Anne Winters is the author of The Key to the City (1986), a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and The Displaced of Capital (2004), winner of the William Carlos Williams Award and the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize.
Her poems address issues of poverty, homelessness, social inequality, and the city of New York. Dan Chiasson described her poems as “Miltonic, Marxist, ornate, and indignant,” adding that “her real subject is finally how the loveliness of craft measures experience at its most brute and awful, and how experience ruptures even the loveliest of craft.” Concerning The Displaced of Capital, Ellen Nussbaum wrote that Winters “builds legacies to urban poverty that balance between lyricism and manifesto.”
Winters is fluent in French, and her translations include Salamander: Selected Poems of Robert Marteau (1979). She has traveled widely in Europe and was a Fellow at the Camargo Foundation in France. Her awards include grants from the Ingram Merrill Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts, a Guggenheim fellowship, and an Award in Literature from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. She teaches at the University of Illinois at Chicago.
Through the meridian's fine blue hairlines, the admirals are converging
in their fish-hulled ships, with their frogmen and sirens, and tanks with knotted chain flails
that beat the ground before them as they crawl.
...
After three months, Virginia is still a frontier.
Late at night, I close the door
on my husband practicing Mozart, the dishpan fills
and the network affiliates sign off one by one.
...
Sparrows tapping your shutters louvres? snow owls
guano your eaves? Spring rainstorms sway
in your gutters; down-cellar a green pipe pearls
...
Fleeing his clubs, dull honors, wives, the ageing Hardy
hunches down in his potting-shed with his thumbtip-fumbled, fine-
printed seed catalogue's inflorescences—
peripherally glimpsing the oxygenless blue line
...
All middle age invisible to us, all age
passed close enough behind to seize our napehairs
and whisper in a voice all thatch and smoke
some village-elder warning, some rasped-out
...