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, February 3, 2011

Re-post-- Cairo burning...

Like many today, very affected by things in Egypt.  Ergo, this draft.  Please  scroll down for the poem posted for One Shot Wednesday-- thank you for such wonderful comments.  xxxj

For Cairo, Burning

They that dwell in darkness
shall see a great light.. Isaiah

Would the lamb of god
come upon this clear midnight?

In lux dubitas--- doubt
Within light
We travel north over frozen lands
Into the storm of gilded sand

Seated in the wind
We bridge the spent moon
Heading east
Where morning is
Our fear
Goes fallow, like the corn field
Geese come
To break the hull, peck
And split the chaff

So is faith seeded
So does fear take wing
Swan lifting on the night

The eyes of all
Wait upon us

But we are the watchers
And those who bring forth.
We act upon the hills
With the seed flung from our hands

We raise up growth
From a charred field
That which spills
From our pockets
Is that which brings
The wheat.


I seek you in a delirium
I am spent in the poppies
I dress myself
In the vestments of the owl
I look out from a rookery
In the crags

I soar over the parting sea,
That wave of the lost
That makes way
For something in white silk
Draped, disguised.

No one sees
Who that one is
It passes, unnamed
Would you come,
upon this clear
Like a thousand winds
A hundred stallions from the heavens

Would the black waters part


Some say the broken
Of the desert
Cannot handle freedom.

This is a lie.
Humble the liars
Who say the people
Are blind
And without clean souls
And cannot find their way.

Freedom rides in upon a clear midnight
Veiled, yet palpable

By the light of the dawn
they that have dwelt in darkness 
fall upon her
Like bread.


Copyright Jenne' R. Andrews
All Rights Deserved


Ami Mattison said...

Beautifully, wonderfully lyrical--fine, brilliant writing as usual, Jenne'! I've been thinking of writing about these events as well. I think your poem just pushed me over the edge into summoning my own voice on these heavy matters. Thanks!

Maureen said...

Late last night, unable to stop watching the protests, I pulled out my copy of Mahmoud Darwish "If I Were Another". I ended up tweeting a few lines from his marvelous poetry.

I've just read your poem again and see in it some of the same images Darwish uses: bread, light, the empty hands, the sea.

hedgewitch said...

Reverberant images and mystical lines, saying what needs to be said. It's so hard to know what to say here where its safe to people who are risking everything for a new world. Thanks for speaking out.

jen revved said...

Thanks Ami, Mo, and HW--xxxj

Ted said...

I dress myself
In the vestments of the owl
I look out from a rookery
In the crags

You conjure with these words, strike a bass chord, forebode...you call on many allusions here and remind us the owl is a night hunter, an omen, a fortune teller. He is wise to rest by day in the rookery atop dusty rafters in the grainery for his best work is done by night and in the context of Cairo, he plots his revolution in the crags with brother pidgeon and sister swallow. From it all, your words sing of a wellspring of hope which must be at the heart of all revolutions.

Anonymous said...

The voice here soars high over the flames, but is composed of the many down below whose hearts and bodies have ignited them. A very delicate fine way to go into the burning guts of the moment. -- Brendan

jen revved said...

thanks Maureen, Hedge, Ami, Brendan, Ted! xxxj

jen revved said...

Thanks very much, Brendan and Ted...xxj