Abstract

The argument of ‘Nuclear Song’ is pursued at various extremities of the damage done to poetic imagination by what the poem never quite names as ‘the’ nuclear. ‘Nuclear Song’ opens with an epigraph asking how far human agency, even the resources of poetic song, are complicit with anthropogenic radioactivity. Is there a poetic grammar for representing nuclear plumes and umbrellas, the yellow cake and toxic clouds of nuclear trauma that radiate from Japan through the English language? Can poetry even be written after and in the light of Fukushima? What future-proof forms of memory stewardship and signage can survive the ruins of nuclear wastelands? What happens to the lyric stanza when it is irradiated, its very atoms split and fused in new compounds? This song of the nuclear anthropocene attempts to find nodes and notes of resistance to the metaphorical radiation emanating from the dark ecology of nuclear horizons. Amid the ruins, alternative ecologies of mourning and reconciliation with nuclear pains are imagined: imagination dead imagine. The unnatural history born witness to concludes with glimpses of wild boars in the radioactive environs of Fukushima, boars in search of the truffles of scarred art with which the poem begins.