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 .

Sunday, May 1, 2011

For One Shoot Sunday

Please scroll down for One Shot Post.

Photo:  the practice of Sutee.


To the memory of k.v.

Diasporic flame on flame, she rose from the floating pyre
Flying up like a black swan with a mouthful of embers.

She had danced with the heavenly hosts of the long euphoric
knives; she put the child to bed in the Armageddon of

Afternoon. She lay in the red tide with him, her hands gutted
Fish, the wrist of the child awash, the bleached small body.

What did you see then, looking within- thou demi-god,  in
the neon tunic, the beads of luck and love, lifting your heel

On the starting line like a runner in the Olympiad.  You,
Wavering like a neon Vacancy sign on a back highway.  O Gran Prix

Bearer, o puer aeternis, exonerated, absolved, shattering away
like a porcelain plate to the mausoleums of the infamous

You did not see. Had your will already failed?  Were you wearing
the quotidian’s day-blinding mask of the accolade? 

You left her alone in the house with the boy.

To see the beautiful photo leading to this piece, please visit One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry.  

At a Village Well in Arabia

I do not know that one traversing the sand toward me, toiling against the wind, weighed down by robes of fear. I do not know that one watching me. 

But we meet at the well in the détentes of thirst..  Man, woman, friend or foe.  I will not trespass my way through your pride; I will not break the door of your village down.  Nor the door of your heart, even as the heat-waves of your rage force me back. 

I only see that we are swaddled, to hide our wounds.  We say it is commanded or God’s will or that in the garden we saw that we were naked.  But our skin was burning there in the sand; we lay dessicated, crawled to the oasis, attiring ourselves. 

Take my flask.  Take what I have and I will pass through you and you through me.  Only then will we have the knowing beyond language, as if war had folded up like a scarf of shadows, the moon singing on her threshold within us.

O Ada

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011 


Fireblossom said...

You've hit on the truth of it here, Jen. That knowing that lives somewhere well beyond jingoism or zealotry.

dustus said...

Jenne', your poem displays a deep human level among layers—hinting at that "knowing language beyond" through which poetic minds, artists, strive. However, there might be another "reach" at work here; perhaps the outreach of humanity, "Take my flask. Take what I have and I will pass through you and you through me." Such humble offerings strip pride to the core of being, in addition to fostering interconnectedness.

jen revved said...

thanks Adam and FB-- will make my way to you over today's desert of no sleep. xxxj

John (@bookdreamer) said...

Interesting exploration of the emotions and situation of the picture

Beachanny said...

These lines are genius: Take what I have and I will pass through you and you through me. Only then will we have the knowing beyond language, as if war had folded up like a scarf of shadows, the moon singing on her threshold within us.

I heard echoes of the wasteland but your work is not distant, but rich, close, personal, blood of blood,suffering in suffering. Excellent!

Fireblossom said...

Re: the second poem...

This sounds like the ultimate crime of omission, to me. I can almost see him, spreading his arms, saying how could I have known?

hedgewitch said...

"But we meet at the well in the detentes of thirst.." what a lyrical/insightful way to put it, as well as the war "folding up like a scarf of shadows.." You reveal quite clearly how desperately we try to make death consecrate the lust for revenge, and how each must learn to turn his back on that easy answer.

Reflections said...

Stunning, vivid imagery... such depth beyond the words... encroaching on the insights of humanity and war. Beautifully shared.