WELCOME! BENVENUTI!

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 .

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I put a new draft on my other blog and repost it here-- dedicated to my dear friend and mentor Maureen-- take your pick for One Shot-=- this one or my "epic"-- not really an epic-- below it!  xj


Pennies for a Cancion
.
“Absolve, Domine…”
.
The Requiem Mass of Johannes Rheinberger
.
For Maureen Doallas
.
Tonight first snow
Yet again takes earth
For her lover
Drinking the color from the last
Of the marigolds
Closing the grey eye
Of the lake
.
The tributaries settle
Into themselves
Time, past time the killdeer
Calls out
In its reconnaissance
Of the canyon
.
You speed down the tunnel
That seams present to past
The stiff, expansive field
The mares mouth,
With their cold dreaming
.
Love abounds
Someone cries
From his red muffler, on the corner
Ringing a bell
Pennies for a cancion
Someone pleads, lingering
At the ice-cast
Fountain
.
ii
.
You look out from the window
Of the subsidized apartment
Over the coffee parlor
Your hair laced
With hazelnut
.
No one to treat
To a bruised harvest.
No Schubert lieder
At the back of the throat—
..
In the larder
The apples
You thought you might pierce
With cloves to save
.
Hanging them
To gleam recklessly
In the dark,
Singing one of your old
Half-remembered hymns
To snow.

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