What might an ecological education entail in a time of planetary crisis? Can a poem, or a walk, or a site-based action, produce new paths for thinking? How might ecopoetics inhabit a mode of collective and collaborative inquiry, a form of radical pedagogy?
In his opening remarks at the conference, Jonathan Skinner pointed out that a central dimension of ecopoetics is “what happens off the page,” both in terms of “where the work is sited and performed” and in terms of its reception — what happens, that is, not only within but beyond the bounds of a given work. Performance, conversation, collaboration, collective research, active investigation of materials and specific sites: such methods, prominently on display at the conference, foreground ecopoetics as “field work” whose aim is the development of new literacies.
Martín Adán’s The Cardboard House — this text is exactly what I imagine when I ponder the question, what is a “poet’s novel?” It could be called a novel. It could also be called a suite of prose poems. The language is both precise and conjuring.
“The sun: a rare, hard, golden, lanky coleopteran.” 
Coleoptera, or beetle, from Greek, meaning “sheath” and “wing” sums up nicely an aesthetic approach I am trying to locate within the larger realm of the form. Poet’s novels are somehow sleek, narrowed, compressed, with a density akin to poetry, and also with the possibility of flight often more difficult to locate in prose. Prose fiction can be beholden to plots, turns, developments which must unfold. Not so with poet’s novels which defy categorization and move with the freedom of verse. In The Cardboard House, sun is a character, as is the afternoon, sky, boyhood, sea, cities, etc.
I knew I was well ensconced in this fluid concise text when I read:
[Taken from G. Green, PoemsofaMolecatcher’sDaughter, Palores Publications, Editor Les Morton, Cornwall, UK; reprinted in PoemsandsPoetics (December 19, 2011) as an addendum to OutsiderPoems:AMini-AnthologyinProgress.]
Sal Madge lived down Rosemary’s lonnin’ Sal Madge wuz a Gippo Sal Madge wuz dirty Sal Madge Sal Madge wi’ ‘er pipe an’ her spittin’ Sal Madge wi’ her singin’ ditties her bratful o’ coal she’d gathered from’t beach down by t’docks at Whitehevven. Sal Madge wuz a wanderer