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 .

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Poem in Draft....

I Cannot Carry the Plums
I smell winter on the wind
Today, treading out
Over the small, dusky plums
The squirrels could not carry away—
I feel winter
Listening to hymns from the home
Not home next door
Where the hidden away, the broken
Cluster at the loud piano
Mouth the words to The Old Rugged Cross
Leave the plums—they are not your worry.
Rain will deal with this mess--
Neither are those nearby who fade
Into Florentine angels, bruising skin
then lace
Over the lattice of their fine bones
Leave summer at your back
How the apple-rumped paint foals
will be loaded into semis today
And sent to the sale
 Deplorable destiny.
It is not yet
Your turn.
Take in all of it—
Where you were, brown legs
Swinging, top of the Ferris wheel
Where you are
Looking out
At century-old oaks on fire
Against cloud cover,
Singing of the hereafter
In autumn.

1 comment:

Maureen said...

The emotion in this poem is palpable. That line "Leave the plus--they are not your worry." grabs at my heart.

Your poems would be so beautifully read over at Whale Sound. Have you considered submitting one?