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 .

Friday, March 25, 2011

Poem for Saturday....

Break of Day

Break of day…but not yet.  
I pull myself ashore 
From sleep’s loquacious sea.
My legs are on fire 

From the heat of the comforter.
I toss it off, and pull it 
Back over my gravid body 
Like a cloud of dreams.

I need this wayward cloud, to hide 
My bleak understandings,
My dislike of doctors and priests 
From myself.

Now it is true daybreak 
And there on the screen
The reactor has leaked, radioactive water
Flows out from the “core” 

To all of Japan
I sit up, gathering up 
My arthritic exhaustion
The bulge in my hip 

Where I stand crooked 
For hours
The bed leg that will never 
Straighten, nor bend entirely

Until and unless I let someone
Put their hands on me 
And fire up a circular saw.
Such small problems, in the small 

Musty square of my bedroom.  
The death of trust and/or faith
In my own life, a minute thing.
We strafe Libya but Khadafy’s tanks

Take out the disorganized resistance. 
Men come in from the golf course 
To weigh in
About this unannounced war 

As if anyone’s polemic
Matters now, bombs bursting in air.
We find ourselves  once more
Breaching the rules of engagement

As if we as a people
Have amnesia.
Imagine a frontier on one side freedom
On the other, to be massacred

Trying to get to freedom
And imagine yourself on the boundary
With elation slipping through your fingers
Like water.


We make a sieve for blood
Out of someone else’s country.
And there is keening in the mosques--
But, we murmur, turning away

Spring is verging in the oaks
On Elizabeth Street:  o miracle--
The tiny fists of the branch-tips 
Begin their unfurling. 

Last night in a raucous jubilation
Two foxes coupled 
In the middle of the street
I was the only one 

To stump out to hush them
My neighbors waiting indoors 
To see if anyone
Would come to plead our case, 

To say please go on, back 
To your wild places.
It was the sound of screaming 
A sound

That raised my dog’s hackles
So that she nosed 
For danger in the dark--
A sound I hear again 

Looking at the Libyan mortars
Firing up at the heavens.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011
All rights reserved. 


Brendan said...

Fine weave of local and global, the personal ills and cultural malaise. No comforter is sufficient to quell the world, but these words cover much. I loved the detail of the coupling of foxes -- how strange, how ripe, how prescient of the age. Awful and awesome in the same hurl of words. - Brendan

Promising Poets Parking Lot said...