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 .

Friday, April 8, 2011

New Poem for Weekend






The Innuendo of Owls

for Sam Peralta

Listen, do you hear it?
The sound of owls.

Reveling in their own voices, passing rumor, 
Aspersion, innuendo with each bass note: 
A sinister parliament.

-- from “Owls, after Kotaro Takamura”, Samuel Peralta

If I had the elaborate powers of night
I would do more than blunt day's scything
edges-- I would cloak fear in velvet lassitude 
I would envelope the lonely dog no one speaks to

At the end of its chain in the barrio.  In my arms
it would be safe to weep-- private, no one
to come with a bouquet of blame.
I would be the good darkness

That  laves the wounded heart
with its tongue.  I would close the eyes
of those for whom it is taking
too long to die.

We shake night from ourselves
and sluice down in rain water but even
an instant in the sun weakens us. 
We flee to Verona, the old quarter

Where the rose gardens enliven
the blurred frescoes of war. We wait
until the moon rises over the green silk scarf
of the Fiume Po. At moonrise  Dante

Steps forth from stone in the piazza; 
I love my infamy--
but do not go down into the Inferno.
There is no need. 

Furore.  Ah, Mio Cuore. 
Lucia, Juliette: non fa niente.
The altar is covered with roses. 
These are night's gifts, my dreams.

I come home through the barrio
looking at the tiny houses
their stillness, I scent their aroma
of tortillas.  I am the night, kiss incarnate

Kiss that soothes the troubled child, guards
the old woman who cannot hear
an intruder. I do not wish to be water. 
I am the barrio owl,  I am the soporific

For the fruitless battle raging
in the desert;  I spread my cloak over
the fallen and quench the lies
burning along the wires of time.

3 a.m.: I lock the car, and turn
and just then, there, the great-throated
voice, il basso profundo,
calling high in the withered oaks.


Copyright Jenne’ R. Andrews 2011 

2 comments:

Semaphore said...

I am honoured by your dedication, and beyond that, honoured by such a majestic poem, which takes night, and darkness, and peace, and solace, and eternal rest, and makes them - as we are - human.

jen revved said...

You are most welcome. I am equally amazed and moved by your exquisite poetry and have every confidence that the sky is the limit for you, Samuel. xj