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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 .

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Poem for One Shot Wednesday

Exile

Now I am in Rapallo, the boats tied
at the dock.  My hair is dark
again and I climb
from the skiff and stride along

Past the mustard-colored villas. 
I sit at a table
back in the shade--

An old woman comes by, dragging
sacks of bread behind her in a cart. I buy a loaf
and lean it on the other chair.

The bread and I together in the shade,
the glittering red geraniums
in the window box—
it is afternoon

But I write a chanson du matin,
a morning psalm, on a stained
piece of paper, tucking it

Into my pocket. 
Somewhere out there
coming from a long distance,
the mariner.
Within, the swan, capable, strong,

Wide wings.  That is what I am,
not someone on the lam
with a bad leg and a crook
In her back, few years left
with which to write more entreaties
to the moon, the sun, the stars.

Now the swan spreads her wings
and rises, gliding off on the oceanic
currents, tears from the burning air
streaming back.  

She flaps and glides,
settling herself then
at the calling buoy,
on the swelling lavender sea.





4 comments:

Beachanny said...

Thank you Jenne for this beautiful piece, wrapping Italian colors and lights into a personal view and a flight of fancy. Beautiful.
Gay

Brian Miller said...

you set a wonderful scene...lots of little details make it real before us...and the bird at the end leaves me feeling serenity...

Brendan said...

Such a gilded, gliding chanson to the heart whose wings can't fail. Thanks. -- Brendan

Alegria Imperial said...

Who is a woman who isn't a swan at heart? But yours flaps wings not by magic but on their own because in truth, as you so beautifully, craft this poem, she is a SWAN, waiting for the right current of wind. Thank you for another magical experience with your poetry!