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 .

Monday, May 30, 2011

New Poem for Monday

Borders without Frontiers

Consider each day a lesson.  The asphalt a slate
Where the unseen chalks the canniness of the fox,
the nocturnal lumbering of the raccoons
how the tar shines after a hard rain
how hot tears streak a cool face after rain
the face of the road
the white lines leading you on
as if there were an arrival waiting
at the end of the line-- as if you didn't envy
the fox her liberty, this wary obliquity coming across
this kenning of a train; what must be heard
and understood so low to the earth
the moaning in the graves
the sighing of a reptilian heart
the death of conscience there in the grass
when it falls as the ordinary bearing up and up
that was a sparrow, that grey and small iniquity
on the pale skies of afternoon

It was indeed a terrible day of hard words
of giving power to the Other to strike rage
into its blue flare like stone on stone
the sparks of words meant to assuage
The earth one long history of misinterpretation
redundancy of every genus unto itself-- too many
too many wild bees too many hearts flowering
from one stem in the dark woods and too many
children gone hungry, on the border

ii

You, you went to comfort him and to sing and cook
But you were born to marinate a heart in gall
Your defamations made a stand-off in the living room
where living stopped
and the BBC war reporting on the radio
was an ashen cascade of voices
telling truth on truth intolerable
even as the war between two abated
to the blue silence of the calm room
the room that brings calm to the body
the bed that moves beneath itself like a whale
the welcoming darkness
  
iii

You keep portaging the whoring, wounded Self
from point to point
sailing full on with a cargo of lies and nails
and the mast where someone is flayed out
the last lover a Crusoe who floundered
and spewed sea water when you hauled in him
thinking he was the trophy, the marlin that would buy
you a house on the hill and that the doors
would fling wide like heaven and healed parents
step forth, their mouths ovals of approbation

All of this comes from a mere inference of owls
the flash of wings across the bridge
the thought that you in spite of yourself profane and wither
and cause to wilt, to die back--

Useless the accolades of the lilacs at the midnight hour
useless the heavy bodied love of the raccoon mother
her unquestioning bearing of burdens, cubs on her back

You know what you would do
if you were brave enough.
Off in the night on the edge of time
someone is burning tires
so that the acrid air is alive
with prognostication--
O dilettante: someone is slaughtering a fatted calf.




 For another new poem-- for Memorial Day, please visit Loquaciously Yours.  

 copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011



1 comment:

Timoteo said...

"...useless the accolades of the lilacs at the midnight hour..."
Not sure why that line stands out for me, except that it surprises...and delights...

And then there is your description of the sparrow...

Too much here to try to gobble all at once--I must nibble and savor...

Another tour de force.