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Spell

Part of Penguin Poets

Author Ann Lauterbach
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$22.00 US
Penguin Adult HC/TR | Penguin Books
24 per carton
On sale Oct 02, 2018 | 9780143133520
Sales rights: US, Canada, Open Mkt
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A new collection of provocative work from the author of Or To Begin Again, a finalist for the 2009 National Book Award in Poetry

Ann Lauterbach is one of America's most inventive poets, acclaimed for her fierce, sensuous, and intellectually charged work. In her tenth collection, Spell, Lauterbach activates the many meanings of "spell": her sense that the world is under a spell from which it must awaken, to spells of passing weather, to her desire to spell out life's difficulties and wonders, and how sin-gle words (and their etymologies) might inform and enlighten our contemporary condition. In short poems, poem sequences, and a series of "Conversations with Evening," Lauterbach calls upon all her imaginative resources to locate a new hybrid poetics of reality, with wit, urgency, and candor.
PAUSE

The arc of distance is partial.
A continuum belated us, like the slow-​­motion
spit of a shaman. Friendships went south. We could not
name our freedoms, only the pause between days
in which all matters of belonging
densely accrued, then
scattered. I could not wake up. She wore
a tiara and spoke rapidly
into the swollen air,
youthful and eager, in bliss for that, while I
changed into a shadow just as the oil,
heating in the kitchen, began to snarl
and a single mosquito
itched against the screen, wanting
out, or blood. The arc of distance is partial.
The sun set into its given, not prone to regret or sorrow.

I’ll stay in the thick jungle’s weeds, without
expertise, and mystify the brand. A quotidian
logic animates the scene, heads
nodding, hands
busy under cover of night. I’ll stay
here by the leaves yellowing in their
dotage, among sentences
dangling on webs and irreducible
to the temptation to flee. I’ll
be here in the ancient shade of a crass
belligerent god, huge on a high wire,
teetering over an abyss. I’m here, sweetheart,
dressed in my skin, ready

There is some kindness in the zone of farewell: handing
over the towel, removing the shoes, looking away
from the hanging figure’s heavy pain,
sending a note: Beloved, I regret
you were not able to continue on this path
we made together, but did not follow,
and that your mouth fit so easily over its lies
like a kiss. No matter. We are
severed from the memorial’s agenda,
which has, as you know,
moved on without us. The light is blue-​­gray
and the evidence of harm has been removed,
swept under the great litter they call what happened.
Copyright © 2018 by Ann Lauterbach. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Praise for Ann Lauterbach’s most recent collection, Under the Sign:

“For almost four decades, Lauterbach has kept asking, in poem after allusive poem, how wisdom arrives, how senses make sense, how art matters and happens—and what love, and loss, have to do with it . . . her poems ‘make nothing happen,’ except a way to think hard—and to hold out hope for thought to occur.” —Boston Review

“As a poet, Lauterbach is nothing if not versatile in content and form. . . . Her register is resolutely multivalent. . . . She challenges and enchants.” —The Rumpus

“Enacting insight, intuition, elegance, and humor, these poems are, in a phrase coined by fellow individualist Frederick Seidel, ‘daggers that sing.’” —Rain Taxi

About

A new collection of provocative work from the author of Or To Begin Again, a finalist for the 2009 National Book Award in Poetry

Ann Lauterbach is one of America's most inventive poets, acclaimed for her fierce, sensuous, and intellectually charged work. In her tenth collection, Spell, Lauterbach activates the many meanings of "spell": her sense that the world is under a spell from which it must awaken, to spells of passing weather, to her desire to spell out life's difficulties and wonders, and how sin-gle words (and their etymologies) might inform and enlighten our contemporary condition. In short poems, poem sequences, and a series of "Conversations with Evening," Lauterbach calls upon all her imaginative resources to locate a new hybrid poetics of reality, with wit, urgency, and candor.

Excerpt

PAUSE

The arc of distance is partial.
A continuum belated us, like the slow-​­motion
spit of a shaman. Friendships went south. We could not
name our freedoms, only the pause between days
in which all matters of belonging
densely accrued, then
scattered. I could not wake up. She wore
a tiara and spoke rapidly
into the swollen air,
youthful and eager, in bliss for that, while I
changed into a shadow just as the oil,
heating in the kitchen, began to snarl
and a single mosquito
itched against the screen, wanting
out, or blood. The arc of distance is partial.
The sun set into its given, not prone to regret or sorrow.

I’ll stay in the thick jungle’s weeds, without
expertise, and mystify the brand. A quotidian
logic animates the scene, heads
nodding, hands
busy under cover of night. I’ll stay
here by the leaves yellowing in their
dotage, among sentences
dangling on webs and irreducible
to the temptation to flee. I’ll
be here in the ancient shade of a crass
belligerent god, huge on a high wire,
teetering over an abyss. I’m here, sweetheart,
dressed in my skin, ready

There is some kindness in the zone of farewell: handing
over the towel, removing the shoes, looking away
from the hanging figure’s heavy pain,
sending a note: Beloved, I regret
you were not able to continue on this path
we made together, but did not follow,
and that your mouth fit so easily over its lies
like a kiss. No matter. We are
severed from the memorial’s agenda,
which has, as you know,
moved on without us. The light is blue-​­gray
and the evidence of harm has been removed,
swept under the great litter they call what happened.
Copyright © 2018 by Ann Lauterbach. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Praise

Praise for Ann Lauterbach’s most recent collection, Under the Sign:

“For almost four decades, Lauterbach has kept asking, in poem after allusive poem, how wisdom arrives, how senses make sense, how art matters and happens—and what love, and loss, have to do with it . . . her poems ‘make nothing happen,’ except a way to think hard—and to hold out hope for thought to occur.” —Boston Review

“As a poet, Lauterbach is nothing if not versatile in content and form. . . . Her register is resolutely multivalent. . . . She challenges and enchants.” —The Rumpus

“Enacting insight, intuition, elegance, and humor, these poems are, in a phrase coined by fellow individualist Frederick Seidel, ‘daggers that sing.’” —Rain Taxi

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