Orion Blog, page 2

Fourteen Articles to Celebrate International Day of Women and Girls in Science


FRIDAY, February 11, 2022, is the International Day of Women and Girls in Science, and Orion staff pulled together fifteen of our favorite features on female leadership in the sciences.



Chronicles of Ice by Gretel Ehrlich – November/December 2004 Issue

A meditation on the shrinking world embodied in the soul of a glacier.




Deep Intellect by Sy Montgomery – November/December 2011 Issue

Inside the mind of the octopus.




The Science of Citizenship by Belle Boggs – November/December 2013 Issue

What’s at stake when schools skimp on science?




10 Words Technology Borrowed From Nature by Sue Thomas – September/October 2015 Issue

An enumeration of adopted words.




Speaking of Nature by Robin Wall Kimmerer – March/April 2017 Issue

Finding language that affirms our kinship with the natural world.




The People’s Forest by Alexandra Tempus – Autumn 2018 Issue

How the Menominee are facing climate change.




Biking with Butterflies by Sara Dykman – Summer 2019 Issue

Seeing the world through the eyes of a monarch butterfly.






Swimming with Crocodiles by Anna Tsing and Niels Bubandt – Spring 2020 Issue

Nature is avenged by a prehistoric animal.





The Shadow of Humanity and the Spirit of Animals by Jane Goodall and Krista Tippet – Autumn 2020 Issue

A conversation.




Nature of Plastics by Meera Subramanian – Spring 2021 Issue

Explorations at the edge of the artificial.




Upriver by Rebecca Altman – Summer 2021 Issue

A researcher traces the legacy of plastics




Woman in the Woods by Sandra Steingraber – Summer 2021 Issue

A study of resilience in does and other female creatures.




First Passage (& Web Extra, “Notes from the Icebreaker”) by Elizabeth Rush – Summer 2021 Issue

A journey toward motherhood in the age of glacial loss.




What Slime Knows by Lacy Johnson – Autumn 2021 Issue

There is no hierarchy in the web of life.



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Green and yellow deciduous forest in western Montana, as seen from an aerial view, looking directly down. It appears to be the beginning of fall.

From the Oldest Forest in Montana

Aerial view of old-growth forest proposed for regeneration harvest logging in the Black Ram project, unit 45.
Kootenai National Forest, Yaak Valley, northwest Montana. Photography by Randy Beacham.


I HAD TO GO INTO THE OLD FOREST seventy times before I heard it speak, and then it was only one word, urgency. Each time, I had been listening, hoping I’d hear something, as I walked carefully across the rotting spines of fallen giants, which lay in dizzying geometries atop older fallen giants, which lay upon other now buried giants—still holding their carbon, deep down into the earth, deep down into history, and yet still in service to the living—a sarcophagus of the ancient forest. No place for bulldozers.

Emerald mosses bejewel the old wood carcasses, and when you step even lightly upon them, clean water oozes out. The forest is continuously sinking in on itself, continuously lifting itself up, giant old trees rising from it and then falling like towering waves far out at sea, seen by no one, but absorbing, here on the Canada–Montana border.


A fog sits over much of a wilderness forest, with dark mountains in the background and a blue sky with wispy clouds. Mountains poke through the fog like islands.

Overlooking the Purcell Mountains and fogbank at sunrise. Yaak Valley, northwest Montana.


In the manner of a researcher who eventually becomes accepted, or at least tolerated, by her subjects (imagine gorillas, or bears) to the point where they go about their daily business, paying her no mind—I began to fall asleep in this old forest. It took me a long time to get to that point. I’m a geologist, wildlife biologist, and a continuing student of conservation biology, but here I will step back from science, for that has been largely, if puzzlingly, ineffective.

When the life of a loved one is on the line, who among us does not pray? As Merwin says in his poem “Berryman”—


he suggested I pray to the Muse
get down on my knees and pray
right there in the corner and he
said he meant it literally


So, I kneel, then lie on my back, looking up. I do not dream. Instead, I merely sink into the sarcophagus of all that ever was, in this cold frost pocket of a valley. I fall, tumbling through the centuries, caught and supported by the arms of hemlock, fronds of cedars. I become, in my ten-minute nap, one of the rotting bodies myself.

When I sleep, I am not aware of the threat of doom. The thousand-year-old forest that well may not live to be 1,001. All of it, obliterated, shattered, bombed.

The fuse has been lit. The fuse is burning. The government, under the previous administration, but abetted yet by the current one, says it’s time for this thousand-year-old forest to become “resilient.” Says that logging it down to dust—effectively, a thousand-acre clearcut—is the way to teach it resilience. They’ve named this proposed project, this fever dream, a remnant zombie from the previous reign, “Black Ram.”


I fall, tumbling through the centuries, caught and supported by the arms of hemlock, fronds of cedars. I become, in my ten-minute nap, one of the rotting bodies myself.


When a forest gets to be this old and untouched, it becomes something more than a forest. It becomes what we would think of as a mind, with history, knowledge, memory, and foresight. It has a pulse, and a spirit incomprehensible to us—but we can feel it when we’re in its presence. There aren’t many like this one left. Maybe none in Montana. Regional minor timber barons and public servants in the Forest Service’s timber shop will scoff at such an idea, but when you step into this ancient garden, you feel not just all that is above, but also so much of what lies below. It’s humbling, recognizing that, though we may be in the middle, we are not the center. Through the phenomenon of gap creation, the forest is in perfect balance, growing and rotting. Never burning. Though rot, of course, is but a slow gentle fire of its own. The circular amid the linear rot, the ancient geometry of the disassembly building a nest that is, before our eyes and all the other senses, a miracle of reassembly. Life, lived slowly; life, lived so large.

I will not tell you that the old and mature forests store 70 percent more carbon than do the monoculture plantations planned for these public lands. I will tell you instead that I can no longer go into this old forest without falling asleep. Maybe in that fashion the universe is, even now, seeking to balance itself, as it used to do once upon a time, before we broke so very many things. Maybe my sleeping creates a space for someone else to wake up. Please, God, let that person be the current president, himself but a grain of sand and gnat-blink to this forest, and to time.


Old growth forest with dead logs on the ground, and orange lines spray painted on trees, marked for cutting.

Old-growth forest proposed for regeneration harvest logging in the Black Ram project, unit 45.
Kootenai National Forest in the Purcell Mountains, northwest Montana.


An aerial shot of a forest with a few stray green trees toppled. Otherwise it's a clear cut landscape of grey and brown, with no life.

Aerial view of clearcut logging unit in the OLY project near Yaak Mountain. Kootenai National Forest, Montana.


The previous administration, in the summer of 2018, built a 200-foot-wide road they called a “fire line,” the year after they first proposed the massacre, hidden on the Canadian border. There was a little four-thousand-acre fire up high, in the rocks, some miles distant and moving away. Climbing, as fires do, and moving slowly north and west, as they do. Creeping into Canada’s swamps, where it quickly petered out.

But all summer, the United States Forest Service bladed this road into the ancient forest that was the target of Black Ram. I think of it as Montana’s first forest; it’s a primary forest—never burned and never logged. If science were still revered in this country, it would possess what scientists call baseline data. But we are not going to talk about science here. Science went away in the previous administration, and we are waiting to see to what extent the current one will bring it back. We’re still waiting.

The USFS logged many of the old trees in the way of the fire line, gashed artesian springs, and drove bulldozers through blackwater ponds seething with frogs and boreal toad tadpoles and salamanders. A straight line of bright light and heat and wind delivered straight to the edge of the old forest.

A fuse was lit. How ironic that they said they were worried about a fire.


When a forest gets to be this old and untouched, it becomes something more than a forest. It becomes what we would think of as a mind, with history, knowledge, memory, and foresight.


Before such annihilation, I will not present here the science of ancient life and complex, sophisticated systems we don’t yet completely understand. The billions of miles of mycelium snaking underground a primary forest like this one, completely unmarred: the terrestrial world’s most powerful and mysterious communications system.

To lie on a bed of ancient carcasses that are thrumming, communicating, while you sleep, is to know a different world than the one you were told existed. Were told did not exist.

Know that we will fight for this forest with everything we have.


This is the pupped installation that is on the cover of the Winter 2021, and depicts a collaborative project of creating a puppet with wheels and horns and flowers made of yellow, purple, and pink dyed materials. The puppet is set to a dark forest but with light angling in from the top left, a spotlight on the puppet.

Artwork by Marina Tsaplina. Photo by Brian Christianson | Cover Image for the Winter 2021 Issue


What I will tell you is that a poet began dreaming a puppet, part human, part ram. She began weaving it in a garden in New York City, brought it all the way to Montana—an offering—a flash of time amid ancient beauty. She carried a creation made by members of New York’s disability and arts community, who sent it on its voyage with hope and strength, to hang for a day and be photographed, sung to, slept beneath, before disassembling it. As if the puppet itself was a thousand-year-old creation destined to live in the forest but a single day.

More artists are coming. They are as numerous as the trees in this old forest. More poets, more sculptors, dancers, writers, bookbinders; musicians, too; a puppet-maker. More dreamers. And scientists. They will come. They will be drawn to its mystery—if only we can hold on to it a bit longer.

In these possibly last days, or possibly first days, I will not tell you how many tons of carbon per acre the old and mature forests absorb. Know that it is a lot. That data and science are out there.

What I will tell you is that finally there came a day when I went into the old forest, despite it being a place of strife, conflict, beauty, and war for me, that I, and everyone else, lay down and fell asleep and knew peace. And a thousand years rushed by, as if in a single breath, single thought.


More Resources:

A photo of the editor, Georgina Kleege, smiling with a green shirt. The image is two panels: one portrait of Kleege on the left, and the cover of the Winter 2021 issue on the right, the "Dream Puppet" set in Montana's Yaak Valley.

Seven Questions for Georgina Kleege, Guest Picture Editor for the Winter 2021 Issue


IN THE WINTER 2021 ISSUE, we scrutinize the ways in which the body informs our perception of and engagement with our surroundings. What we understand of the natural world is intimately connected to how our bodies interact with and experience the world. For this issue, we turned the pages of Orion over to writers and artists with the lived experiences of being disabled.

The guest picture editor for Winter 2021 is Georgina Kleege, a professor of creative writing at the University of California, Berkeley. Her books include Blind Rage: Letters to Helen Keller and More Than Meets the Eye: What Blindness Brings to Art. We reached out to Georgina to ask about her experience of editing the issue as a blind person.


When Orion originally asked if you’d be willing to be the guest picture editor, your first thought was, You’ve got to be kidding. Tell us more about that response and your eventual decision to say yes.

At first, I just thought it was funny for obvious reasons. Why ask a blind person to perform such a visual task? I have written a lot about disabled artists, so I thought it might just be a matter of recommending some of them, which is something that happened. But Sumanth Prabhaker, Orion’s editor-in-chief, was interested in my opinion about more than just that; he wanted me to weigh in on the whole selection process, as well as on design and layout questions. I contend that blind people live in visual culture as much as anyone else. In fact, we may have an advantage because we are aware of things that sighted people take for granted and don’t think much about.

I thought it would be interesting—if challenging—to learn about the role images play in a magazine like Orion, about the specific interplay between images and words. And I enjoyed talking to Sumanth, so I agreed.


Can you take us through the process for selecting the visual work for this issue?

It was a very collaborative process. At first, I gave Sumanth the names of some disabled artists I know, or know about, and he did his own research. Some of these folks ended up submitting work for the issue. After that, I read drafts of all the texts as they came in. As I was reading, I asked myself if there was something that a sighted person would like to see to understand the text—a literal illustration.

Elsewhere, I sensed that what was needed was something less literal and more evocative, something representing a mood or other emotional quality in the writing. All along the way Sumanth and I had back-and-forth conversations. Sometimes he agreed with my instincts, sometimes he didn’t, and vice versa.

I also sat in on a couple of design meetings (on Zoom) where the editorial team talked through the issue, page by page. I found this fascinating. They talked about everything from the specific placement of images, to the font color and size, to the layout of text on the page, to background colors, and so forth. It felt as if my job was simply to ask questions, to ask, Why? What difference does it make if you put the image there versus over there? Sometimes, the answer was that it’s the way they’d always done things. Sometimes, the questions made them stop and think, Why do we do that? I learned a lot. I think they learned a lot too.


What was one interesting anecdote during the process of selecting art for this issue?

In our earliest conversation, I suggested including art by Pete Eckert who belongs to a collective of blind photographers in California (there is, or used to be, a similar collective in New York City). I thought of him, in particular, because his work is interested in scenes of nature—redwood forests and the like. He uses very long exposures to create images of himself with complex double and triple exposures, or afterimages, that look—I’m told—like auras or some other supernatural phenomenon.

Sumanth liked the images, but at first, we didn’t know where to put them. Then Sarah Capdeville’s story “The Long View” came in, and the images really seemed to fit. They have an eerie, mysterious quality that seemed to work with the story.



For anyone who’s curious about blind photography, it is a medium that is attractive to many blind and visually impaired artists worldwide. In many cases, these are photographers who used to be sighted, and so they already know how cameras work and can adapt their artistic practice to blindness. I don’t remember Pete’s exact story, but I know that, like others, he spends a lot of time planning and setting up shots, employing careful measurements to place the camera and himself (or whomever he’s photographing) and timing the exposures.

Another decision I was happy about was the choice to illustrate Amy Irvine’s article about her daughter’s seizure dog with some images of cave paintings featuring dogs. When I was reading the article and she was explaining the long history of human–canine coexistence and coevolution, the idea of cave paintings just popped into my head. I’m very interested in cave paintings in part because I gather there is no consensus about how they came to be. Were they merely decorative? Did they have some religious significance? Were they a record of events? Did they tell stories? For me, it’s really interesting to think about how it occurred to anyone to make a two-dimensional projection of three-dimensional objects and creatures. Also, they were produced in very low light, and the artists may have been guided more by touch than by sight. But simply on the level of an illustration of the article, they do provide ocular proof for what Irvine says about the long collaboration between canines and humans.



What was it like as a cocurator of a museum’s “touch tour” for the blind? What does that include?

My one experience as a cocurator of an exhibit of tactile art was at the Mosesian Center for the Art in Watertown, Massachusetts, in the summer of 2019. The sighted curators were aware of work I’d done at San Francisco Bay Area museums, a role I call a touch docent. Because I’ve enjoyed the privilege of touching art that museums around the world offer to blind people, I felt like I should return the favor and describe the experience to people who don’t have the opportunity.

The show at the Mosesian was a juried exhibition. Artists submitted images of their work, but they were also required to include a detailed verbal description with specific references to the tactile and haptic qualities. When the description made it sound like something I’d like to get my hands on, I gave it a high score. Then the sighted curators and I had some back-and-forth. In some instances, as in all such exhibits, decisions were shaped by the dimensions of the exhibit space.

I was adamant that this was not to be an exhibit for the blind. Rather, it was an exhibit that did not exclude blind people. Exhibits of tactile art and tactile representations of art have been around since at least the nineteenth century and almost always, in my experience, have a patronizing quality, and a rather reductive understanding of tactile aesthetics. We wanted an exhibit where everyone was welcome to touch. In fact, the name of the exhibit was Please Touch the Art. About fifty pieces in the show included sculpture of various kinds, textile art, mosaic, and mixed media. Several artists were blind or visually impaired. We used the artists’ own descriptions as wall labels because these often gave some sort of instructions about the best way to experience the piece. One of the most gratifying things for me was the opening reception where, unlike a typical art opening, people were incredibly engaged, interacting with each other and the art.


This is a three panel preview of artwork Kleege curated for the Winter 2021 issue. The left is a woman facing away from the viewer, naked and holding a red piece of clothing, and a black brace on her right ankle, up to the knee. She is in front of a black panel, and the floor is multicolored. Middle: A bouquet of flowers in a blue and white vase. There are bugs on the table, the orang spotted table cloth, and the flowers are all shapes and sizes, red and orange and blue and green. Right: a doll figure with two blocks for head and torso, and it wears a dress, black and white striped. The boxes have yellow striped on their tops, and there is what looks like roots or neural circuitry painted on the white front.

Artwork featured in the Winter 2021 issue by Katherine Sherwood. Left: red robe, 98 x 62 inches, mixed media on found cotton, 2020. Middle: companion piece (after msm), 57 x 50 inches, mixed media on found cotton, 2020. Right: neuron nurse, 92 x 48 inches, latex paint, digital prints, and fabric, 2010.


You mentioned in the Winter 2021 issue that a growing field of AI is helping to meet accessibility standards (alt tag prediction and generation, for example). Have you found AI accessibility technology to aid or hinder the visually impaired community?

AI for alt text is really in its infancy and is therefore pretty crude. For instance, these systems are really pretty bad at such tasks as facial recognition. For the most part, when I encounter alt text generated by AI, I find it pretty funny. As I say in the article, the convention now is for it to say, “Appears to be . . . ,” which immediately makes me think that it must be something else. Depending on the context, I think the most honest alt text should simply say, “There’s an image here that’s really for sighted people and does not provide any additional information beyond what you’ve just read. So feel free to move on.”


How do you experience landscapes?

I’m often struck by how often sighted people seem to experience landscapes as if viewing a landscape painting or photograph. Think about the designated lookout points in national parks, or the turnouts on scenic highways. Someone has determined the optimal viewing position, and people stop and look, and probably take a picture, then move on.

For me, landscape is something I experience three-dimensionally, kinesthetically, by moving through it. I train my awareness all around me, 360 degrees. I’m listening and feeling, even smelling, what’s occurring on every side, behind me, underfoot, and overhead. The experience is about change: the changing terrain, sounds coming and going, the effects of air movements. Sometimes it seems that sighted people are so focused (pun intended) on vision alone, and the particular vision required to spot what’s straight ahead. Does it turn everything into a static two-dimensional image?


I was particularly struck by your description of the precision of language necessary to describe an image you are looking for. Do you find today’s visually obsessed culture to come at the expense of knowing language? Do you think that the more sighted people rely on visual media, the more they lose intimacy and nuance with language?

It used to be that when people asked me for instructions on describing images to blind people, I would say, “Pretend you’re doing it on the phone.” I was trying to communicate that talking to a blind person is not unlike talking to a sighted person; there’s no need to come up with a totally new vocabulary. Of course, now it seems that people rarely talk on the phone, or if they do and they want to describe something they’ve just seen, they are more likely to take a picture and send it to the person.

We have more and more visual technologies and perhaps that means we’re becoming less and less verbal. I don’t know. It has been my experience that people who are involved in the visual arts, art history, and visual culture are still intensely verbal. They use language to draw attention to features of an image that another viewer might have missed at first glance. Show a bunch of people an image and ask them to say something about it, and it’s likely that they will each point out different things. And by “point,” I mean both with their fingers, and also with their words.

When the first person does this, the others will notice something they might have disregarded before. For a blind person listening to this, or participating in the conversation by asking questions as it goes along, there can be a slow accretion of understanding about what an image says to people. It’s almost always the case that different people see different things, which refutes any notion that images are a universal language.


Subscribe to Orion by January 31, 2022, to start your subscription with this issue.


Remembering Orion cofounder Aina Barten

EARLY THIS YEAR, Orion lost a bright light, founding member, and key figure: Aina Niemela Barten.

After a successful early career on stage and screen including television, a starring role in Hollywood, and a world tour for the U.S. State Department with the inimitable Helen Hayes, Aina turned her love for words into a new career.

It was the 1970s, when Aina, along with her husband, David Barten, and friend Robin Dulaney, noticed the era’s boom in environmental literature, and together created a newsletter that reviewed those books. Orion Nature Book Review launched in 1979 and the community of writers that she cultivated through it set the stage for Orion Nature Quarterly, which debuted in 1982 and eventually became Orion. Aina served as its managing editor until 1992 when she transitioned to editing features to give her more time at home in her beloved home of Conway, Massachusetts, before retiring in 2007.



As her near-town neighbor and Orion’s outreach coordinator from the early 2000s onward, I enjoyed Aina’s company during countless carpool rides through the wooded hills of western Massachusetts to the Great Barrington office. Here she shared the organization’s lore and guided me through writing my regular column on grassroots activism. Sometimes we discussed our other loves like gardening and wildflowers, or how she played the violin.

The list of writers Aina worked with is a who’s who of American environmental writing. A gifted editor and proud Finn who embodied that culture’s concept of sisu— a term that adorned a sticker on her car’s bumper and translates as something like “endurance in the face of long odds”— she always brought the best out of writers, no matter how famous or stubborn, with her characteristic determination, patience, and cheer. Her relationship with writers was not about merely correcting copy or forcing change but was rather a collaboration, one that brought forward the best possible writing for readers’ enjoyment and understanding. A mentor to many editors over the years, the whole editorial team absorbed her sense of what makes a good Orion article, which became a cornerstone of her legacy. She was known by all for her incredible kindness. After an extended illness, she passed peacefully in her sleep. She will be greatly missed by the entire Orion community and a huge extended family of friends.

Sometime soon, when you find yourself in a favorite place, sprouting seeds for spring, watching a busy birdfeeder, or leafing through the pages of Orion, whisper a word of thanks to Aina Barten, for her vision and her example. Remember her with the return of wildflowers. The early-to-bloom marsh marigold was always one of her favorites, so bright and cheery among the stubborn last snowdrifts, and I delighted in alerting her each year when they first appeared near my home. I know I’ll be watching for their return with extra attention this year.


We welcome you to share any memories of Aina in the comments below.


Erik Hoffner is a freelance photojournalist and an editor for the award-winning environmental news service Mongabay.com. Find his work via erikhoffner.com or on social media via @erikhoffner



In honor of Aina, we’d like to share the Autumn 1999 issue essay “Plate Tectonics” (PDF) from our archives with an introduction by its author, frequent Orion contributor BK Loren:

For me, it’s hard to separate Aina from the landscape of New England—how, as a Westerner, I was so astonished to see the tapestry of bare November trees heavy with red apples dusted with snow, a quiet and delicate beauty, something numinous about it. I’d never been to New England before, but I had come to meet Aina, who after years of study, finally taught me to write. Though I’d worked on “Plate Tectonics” for months, it was an utter mess before Aina touched it. But she knew what the essay could be and she let it become exactly that, not by telling me what to do, but through peeling back my writerly ego and getting to the core. Not one word falls from my heart/mind to the page these days without Aina’s fingerprints on it, without her intelligence and spirit imbuing it. She was so generous; I know there are authors everywhere whose words grace the page today on wings borrowed from Aina. Her life, her generosity, her quiet and delicate beauty will truly live on through the work and words of so many. 

BK Loren is the award-winning author of the novel Theft, and the essay collection Animal, Mineral, Radical. Her short fiction and essays have garnered many national awards and have been published in The Best Spiritual Writing Anthologies, Parabola, Yoga International, Orion, and elsewhere.

New Year, New Poetry: Eight Fresh Poetry Recommendations for 2022


LOOKING TO START YOUR YEAR off with some excellent new poetry? Orion poetry editor Camille Dungy has some great recommendations for new and forthcoming collections. Check them out. 




The Perfect Black by Crystal Wilkinson

This bountiful collection from the poet laureate of Kentucky is a meditation on place and past and power. “The map of me can’t be all hills & mountains even though i’ve been country all my life. The twang in my voice has moved downhill to the flatland a time or two,” she writes in the first poem, “Terrain.” “Still i return to old ground time & again, a homing blackbird destined to return.” A friend gave me some lovely brass book clips that let me mark pages I want to return to without damaging a book with dog ears, and I went through the whole pack on The Perfect Black, clipping poems about cold creeks and water witches, meditations on grief, the ghost voice of an enslaved woman who slept on a kitchen’s dirt floor, bolting horses, snow “like a scorned woman’s tears,” Black farmers, and tobacco that is “pretty & braided/ lined up in rows/ like a room full/ of brown girls with skirts/ hooped out for dancing.” The wealth of the world Wilkinson renders on these pages is measured in witness and love. (University of Kentucky Press)



Last Pawnshop in New Jersey by James Hoch

I’ve been waiting a long time for a new book of poems by James Hoch. And here is the reward. This book. Poem after deeply felt, brilliantly wrought poem. Glory be! Such care, precision, and grace. Image-rich, situationally charged attention in every word, every line, every page. I’m not sure I breathed the whole time I was reading Last Pawn Shop in New Jersey. No, I did breathe, and what I smelled off these pages was the scent of a Zippo flicked in the Jersey Pine Barrens or mucky water slapping the Atlantic City Steel Pier. I smelled the wrecked world in these pages. I read these poems and grieved as if I, too, just lost my mother, as if I lost another friend, and my father, and maybe my hold on what’s left of some little corner of an unpolluted world. But also here is the hope of figs and cheese and June fescue. Of sweet sons who still snuggle without any reason for fear. The world on these pages can be as cold as an Icelandic lake. It could stop your heart. But dive in. There’s something here you need. Inside, the water’s so clear you can “see as far as you can see.”  (Forthcoming from Louisiana State University Press)



Requeening by Amanda Moore

This National Poetry Series winning collection is by a poet and mother and surfer and high school English teacher who also keeps bees. I think it was the poet Elizabeth Bishop who said, “A metaphor should touch in at least three places, and two of them have to be in the real world.” Amanda Moore’s book is proof of this rule at work. The book is filled with the stuff of Moore’s real world and our own and yet, over and over, Requeening transforms everyday experiences by touching one against others. These are poems like honeycomb built around introduced objects: somehow both fragile and sturdy. (Harper Collins)



Paradise by Victoria Redel

Paradise begins at “The Border” and in the “Garden” and keeps going from there. Victoria Redel weaves contemporary stories of refugees and climate catastrophe, stories from her own family in the 1930s and 1940s, and stories from the Judeo-Christian tradition as well. Reading Paradise, I am deeply grounded in a world of beauty and growth and survival, but in a world of catastrophe too. Redel renders landscapes and plants and animals as fully as she does the people in her poems, making me want to touch and hold on to so much. It hurts. One poem, “If You Knew” lists all the things people wanted to take with them, but couldn’t, when they left home: “He wanted to take the muddy stream where he sang with frogs./ She wanted to take dawn in the linden tree. . . . What would you take?” (Forthcoming from Four Way Books)



The Flowers of Evil (Les Fleurs du mal) by Charles Baudelaire, Translated by Aaron Pochigian

This new English translation of Charles Baudelaire’s ground-breaking collection presents the nineteenth-century poet’s works (including some that were banned for nearly a century) in the order Baudelaire intended. The translator, Aaron Pochigian, has taken pains to present English versions of these poems with an attention to rhyme and meter that renders Baudelaire’s formal musicality for an English-speaking ear. The original French poems are reprinted in the second half of the collection. That these translations of the poems sound almost beautiful and almost plain seems justified. In his extensive and informative introduction to the collection, Dana Gioia reminds us that, for Baudelaire, beauty “can also transform the perception of objects considered ugly or evil.” There is ample place for the “sordid” and ugly and awful (rot, decay, the torture of beautiful birds, “late autumn’s luscious and unhealthy rays”) inside these vibrant and musical poems. (Liveright Publishing Company)



Girl as Birch by Rebecca Kaiser Gibson

In the beginning of Girl as Birch, it’s hard to differentiate the girl at its center from the trees and flowers around her. She’s described as oak and azalea, foxglove and honeysuckle, her life timed with the return of cicadas. But she will leave the garden. In the story, the girl must always leave the garden. The world she must walk through is weird and windy, full of dance lessons and lakes where she might drown. The lines of Rebecca Kaiser Gibson’s poems are fragmented and staggered in wandering arrays. The narratives are clipped and sparse, as if even the speaker can bear to share only snippets of her story. There are secrets here “as dark as rhododendron.” There are grosbeaks and grackles singing their awkward, necessary songs. (Forthcoming from Bauhan Publishing)



Dear Specimen by W.J. Herber

In this tightly braided series of poems steeped in both immediate loss and deep geological time, the poet offers neither consolation nor exemption, just honest observation and compassionate connection to what we are losing or have already lost. The poems in Dear Specimen speak to the tar-trapped remains, jarred bodies, and flower-strewn fossilized bones of the wooly mammoth, the zigzag salamander, and the humanoid first flower people of Shandihar. Poems in the National Poetry Series winning collection praise the compromised persistence of the red fox, the merganser, the manatee, the American beaver. Though she never names herself, except, once, as “Mom,” W. J. Herbert names her daughter and her grandson and gives them voices and nightmares and grief counselors. These poems don’t try to pretend that no one will die in the end. Let’s dispense with platitudes. Everything is not going to be okay. We are part of a great extinction. It’s time to face it, these poems say. (Beacon Press)



Parasitic Oscillations by Madhur Anand

I devoured this book in a two-hour sitting, fascinated by the way Madhur Anand writes about the nineteenth-century egg and bird research collections of A. O. Hume. Anand visited natural history museum research collections in the U.S. and U.K. as well as field sites in India. She writes into mathematical simulations of birdsong and talks back to letters and diaries kept by A. O. Hume. The songs and feathers and flight patterns and habitats of extinct and extant bird species flutter through these pages, and Anand’s own life (and, perhaps, our own) is in these pages too. Parasitic Oscillations is a fascinating medley of science, philosophy, and art. (McClelland & Stewart)


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