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.
You​wrote​some​of​your​lines​while​baking​bread,
propping​a​sheet​of​paper​by​the​bins
of​salt​and​flour,​so​if​your​kneading​led
to​words,​you’d​tether​them​as​if​in​thin
black​loops​on​paper.​When​they​sang​to​be​free,
you​captured​those​quick​birds​relentlessly
and​kept​a​slow,​sure​mercy​in​your​deeds,
leaving​them​room​to​peck​and​hunt​their​seeds
in​the​white​cages​your​vast​iron​art
had​made​by​moving​books,​and​lives,​and​creeds.
I​take​from​you​as​you​take​me​apart.
49
brigid
Ring,​ring,​ring,​ring!​Hammers​fall.
Your​gold​will​all​be​beaten
over​sudden​flaming​fire
moving​from​you,​the​pyre.​Sweeten
your​cauldron,​until​the​sun
runs​with​one​flame​through​the​day
and​the​healing​water​will​sing,
linger​on​tongues,​burn​away.
61
moon
Then​are​you​the​dense​everywhere​that​moves,
the​dark​matter​they​haven’t​yet​walked​through?
No,​I’m​not.​I’m​just​the​shining​sun,
sometimes​covered​up​by​the​darkness.
But​in​your​beauty—yes,​I​know​you​see—
There​is​no​covering,​no​constant​light.
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