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, January 6, 2011

New Poem in Draft January 6 -

I've noticed that some of the poets I love-- notably Eliot and Whitman-- aren't shy about repeating words and phrases, mixing them up, for that mnemonic effect we all love-- so, this was a poem about the night but as is the way with wayward poems, about other things as well.  Thanks to those taking the time to read it!  I'll visit you...xxxj


The Solitary Dialect of the Night Owl

I make my way down the blacktop in the deeps of the night
The long tunnel through the barrio that is the night
The arcade of stars that night becomes
Dipper spilling over with platinum fire
If we could hear the song of the heavens
We would run, falling, sleep-walking
Rowing ourselves over ice with our own arms
So stunned by the crescendos of heaven

I make my way down the blacktopped circuitry
Where frost becomes fire and there are star-falling songs
As in an arcade, its few euphoric stragglers
Crossing against the eighteen wheelers bearing East
To the prairie, no drivers
The long blind ships of the night on their thunderous wheels
The Burlington Northern on its midnight run, the long call
Of warning some don't heed
Hot bikes skidding out in a sea of sparks
Jackets on fire, the lost angels of the winter dark

I go out to lock the car and there is a voice
Night’s beguiling voice 
In the crown of the dead oak that scratches the stars
Something is calling to me; it is calling and fluttering 
With topaz eyes that flash like neon asters
Caught in the bark-stripped branches

Who are you, heading East
By starlight in the deeps of the night.
Who. 
To whom do you speak
I reply, making a low noise
In my throat, a low guttural noise
A foolish human would make
In response to a night creature
In a tree in its halo of star-flung sky
And what are you?
Something come to telegraph
The hour of my death?

I make my way over blackened grass
Where frost becomes fire and there are star-falling songs
Of mourning and surrender

If I had but one answer, you who preen there
Wrapped in the down
Of the dawn and the night's last hour
Its last sweet cold kiss stealing my breath 

If I knew who I am or who I ever was 
or might become
I would be at rest, at peace, 
my head on a feather pillow
Learning your impertinent patois
In my dreams.  


Copyright Jenne’ R. Andrews 2011
All rights reserved.



7 comments:

Fireblossom said...

Are we related? I'm telling you, we share mojo or something.

That first stanza is amazing. I especially love the rowing ourselves with our arms part. I also love the spirit tree and the conversation,if you will. The poem as a whole is realllyyyyy good! A blast to read.

Um...but since it is labeled "In draft", I am thinking it isn't finished. May I offer two things that struck me? If I'm being annogying, I apologize in advance. Nobody died and made me editor for the western world. Nonetheless, I don't think the second stanza is up to the standard of the rest of the poem, though I like the Harleys and their lost angels. I don't think the repetition of the stars and arcade works. My opinion only. And I think you mean "patois" not patios" near the end.

This poem knocks the top of my head off. Forgive me the unsolicited advice, if it wasn't wanted.

jen revved said...

Thanks-- think we've been reading each other's mail? xxxxj must to bed but will live with the draft a few days-- thanks for your suggestions! xxxj

Maureen said...

Jenne, your words are so lyrical; the poem moved me deeply. The song in this reverberates, almost lulls with its beauty.

I agree with Fireblossom about that first stanza; it's one of the best you've written. My, what an image is created with "Rowing ourselves over ice with our own arms"! The "crown of the oak that scratches the stars" also is lovely.

Dawn Potter said...

I disagree with Fireblossom: I like the second stanza quite a bit.

jen revved said...

Thank you, Maureen and Dawn and Shay...xxxxj

Claudia said...

first - i loved the title...and i liked the images you use...The long ships of the night on their thunderous wheels..

jen revved said...

Thanks Claudia-- great to have you and Dawn stop by! xxxxj