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, February 19, 2011

For Saturday's One Stop Poetry and One Shoot Sunday

(combining saturday and sunday prompts-- photo of Vader et cetera...)

Los Objetos del Pasado...

"...and here is the eye of a star that
fell to earth when her constellation
was shaken by a winter wind" --

 Lorenzo Lapislazuli

May I use that falling star from your past
as my epigraph
may I hold in my hand something
that touched you

May I say
that in the deeps of space
someone cloaked and embittered
plays a violin

should be possible then:
One day courage will ignite in me
and I will drop the ancient family bible
into the river
and its pages, the signatures
of those who have faded away
will disintegrate
into the silt

I will carry the imaginary Fedora
of my father's , containing
the polished stones
of failed love between us
on the train to Montreal
and cast it off
into ghost meadows of trillium
on fire with the dawn

So many anchors and pulls
like your Senor Kilo-
weight of the Mexican fish
on the tiled table

Why do I love those opaque
golden eyes
they see nothing
the fish has no ears it cannot hear me

I see the inflamed heavens:  I hear
a faint and sinister rhapsody
As a falling star I burn out
like a cinder
arcing over the late night skies
I once said hid God's heart
from the homing fury
of humankind.

I don't know.  I know nothing
Just that the carillon of St. Joseph's
in the barrio
calls me to mis rodillas
and yet I cannot 
make the sign of the cross.

An old poem, circa 1970


The boy holds
the wooden goat from Chimayo
to his forehead,
in a game of butting.

A gift from the drunken mother
who swears 
when the horns are broken.

He is young and cries
She rocks until darkness
dreaming of luminarios
and the desert.


All posted work copyrighted to Jenne' R. Andrews 2011


Lorenzo — Alchemist's Pillow said...

In answer to your initial question: yes, you certainly may. I was touched and pleased to see that something of my own touched and pleased you, and even more delighted to see it segue into the beautiful poem that followed. The imagery dazzles ... "into ghost meadows of trillium /on fire with the dawn".

And the final image of being called to one's knees but unable to make the sign of the cross rings and downright clangs so loud and true for me.

I couldn't help but notice that the date (circa 1970) you give more or less coincides with the memory that sparked the poem I wrote and from which you have harvested the epigraph. Little polished stones that we can pass around to each other ...

Anonymous said...

Second one's good, but I love the first. There's so much rich association with death and God and the father, qualities all which are absenting from our ever-living, godless, fatherless present. Vader is such a far, bad daddy, given over the to cold dark of stellar distance ... Strange how some things float in the aether. I woke up around 1:30 a.m. this night from a nightmare where all my family had died, one by one at once, and I was struggling to write obits for them all. In particular, my older brother who had drowned crying "father, father" as a boat passed overhead. But when I woke it seemed that I had died. -- Brendan

Claudia said...

you always have the most intriguing imagery in your poems and the distance to a father on the other side of what we can caputre can be felt in your writing

Steve Isaak said...

Stunning images/ideas/flow, a trademark of yours. Perfect.

jen revved said...

Humbled, as ever, and thank you, each of you! xxxj

Fireblossom said...

I love that first one. "In the deeps of space..." could be followed by almost anything and be a rich image. I love the bible and the hat full of stones. Really enjoyed the entire thing.