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Spells Sample.Pdf We hope you enjoy this sampling of pages from Spells: New and Selected Poems, by Annie Finch “From Annie Finch’s poetry is a pure tone that calls us home to the first impulse of poetry. We link to mystery. We lift off.” —Joy Harjo “Annie Finch is an American original, a master of control who shows no fear of excess, and none of quietness either. The directness and simplicity of her poems are deceptive—they have depths and delights that appear to go on forever.” —Ron Silliman “An exuberant exposition of Annie Finch’s accomplishment as a poet of craft, humor, myth, intimacy and of the natural world.” —Marilyn Hacker, chancellor, Academy of American Poets Spells: New and Selected Poems is available from Wesleyan University Press. www.wesleyan.edu/wespress, distributed by UPNE. Click here to purchase. 280 pp., 6 x 9” Jacketed Hardcover, $30.00, 978-0-8195-7269-1 eBook, $16.99, 978-0-8195-7363-6 Annie Finch Annie Finch is the Director of the Stonecoast MFA Program in Creative Writing at the University of Southern Maine. She has also taught at Miami University in Oxford, OH and the University of Northern Iowa. Finch has published many books of poetry, including Calendars, The Encyclopedia of Scotland, Among the Goddesses, and Eve. She has written three performance works—Sylvia and the Moon, Wolf Song, and Marina Tsvetaeva: A Captive Spirit. Her work has appeared in a number of prominent journals such as American Poet, Antioch Review, and Field. Finch was the 2012 Yale University Phi Beta Kappa Poet as well as the Senior Fellow at the Black Earth Institute from 2010 to 2013. She has been invited to read her poetry in a wide variety of venues, from the Ariadne Institute in Lesbos, Greece to the Brattleboro Poetry Festival in Vermont to Greenwich Music School in New York, and more. She has acted as an awards judge for the Academy of American Poets and the Association for the Study of Women in Mythology. Finch received a BA with Distinction in English from Yale University. She received her MA from the University of Houston and PhD from Stanford University. She currently lives on the Maine coast with her husband and two children. homebirth Home​is​a​birthplace​since​you​came​to​me, pouring​yourself​down​through​me​like​a​soul, calling​the​cosmos​imperiously into​me​so​it​could​reach​to​unroll out​from​the​womb​where​the​wild​rushes​start in​a​quick,​steady​heartbeat​not​from​my​own​heart. This​is​my​body,​which​you​made​to​break, which​gave​you​to​make​you,​till​you​bear​its​mark, which​held​you​till​you​found​your​body​to​take, (open​at​home​on​my​bed​in​the​dark). 4 Watching​the​Whale A​hard​gray​wave,​her​fin,​walks​out​on​the​water that​thickens​to​open​and​then​parts​open,​around​her. Measured​by​her​delved​water,​I​follow​her​fill into​and​out​of​green​light​in​the​depth​she​has​spun through​the​twenty-​six​fathoms​of​her​silent​orison, then​sink​with​her​till​she​rises,​lulled​with​the​krill. Beads​of​salt​spray​stop​me,​like​metal​crying. Her​cupped​face​breathes​its​spouts,​like​a​jewel-​wet​prong. In​a​cormorant’s​barnacle​path,​I​trail​her,​spun down​through​my​life​in​the​making​of​her​difference, fixing​my​mouth,​with​the​offerings​of​silence, on​her​dark​whale-​road​where​all​green​partings​run, where​ocean’s​hidden​bodies​twist​fathoms​around​her, making​her​green-​fed​hunger​grow​fertile​as​water. 19 Paravaledellentine:​a​Paradelle For Glen Come​to​me​with​your​warning​sounds​of​the​tender​seas. Come​to​me​with​your​warning​sounds​of​the​tender​seas. Move​me​the​way​the​seas’​warm​sea​will​spend​me. Move​me​the​way​the​seas’​warm​sea​will;​spend​me. Move​your​sea-​warm​come​to​me;​will​with​me;​spend tender​sounds,​warning​me​the​way​of​the​seas,​the​seas. Tongues​sharp​as​two​wind-​whipped​trees​will​question. Tongues​sharp​as​two​wind-​whipped​trees​will​question. (Skin​or​nerve​waiting​and​heart​will​answer. Skin​or​nerve​waiting​and​heart​will​answer). Question​will​answer​two​tongues​and,​or​will: heart​sharp​as​nerve​trees;​waiting,​skin-​whipped​wind. Brim​your​simple​hand​over​where​the​skin​is. Brim​your​simple​hand​over​where​the​skin​is. Wish​again,​whenever​hair​and​breath​come​closer. Wish​again,​whenever​hair​and​breath​come​closer. Closer,​again,​whenever;​brim​where​your​skin​is; hair,​wish​and​breath​over​the​simple​hand,​come. Spend​come​warning​me,​whenever​simple​sounds​will,​will; move​your​question.​Answer​your​heart-sharp​ ​tender sea-​warm​will​with​me.​Way​of​the​seas,​the​seas! Where​skin-​whipped​nerve​trees​wind​over​waiting​tongues, brim​closer​to​me.​Again​the​skin,​as​wish, and​two​of​the​breath,​hand​and​hair,​or​come,​is. 20 earth​goddess​and​sky​god You​haven’t​formed​me.​I’m​a​monster​still. Then give me your body. Give it to me in rain. Look​up​and​fill​me.​I​am​too​dark​to​stain. You haven’t held me. I hold apart my will Spread​dryness​through​me.​I​have​a​night​to​fill in high heat- speckled waves, apart from where I​will​come​down.​I​have​nothing​to​share with breath. I will give it back. There is one to kill, one​to​renew,​and​one​to​persuade​to​weep. My night holds everything except for sleep. 22 ghazal​For​a​Poetess Many the nights that have passed, But I remember The river of pearls at Fez And Seomar whom I loved. —“Laurence” Hope, 1903 The​corners​of​the​frontispiece​yellow​from​their​darker​edges. Aching​eyes​lift​in​tremolo​from​their​darker​edges. Moon​lit​your​blood​in​the​jasmine-​blooming​gardens; bodies​still​glide​in​tableau​from​their​darker​edges. Your​“hungry​soul”​laps​at​the​page​with​its​“burning,​burning”; your​moans​send​out​an​echo​from​their​darker​edges. Silk​covers​your​arms,​your​fingers,​your​lips,​your​voice. Your​black​lines​weave​a​trousseau​from​their​darker​edges. Wind​strikes​at​the​palm​trees​where​you​walked; fronds​shake​like​tousled​arrows​from​their​darker​edges. Your​nights​spread​quiet​over​“parched​and​dreary”​sand. Finches​fill​them​till​they​glow​from​their​darker​edges. 30 elegy​For​my​Father HLF, August 8, 1918—August 22, 1997 Bequeath us to no earthly shore until Is answered in the vortex of our grave The seal’s wide spindrift gaze towards paradise. —Hart Crane, “Voyages” If a lion could talk, we couldn’t understand it —Ludwig Wittgenstein Under​the​ocean​that​stretches​out​wordlessly past​the​long​edge​of​the​last​human​shore, there​are​deep​windows​the​waves​haven’t​opened, where​night​is​reflected​through​decades​of​glass. There​is​the​nursery,​there​is​the​nanny, there​are​my​father’s​unreachable​eyes turned​towards​the​window.​Is​the​child​uneasy? His​is​the​death​that​is​circling​the​stars. In​the​deep​room​where​candles​burn​soundlessly and​peace​pours​at​last​through​the​cells​of​our​bodies, three​of​us​are​watching,​one​of​us​is​staring with​the​wide​gaze​of​a​wild,​wave-​fed​seal. Incense​and​sage​speak​in​smoke​loud​as​waves, and​crickets​sing​sand​towards​the​edge​of​the​hourglass. We​wait​outside​time,​while​night​collects​courage around​us.​The​vigil​is​wordless.​And​you watch​the​longest,​move​the​farthest,​besieged​by​your​breath, pulling​into​your​body.​You​stare​towards​your​death, head​arched​on​the​pillow,​your​left​fingers​curled. Your​mouth​sucking​gently,​unmoved​by​these​hours and​their​vigil​of​salt​spray,​you​show​us​how​far you​are​going,​and​how​long​the​long​minutes​are, while​spiraling​night​watches​over​the​room and​takes​you,​until​you​watch​us​in​turn. 37 Lions​speak​their​own​language.​You​are​still​breathing. Here​is​release.​Here​is​your​pillow, cool​like​a​handkerchief​pressed​in​a​pocket. Here​is​your​white​tousled​long​growing​hair. Here​is​a​kiss​on​your​temple​to​hold​you safe​through​your​solitude’s​long​steady​war; here,​you​can​go.​We​will​stay​with​you, keeping​the​silence​we​all​came​here​for. Night,​take​his​left​hand,​turning​the​pages. Spin​with​the​windows​and​doors​that​he​mended. Spin​with​his​answers,​patient,​impatient. Spin​with​his​dry​independence,​his​arms warmed​by​the​needs​of​his​family,​his​hands flying​under​the​wide,​carved​gold​ring,​and​the​pages flying​so​his​thought​could​fly.​His​breath​slows, lending​its​edges​out​to​the​night. Here​is​his​open​mouth.​Silence​is​here like​one​more​new​question​that​he​will​not​answer. A​leaf​is​his​temple.​The​dark​is​the​prayer. He​has​given​his​body;​his​hand​lies​above the​sheets​in​a​symbol​of​wholeness,​a​curve of​thumb​and​forefinger,​ringed​with​wide​gold, and​the​moment​that​empties​his​breath​is​a​flame faced​with​a​sudden​cathedral’s​new​stone. 38 summer​solstice​chant June 21 The​sun,​rich​and​open, stretches​and​pours​on​the​bloom​of​our​work. In​the​center​of​the​new​flowers, a​darker​wing​of​flower points​you​like​a​fire. Point​your​fire​like​a​flower. 44 letter​For​emily​dickinson When​I​cut​words​you​never​may​have​said into​fresh​patterns,​pierced​in​place​with​pins, ready​to​hold​them​down​with​my​own​thread, they​change​and​twist​sometimes,​their​color​spins loose,​and​your​spider​generosity lends​them​from​language​that​will​never​be free​of​you​after​all.​My​sampler​reads, “called​back.”​It​says,​“she​scribbled​out​these​screeds.” It​calls,​“she​left​this​trace,​and​now​we​start”— in​stitched​directions​that​follow​the​leads I​take​from​you,​as​you​take​me​apart.
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