WELCOME! BENVENUTI!

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, March 12, 2011

Poem for Saturday

Saturday’s Child

What can be understood of that one
Who lives by enduring
The intolerable
Someone tending an alcoholic wife.
Someone on eternal duty to the broken

Someone bringing home stray lambs
Because no one else will
She imagines, or because
She has damned herself
To hard labor, like pitching out 
A rank shed of compressed alfalfa
Where something bereft
Had been shut in for years

What makes a man trudge through
His own house
Like a burro plowing poppy fields
In a track of obligation, bearing up
When he is running out of air and time

Hooked up to oxygen, too married
To someone too dissipated
To care for herself

When the door is open
And he could at least take flight
For a short while, dump them all
So that they are forced 
to save themselves.

What addicts someone
To a bankrupt past
So that even as the years fall
Like corn stalks, scythed down
By first frost
He lives in the ash-fields
Of his traumas and follies. 

Someone I know lies in the dark
All afternoon, her face to the wall.
She is tired of swimming upstream
Of willing herself on.

What will rescue her?
How will she come
To love herself
Enough to say
I matter
To the world.

Clearly she must locate her will
On the map of her own soul,
Pitch herself at the blue horizon

Heart-first, disobeying
the tyrant mind, return
To the fishing village on the sea
To listen to the tide 
pensione shutters flung wide

Permit herself a cup
Of happiness/alegre/alegria
Before the curtain falls
On the one-act existential play
You might subtitle
Waiting for God--

I ask a final time
we see that some
convict themselves
of imaginary sins.

How then
Shall we love such a person.
What liberates her.  What cure
As in a day in the country.
What food, as in 
A taste of forbidden foie gras.  
What marshaled, searing inner light.



x

copyright 2011 Jenne' R. Andrews

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