Triny Finlay
Biography
Triny Finlay is a queer poet, writer, teacher, and mother. Her long poem Myself A Paperclip (Goose Lane 2021) won the 2022 New Brunswick Book Award for poetry and was shortlisted for the 2022 Atlantic Book Award for poetry. She is also the author of the critically-acclaimed books Histories Haunt Us (Nightwood 2010) and Splitting Off (Nightwood 2004), along with the chapbooks Anxious Attachment Style (Anstruther 2022), You don’t want what I’ve got (Junction 2018), and Phobic (Gaspereau 2006). Her writing has appeared in anthologies and journals such as Best Canadian Poetry 2022, Breathing Fire 2: Canada’s New Poets, The Fiddlehead, Grain, The London Reader, The Malahat Review, Marsh Blue Violet: A Queer New Brunswick Anthology, and Plenitude. She lives on the unceded and unsurrendered land of Wolastoqiyik, where she teaches English and Creative Writing at the University of New Brunswick.
Poetics Statement
“My serial long poem Myself A Paperclip (2021) is a book that explores my experiences with debilitating mental illnesses and some of their treatments, including hospitalizations in psychiatric wards, psychotropic medications, Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Dialectical Behavioural Therapy, and Electroconvulsive Therapy. I wrote this book as a way of coming to terms with the wide range of treatments and medications I’ve tried, and changed, and tried again, along with the effects of those treatments and the stigma surrounding their use. There is so much trial and error in the world of psychiatry and psychotherapy, and there are so many variables; I don’t think it’s uncommon to go through months or years of experimenting with prescription drugs and other therapies in order to find a treatment plan that works. And then something changes in your life, or in your brain, or both, and you need to start again. I wanted to capture some of the complexities and frustrations involved in this process: the obsessive and depressive nature of the illnesses; the unpredictability of the medications; the absurdity of not knowing what the treatments are actually doing for us; the adaptability and plasticity of the brain; the tension of others’ judgement during these struggles; the darkly comic nature of mental illness in general; the hunger for stability of some kind. I was trying to say: I’ve been through this, and it’s messy as hell, and I want you to know what it’s like. ”
Sample of Poet's Work
#PlantMetaphors
Not that it’s enough, simply to adore a person
But I adore her
The way sansevieria reaches for the perfect ceiling
The way hypoestes develops its pink spots like dark room photographs
The way arthurium sucks on ice cubes
The way golden pothos rests in a trail on the hardwood floor
The way aloe waits in desertion for weeks
The way opuntia bursts out of itself when I least expect it
The way tradescantia purples with a cool dousing
The way chlorophytum begs me to stroke its hair
The way crassula bends toward its sedum friend
The way mammillaria holds onto its floral nipple
The way echeveria suns its silver skin
The way peperomia gathers around itself like a drape
And when I say adore, I mean, of course, love
Which the houseplants know without saying so
from Self-Portrait As Someone You Might Like to Meet
Because I like to arrange pills in patterns
before I take them.
Because there are no elephants here.
Because I’ve mentioned elephants.
I was broken–I’ll say it plain
and that’s what you’ll like,
the plainness, smooth
face, pop of blue in the eye.
I read ’til I was green again
(new and ill and envious).
It didn’t work but I kept going.
The words weren’t enough
and neither is this.
published in Histories Haunt Us (Nightwood Editions, 2021)
from You Don’t Want What I’ve Got
*
I don’t want anyone walking
on eggshells around me.
This body a thumb drive, waiting
to be plugged in.
Don’t rush me.
An inattentive landlord. Strained
relationships with our mothers. An everyday
sound, like ohhhhh.
I’m tired of being just a pair of eyes.
The freckles are slowly turning
to moles; the canker sores arrive.
The baseboards of the world cannot contain us.
We’ve turned into hummingbirds
—die if we stop moving.
Present compulsions: opening (and closing)
the mailbox; wiping the coffee table with Murphy’s Oil;
eating chick peas directly from the can.
Dare me to make a chart of it.
I will not judge the universe.
published in Myself A Paperclip (icehouse / Goose Lane Editions, 2021)