You are here Poetry in the natural world

Gathered by U.S. poet laureate Limón (The Hurting Kind), this beautifully curated anthology of 50 previously unpublished poems challenges preconceptions about "nature poetry" as it meditates on humanity's relationship to the planet. As Limón writes in the introduction: "these poems represent the full spectrum of how we human animals connect to the natural world." The collection opens with Carrie Fountain's wonderful "You Belong to the World": "You belong/ to the world, animal. Deal with it. Even as/ the great abstractions come to take you away,/ the regrets, the distractions, you can at any second/ come back to the world to which you belong,/ the world you never left, won't ever leave, cells/ forever, forever going through their changes." Gabrielle Calvocoressi's "An Inn For the Coven" provides a delightfully occult twist on the magic of life: "All our loves/ are witches too. Or warlocks. All/ our children and all our children./ Welcome. Water running in the/ brook." In "To Think of Italy While Climbing the Saunders-Monticello Trail," Kiki Petrosino offers a spare and haunting poem comprising four couplets that build to a devastating finale: "These mountains have given us/ so much & we// will not even give ourselves/ to each other." This collection stands apart for the strength of its entries and the breadth of its superb meditations on a pressing theme. (Apr.)

Donika Kelly is the author of The Renunciations , winner of the Anisfield-Wolf book award in poetry, and Bestiary , the winner of the 2015 Cave Canem Poetry Prize, a Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, and a Kate Tufts Discovery Award. A recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, she is a Cave Canem graduate fellow and founding member of the collective Poets at the End of the World. She currently lives in Iowa City, where she teaches creative writing the University of Iowa. WHEN THE FACT OF YOUR GAZE MEANS NOTHING, THEN YOU ARE TRULY ALONGSIDE late spring wind sounds an ocean through new leaves. later the same wind sounds a tide. later still the dry sound of applause: leaves chapped falling, an ending. this is a process. the ocean leaping out of ocean should be enough. the wind pushing the water out of itself; the water catching the light should be enough. I think this on the deck of one boat then another. I think this in the Salish, thought it in Stellwagen in the Pacific. the water leaping looks animal, looks open mouthed, looks toothed and rolling; the ocean an animal full of other animals. what I am looking for doesn't matter. that I am looking doesn't matter. I exert no meaning. a juvenile bald eagle eats a harbor seal's placenta. its head still brown. this is a process. the land jutting out, seals hauled out, the white-headed eagles lurking ready to take their turn at what's left. the lone sea otter on its back, toes flopped forward and curled; Friday Harbor: the phone booth the ghost snare of a gray whale's call; an orca's tooth in an orca's skull mounted inside the glass box. remains. this is a process. three river otters, two adults, a pup, roll like logs parallel to the shore. two doe, three fawns. a young buck stares, its antlers new, limned gold in sunset. then the wind again: a wave through leaves green with deep summer, the walnut's green husk. we are alive in a green crashing world. soon winter. the boat forgotten. the oceans, their leaping animal light, off screen. past. future. this is a process. the eagles at the river's edge cluster in the bare tree. they steal fish from ducks. they eat the hunter's discards: offal and lead. the juveniles practice fighting, their feet tangle midair before loosing. this is a process. where they came from. for how long will they stay. that I am looking doesn't matter. I will impose no meaning. Joy Harjo is the 23rd Poet Laureate of the United States, and a member of the Muscogee Nation; she is also the author of ten books of poetry, seven music albums, two memoirs, and several plays and children's books. Her honors include Yale's 2023 BollingenPrize for American Poetry, a National Book Critics Circle Ivan Sandrof Lifetime Achievement Award, a Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize,a Guggenheim Fellowship, and a Tulsa Artist Fellowship. She is a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, the chair of the Native Arts & Cultures Foundation, and the inaugural Artist-in-Residence for the Bob Dylan Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where she lives. EAT Grasshoppers devoured the sunflowers Petal by petal to raggedy yellow flags-- Squash blossoms of small suns blessed By dew drops flared beauty in the morning Until an army of squash bugs landed And ate, then dragged their bellies From the carnage-- Field mice chewed their way Into the house. They eat anything Sweet and leave their pebbled shit In staggered lines to the closet door-- Hungry tree frogs clung to the screen Their curled tongues catch anything With wings driven to the light-- We found a snake hidden on the porch, There were rumors in the yard Of fat mice frolicking here. The night is swallowing Daylight. We sit down to eat.  Excerpted from You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.