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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 .

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

For One Shot Wednesday



And the Field Is Prepared

Prepared fields, richly gilded.  Pendulous mare in foal.  The violinist walks in Dachau, playing Bach, blessing the weary ghosts with a lament, a partita.

I have always wanted to love but icebergs moved from their places, crushing my chest.   Music for Dachau.  The Meinkampf look of an abuser, a Daddy in boots, at the bridge.

Cruise through night and put behind the wounding of yesterday, how the ones you trusted with your work and your sea star heart stoned you to death.  You lay gaping with a W on your forehead for wound.  Or Woman.  Or world. 

Come in by instinct on a moonlit night and kill the perpetrators.  Choke them with twisted satin sheets.  Kill the lying whore who said she was your friend.  Hold her underwater. 

It is only eased when driving home to the sweet Spanish reading of psalms on the radio.  I should be forgiving but I want to dig my fingers into the flesh of the women who abandon other women.  May I

Please have your eyes:  I’d like to make a necklace of eyes, to take the eyes, peck them out, pierce them at the iris.  Then you can have them back.

About your bodies.  I would like to strike you down in your literary prime, cleave your white breasts with a boning knife. What do you think betrayal is?

Look at the mare and how she leans against the aching air, her feet splayed out.  She is defenseless, powerless, and no one helps her.  No one to ease the foal out and give her calf manna when she is in her milk.

The violinist strolls through Dachau, serenading ghosts. The mothers and sisters there, will they rest? Avenged with heresies and curses, will they rise and dance?


From the forthcoming collection Paraffin.

Copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

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3 comments:

Kim Nelson said...

Jenne, The intensity here nearly overwhelmed me!

jen revved said...

Know that the writer and the writer's life and the poem as art and the speaker in the poem are never one and the same. Thanks for stopping by, Kim. xxxj

Brendan said...

If only Art gave a rat's rumpus for any of us. It will dance over all of our graves, singing La La La. As far as I know, there is no Artists Anonymous to help any of us recover from the work's wounds. Good to have a life off the page. - Brendan