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 .

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Poem for December 29-- Challenge....

All of you have me addicted to these challenges...  as it turned out I liked Robert Lee Brewer's at Writer's Digest Today-- to write a "last chance" poem-- what a great idea!  It would be great to brainstorm from that prompt and then dig in but I had just come from a pathology lab and so.....




Speci-Mental

Perhaps it was my last chance
To be civil, handing my labor of necessity
The materia dolorosa produced by my body
Sequestered with a small wooden paddle
Into a sterile cup at midnight
And guarded with my life down the snow-pack
To the blond tech preening in her purse
Thinking about going down on her boyfriend
On their lunch break.
.
Perhaps I had over-lipsticked my mouth
So that when I said “God damn it”
Tripping on the way in to the place
Those words hit the air like a velvet red
Smoke ring
From the mouth of a Greta Garbo
Making all of the phlebotomists nervous
So that they missed a vein or two.

This might be my last chance
To tell you, sweeties
How much I hated to trek home
With that chemistry set you gave me
A spoonful of poo here a spoonful there
Shake to an emulsion for the leukoctyes,
The clostridium and wait
And cogitate
And think not of my over the top white count,
The versions of leukemia I could have
But make the white snow-falling day
Count: read, write, sing.

Barbarella the Tech
purses her pink little mouth at me
And whips out the clear plastic cup
Into which in that one-eyed imagined
Clarity of having lurched to the loo
In the dark, I have carefully placed
a dollop of my offal

And says
You did it wrong; it doesn’t
Conform to the cup.
They’ll just throw it out.

I button my red lips and look out at the snow.
Half-formed epithets escaping
from my throat like steam
From a semi veering down an ice-packed
Mountain road.
And you didn’t tell me to hold off
On the Immodium so that I could bring you
Something that conforms not to itself
But its container?

I lean forward, looking at those long blond
Oh-so-like everyone else's locks.
I came out in a walker in the snow
To bring you what you asked for.
This is your last chance to tell me
That you will put what I brought you
Under a microscope and identify
What’s camped out in it.  Your very last chance
Before, as a charter nonconformist
Who’s lived in this dive for fifty years
I  deposit a new specimen here, on the rug
That is a map of Africa spilling over its borders
Out into the Universe.

Copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2010
All Rights Reserved

2 comments:

pattimccarty said...

Oh my word, Jenne, this is a hoot, especially the ending, lol. ~p

Maureen said...

Noone who follows Robert and takes up this prompt could possibly compete with this... on any level. You certainly have the "last word".