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, May 13, 2011

New Poem for May 13, 2011

Bin Laden's Wife

The exultant blue aphoristic dusk fades and the waters of time still flow green and deep, wide, like the weeping widow in the mosque, the seducee of madness. Suffusion of secrets.  Implosion of an archaic language, free-falling into the shattered texts. Our mouths run away with our dreams--  

A hummingbird lingers on a grave, witness-bearing mote. A violinist walks the yard at Dachau, where December burns on an unturned page. All ashes have bones in them.  When an owl dies it leaves a mark on the grass like a boot heel or the inference of a swastika, ineradicable.

The patriarch terrorist washes his hands, prays, and plays a video of himself exhorting death on death.  He bows down to himself, makes a god in his own likeness and some say they see his face in the clouds, a dark oxygen-eating bird with wings of black silk over the white desert.

When he was given Bint Nasmat at fifteen he said do not cut her.  I need her pleasure.  I will be love's apprentice; spare my bride.  When the Seals burst in she flew at them screaming his name, his Iscariot and so then they were sure. One fired twice--the sundial of history skipped a beat, like a heart of skulls. 

The vindicated stirred in the ashes beneath the newly poured concrete.  Did God lie back upon the Cross and say, "It is finished."? What then did Jesus say to Allah? This, the day after the pealing bells over London as if a another armistice-- stop the wars, stop time; let The Bride come, and The Groom

In his crimson uniform of state.  Let us eat the bread of love and feel the wine-burn in the throat, when we are re-married to each other, duly consecrated. O my Jordan, deep, green and wide.  My Lethe-- we send someone into the circle and set her on fire.  We project upon her how much we hate 

And fear ourselves.  I make you an enemy because I am enemy to myself.  We say the risen sun is the son of man and of god and we take this soporific in.  We crucify the androgynine man, the saints  and rise to ourselves. We revise the Apocrypha:  God turns a blind eye to the terrors of human kind

Of this we are sure, in the terror-awarding dream the truant dreams with their hemorrhagic mouths. We celebrate in our delusions and in the night the women mount the men and give their battle cry. O you know this self-hatred, this intense rage at the broken child within, the daughter of madness,

The Nasmat bride, burning herself alive.  The clouds had passed over the moon and it was time to load the Black Hawks, flash over the territory to the compound, descend the ropes.  Epitaph one; Geronimo-e KIA. We milled in the streets draped in faded flags. For a moment we were reborn.

from the forthcoming collection of my recent work, Paraffin.
Note:  I know not the name of Bin Laden's youngest wife.  Bint Nasmat is Arabic for Wind's daughter. 


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

1 comment:

Samuel Peralta / @Semaphore said...

You captured me from the start, with the portentousness of the title. Then I was enthralled at the threads woven in the work - history's tragedies, Dachau and Afghanistan, the religious imagery, Christanity and Islam, the Wind's daughter as Iscariot. Self-assured, provocative, audacious - just amazing.