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 .

Monday, May 2, 2011

Monday: Magpie Tales Photo Prompt Challenge

This poem posted for Tess Kincaid's great meme here.  

A Volcano in North America

You thought I was just your quick study and you rendered me in watercolor,  catching me off guard in sienna and burgundy with our potato-child heavy as a burlap sack of winter reds: he who squirms like a mug wump angel through the damp garden. You locked me into my immutable sadness: what good is it now

To unpack the Chantilly peignoir from the Nova Scotia honeymoon, wind back Mama’s cherry-wood clock to our foray West where you hung this paper house at Rainier’s edge.  At night I hear the mountain spit fire, rumbling forth its hatred of women.  One day it will blow its

Unholy stack, lava seas come to trap and petrify us.  I put Tater-pate to bed after he has pummeled me to nothing, kneading me with his grub-worm fingers.  I kiss the top of his head; he mews like a tomcat kitten through his teething and I go back to my emerald snow peas climbing their

Strings like stunted whores in a chorus line, down on my hands and knees, laughter and weeping.   They warned us they said something's in the water and the women in this valley can turn to ax-wielding harpies in a heart-beat. You look up at me from the well, buried in loamy black dirt to the blue neck, your

Face in its permanent septic grin.  The rebuking jays will pluck you to a beeswaxed knuckle-bone by sundown and I’ll dream on in the rocker, letting my auburn hair down on this night, ululating at the fractured moon like a widow staked out in a minaret, my frontier bel canto like no other’s. 


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011


Kathe W. said...

powerful imagery here.

Lisa said...

A lovely post for the prompt.

Thanks for stopping by my blog and following me.


Tess Kincaid said...

Beautiful write.

Steve Isaak said...

Vivid, excellent.

jabblog said...

So many references and such passion - beautiful writing.

Isabel Doyle said...

very interesting response to the prompt
I have one small reservation though - I don't think women of any sort are allowed in minarets - I might be wrong, but I don't think so - which may be completely irrelevant to your purpose

HyperCRYPTICal said...

Wonderful image.

Anna :o]

Jingle said...

bless your future.