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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, February 26, 2011

Poem for Saturday


Moonlight and the Silk Road

Under the second month's full moon
The black road unfurls like silk ahead
Parting and unstable,
A tarmac for seraphim
That don't appear:

Only the deputies
Swoop by like birds of prey
Someone hapless ahead
Pulling out a license

If she is lucky
Perhaps she is a bone smuggler;.
If there are bone farms on the moon
I’d like to know
As I need new bones
For the jaw, the legs
The back and the hands

Yes soon according
To gravity

Where I was will be
An afterthought,
A shadow
Speaking in tongues
Along the roadside

I can tell time by the mares, migrating
From one end of the field here
To the fence, waiting out the night
Patiently in the stanchions
Of their pregnancies

Moon please show me a foal
Its small blue nose on its forelegs

Give me a sneak preview
Of the porpoise emerging,
Silk sack splitting
Into a conundrum of tissue

And a shaking of the wet head
That signals the first breath.
Legs spindled on the grass
Before the ears lift
By means of their own tiny musculature
And there is something new
Already knowing
Where milk is

Moon-crazed now
Speeding home away
From the home that was
Taciturn stars
You can't steer by-- too far away
Too cold and on slow burn

But Coltrane on the radio
Air in the tires and then wings
Appear on either side of the truck
And you're aloft

An unsteady cargo for the night
In the black and gold dress
With the power to roll time back

To when the earth was covered with water
And immense cormorants
Soared and flapped without fear
Close to the surface.


Copyright Jenne R. Andrews 2011

3 comments:

Fireblossom said...

"If she is lucky
Perhaps she is a bone smuggler;.
If there are bone farms on the moon
I’d like to know
As I need new bones
For the jaw, the legs
The back and the hands"

I just love that. Bone farms on the moon because you need some? Get out. I aklso love the telling time by the mares. What's lacking in so much blog poetry is the poetic image, but not in yours. Your poems burst with them.

Luke Prater said...

Enjoyed this one, Jenne', your pieces have an endearing continuous flow to them, almost internal monologic, rambling (in a good way). I immediately think of Kerouac 'continuous prose', or Woolf's 'stream of consciousness', or the way James Joyce wrote. I never wrote an essay juxtaposing all three.. I would have loved to but never got to it.

Anyway, good job

Luke @ WordSalad

Brian Miller said...

i too like the bone farm section but the part that stood out to me was:

Moon-crazed now
Speeding home away
From the home that was
Taciturn stars
You can't steer by-- too far away
Too cold and on slow burn

and coltrane on the radio just made sense...thanks for the ride