Jenne' Andrews is an American poet. She has three published chapbooks including the recent Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, Finishing Line Press 2013.

A full-length collection, Reunion, Lynx House Press, was published in 1983; after a long hiatus to raise Golden Retrievers in Colorado, recent work has appeared in The Passionate Transitory, Belletrist Coterie, The Adirondack Review and Vox Populi, a journal of culture, politics and poetry published and edited by the august Michael Simms.

A bilingual collection of "Italiana," Bocca, Voce, Delirio, with translations by Lorenzo Luciani, will be released by Finishing Line at the end of 2016 and her latest collection, And Now, the Road, a finalist for the Autumn House prize in 2014, will be released by Salmon Poetry Ltd, Ireland, a highly regarded international house, Jessie Lendennie, Publisher, circa 2017.

Andrews holds the MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry from Colorado State University, is a literary fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts, and was full-time Poet in Residence for the St. Paul Schools from '74-78. She lived in St. Paul from 1971-78 during the first wave of the Twin Cities literary renaissance, and spent the summer of 1973 in Reggio Calabria, Italy.

The poet lives in northern Colorado's Poudre River Valley with her husband, fiction writer Jack Brooks; the couple has recently imported two British Golden Retrievers and expects a litter in June-- see the Ardorgold website for details. Contact: jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .

Monday, October 18, 2010

An Elegy for Dame Joan Sutherland.

On the Death of a Coloratura

Ohime, sorge il tremendo fantasma e ne separa!
Qui recovriamo, Edgardo, a pie dell'ara.
Sparsa e di rose!
Un armonia celeste, di, non ascolti?*

Il Dolce Sueno, "Mad Scene" Lucia di Lammermoor
For R.B.
Someone is weeping
In a churchyard in Geneva
At a beloved’s headstone.
Her song is everywhere
But she, the body of love
Is gone.
He pulls the satin-edged twilight
Over his head--
At the end
Reprising her Covent Garden
She touched his face:
Quickly, amore,
There is one with lilies
Of the valley
In her hair, at the gate.
After the memorial mass
Bach cascades
From the cathedral
He returns to the chalet;
Dusk mutes the patina
Of the mahogany piano.
A belated bouquet
Of blood bright roses leans
From the shadows.
Some phrase of hers
Reaches for him, too faint
To hear:
The blind doves of his hands
Flutter through the cupboard
Looking for oolong,
The Limoges teapot,
With its chipped spout-
Even now its replacement
In the freight, swaddled in excelsior
From Paris.
It was a beautiful life
He thinks, ‘ne regrette ‘rien—
Working off his wedding band
Wrapping it in a silk handkerchief
Redolent with Madame Rochas
Tucking it in the top drawer
Of a cedar-lined chiffonier
The Times rustles
In the dooryard
Yearning to distract him
But is the hour when
After rehearsal
They took the air
In her garden
Where pinching back
Hybrid rhododendron
She tripped and fell.
He returns
To the gazebo
‘Out of the depths
 I call unto thee”
Sipping from a glass
Of Valpolicella:
In the grove of firs
Soon to be snow-laden,
Mute with her absence--.
The one he called
Dearest, that they hailed
In Milano
As La Stupenda—
She, who sotto voce
Fed him the lover’s bread
Of the prescient body--
He lies down
On the frost-laced earth.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews, 2010.

*Ah!  A tremendous phantom arises
That will not leave me…
Let us take refuge here, Edgardo,
at the foot of the altar
Strewn with roses
Do you not hear the harmony of heaven?

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