thrived as we trampled tree seedlings and devoured them. We had an agreement with the grass. The cowbirds followed us and ate the insects we stirred up. Today, they follow the brown and white cattle that belong to ranchers who need no agreement. I will not apologize to the family of the photographer that my brother killed after being kicked. That man got what he wanted, a buffalo in a different pose. Spider Eyes shine bright with the reflection of my headlamp, like dewdrops on the lawn reflecting moonlight. Waiting for an insect dinner, they are ever watchful. I have read that they can see the moon which is reflected in their eyes. If I see the "Man in the Moon," do they see a spider? Do they fear that eyeshine will give them away to a night-moving predator? Do they fear me? Even with the stars and the moon covered by clouds, as they are on some nights, their eyes reflect whatever light comes their way. Tonight, the waning moon is still nearly full. To the accompaniment of katydids, I search the lawn but find only dewdrops. One on Human Nature Custer wore an arrow shirt, or so they say. What obsession filled his mind that fateful day? Was it his duty, or did he believe the lies, manifest destiny his singular objective? We see the snag that briefly stopped the march of time. We call that event Custer’s last stand but truly, it was a fleeting victory for those who opposed him. A web of deceit entangled them and took them to apartheid reservations. The sun dance continues around the Cottonwood Tree, but the medicine wheel was broken. President Grant sent his old friend William Tecumseh Sherman to exterminate the buffalo. He said “Every dead buffalo is an Indian gone.” The missions restricted worship to Sundays, stripped away their native ways and language, and forbade the children to wear native clothing. They did their best to obliterate a culture. The traditions are reborn every time a native person wields the power of No.
My Next Appearance
I will present a nature poetry workshop at The Chattery, in Chattanooga, on Tuesday, May 14 at 6:00 PM.
Writing begets more writing. Writers seeking success must write at every opportunity.
We will begin by reading a few exemplary poems and explore how the natural world inspires the creative impulse. If the smell of pine takes you back to your most recent hike in the woods, you have the makings of a poem. We will examine the sonic qualities of poems, including rhythm, rhyme, and free verse. We will look at examples of free verse poetry and simple forms such as the cascade poem, and internal rhyme scheme.
Participants will write poems and have a brief opportunity to share their work.
About the teacher:
Ray Zimmerman has worked as a park ranger, a naturalist, and a guide in the tourism industry. He is past President of the Chattanooga Writers' Guild. he has published poetry, fiction, and journalism.
Further information is published on the web page.
https://thechattery.org/classes/poetry-workshop-nurturing-nature-inspired-poetry-in-person-class
New book coming out in November.
These are very good poems. I confess I have not previously read more than a dozen of your poems, but to my taste these are my favorite for the clarity of image and the refusal to compromise with either sentimentality or a cheap dualism. If you have a book of this ilk, I will want to own it.