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 .

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Poem for the Vernal Equinox

Please checkout my memoir-- a great and hilarious and poignant read-- Nightfall in Verona, chapters going up daily for all the world to read.

Those of you from One Stop et al, if you haven't read my review of Doallas's book of poems, you're missing something pretty good, a balanced review as opposed to the pap on her book on Facebook.  It's here.  xj


The Overheard Words of an Old Poet Sitting in a Bus Station

It’s all just bullshit bullshit this business
Of hunkering up to someone whose word-worthiness is off the scale of one to ten and onto Amazon.  It sucks it burns and hurts this matter of getting it right to be loved when all who are have a ticket to love it is a child’s birthright and that is what getting it right means.

I read about Flynn and the ones called brilliant and they look tormented in the photos of their torment and their tormented work and histories and I know that game because I did it and played it out and then I was played and I fell.  Screw it, this cosmology of poets singing to themselves the singing what has become of the singing and the love of language and the sheer love of singing past all need to impress and past all need to explain or defend, just to write beautifully and well and be glad, rejoice and keep living.

I hate this, this matter of living up to yourself and your potential, how promising you were and then how you blew it just by being imperfect or sick or falling down and it taking such a fucking long time to get up and grow/glow on and the nick flynns of the world the poor dissipated raconteurs and the critics who call the personal narrow the I voice, the intimate voice illegimitate well you bastards get a fucking life—let’s see what you can write, truth or dare.  

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