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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, January 8, 2011

New Poem...

Having It Out On Nowhere Street

"When somebody loves you
it's no good unless he loves you
all the way....."

Where, after hours
In the smoky contusions
To the soul of Coltrane and moonlight
Is my heart and her madness?

Is it at the back of the freezer, faintly
Sighing to itself, so acclimated
To a stalactite frost?
Is it out there, where last year’s pasture
Wicks starlight,
Is it there where I planted a wild rose bush
That you forgot to water
Like a marriage?

But it’s not about the water.  Perhaps
I meant
Like a mirage.

Perhaps, I think, breaking out the glazed pecans
The golden raisins for a bread pudding,
Listening to the riffs of “You were too good to me”

You have that funny valentine of mine
in your hand where you lie dreaming
Fog still on your glasses at the bedside
Winter night staining the window

What would it take to liberate
This deported love?
For you to cross the chasm of the living room
To where I lie, stringing wooden beads of truth
On baling twine
He loves me not, he loves me not

A miracle?
Then let there be an apple tree
In full bloom, right now, in January
Ascendant from the chaff beneath the house
And the Von Trapps come in
With Eidelweiss
And our mares come home
From the renderers, healed

Clean and bright, clean and bright:
I love the drops of blood against the white
Meat of the apple slice
From my Judas knife
The whetted sleight of hand
Of my self-infliction.

5 comments:

Fireblossom said...

As a lover of old standards, this appeals to me, though it is dark at its heart, though it is grim agt its ending.

A noir ballad? Is there such a thing?

Maureen said...

Smoky jazz has to accompany a reading of this poem.

Some phrases I particularly like: "pastures/ wicks starlight", "winter night staining the window", "zircon beads of truth / on baling twine".

I re-read this and then imagined it ending at the second line of your last stanza. It seems especially powerful that way.

Steve Isaak said...

Jazz-centric, amazing work. (I rarely use the word "amazing" - but this is.) . . . Must listen to Coltrane, "A Love Supreme" now. . .:)

jen revved said...

Thanks FB, Mo, and Steve-- haven't we all been there though...xxxxj

Jingle Poetry said...

I invite you to join Jingle Poetry Potluck week 17, link in 1 to 3 old poems today, Thanks for the valuable support!


Potluck Week 17 Treat/Awards 4 You, Enjoy!