'Anything we love can be saved', Alice
Walker writes.1 Her
words are born of her optimism and activism, and they offer guidance
today in what we may consider, following in the footsteps of Hannah
Arendt, to be dark times. Arendt used this term to encompass periods
of disruption, and she meant to include not only the times of horror
and pitilessness which characterised humanity in the twentieth century,
but also, and equally importantly, times of epistemological crisis.
In dark times, the construction of law-like generalities and theoretical
models is cut loose from human knowledge, according to Arendt. That
which has the ability to sustain our understandings in dark times
is the web of stories we are able to weave. She thus holds that the
possibilities for our understandings of events and for our guideposts
to action are contained in stories, not theories.2 Another
use of the term 'dark times' emerges in the context of
what Felicity Wyndham calls 'dark information'.3 She
talks about the information that is all around us but that we refuse
to know about or can't see. Dark information includes most
of what we know, along with all that we don't know, about rapid
ecological change, exponential rates of damage and loss, and the
escalating fluidity of the landscapes in which we seek to sustain
our lives. Like Arendt's dark times, dark information equally
calls for special kinds of storied communication. Poiesis,
prophecy, analysis, yarning, remembrance – there are at least
as many forms as there are labels: 'nature writing, environmental
literature, ecopoetics or something else entirely'.4
We live in a time when much that we love is not being saved. Our
writing takes new shapes as we understand it as a form of active
engagement with the cascading entropy which is tumbling living
beings from life into endless death. Mark Tredinnick tells us that
nature writing 'is literature written from the soul of the
world.'5 In
a similar vein, Peter Boyle writes that 'a poet should be
able to write outside the human in all sorts of directions'.6 Both
authors give us challenges that have the potential to call forth
creative work. These challenges speak directly to the Ecological
Humanities in this fulcrum moment when there are enormous possibilities
both for positive change and for disaster. Communication is a key
factor in moving people to act in ways that affirm a flourishing
future for life on Earth, and in our search for expanded and expressive
writing it is clear that in our time serious communication must
be pluralistic in genre and in perspectives.
The
Watermark Literary Muster 2005 enabled me to experience the
rich communication that takes place when prose and poetry are brought
together. At the same time, reading Peter Grant's quest to
find more places for nature writing convinced me of the need for
more journal space.7 Saving
that which we love includes making places where ecopoetics can
flourish. Accordingly, Libby Robin and I decided to open this issue
of the Ecological Humanities Corner to an exploration of ecopoetics
in multiple genres and from multiple perspectives. I invited some
of the people who had spoken at the Watermark Literary Muster,
and others whom I had heard at recent and innovative events, and
I asked people to contribute something that spoke directly to their
passions for life on earth.
This issue of the Ecological Humanities Corner does not claim to
offer a representative sample of ecopoetics in Australia today. What
it does offer is a serious juxtaposition of forms and perspectives,
creating a collage of ideas, images, analysis and exposition. Not
all of the authors are in agreement; each of them offers insightful
questions, and taken together they form something more than the sum
of the parts.
Authors Peter Boyle, MTC
Cronin, Nick Drayson, Stephen
Edgar, Miriel Lenore, George
Main, Stephen Muecke, Kate
Rigby, Eric Rolls, and Mark
Tredinnick share their words, thoughts and passions in this
issue. I thank them all.
FOOTNOTES
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