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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 .

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

New Poem for Wednesday







Fugitive


I have been running ahead of a thundering storm of crows
for days.  Years.  Multitudes of owls with piercing
eyes and talons.  Blizzards of infuriated snow that want

To be ash, sky that would like to go dark or swallow itself.
Yet,I sang and sang last night to Handel and Mozart and then
we stabbed each other with our tongues. On the radio, manifold

Voices spoke of the take-out of the patriarch terrorist, how
the late day sun irradiated a gull as it soared from cliff to white
cap to prow.  What is a mortal wound, a hit to the brain by way

Of the eye. Or a blow to the heart quivering in its silver casing
like a Derringer in a cupboard. I fled over the washboard road,
the bridge poised to fall, past ancient trees, wary neighbor, dogs

Milling at her gate. In his run a golden horse looked out at the
newly green field.  We together populated the rutted hours, our
ears pointed forward, as if a stranger were working her way

To us from farm to farm, the night blooming dusk. Now my jaw is
tarnished, my spoons misaligned. Have you ever believed yourself
to be a mistake. What would you pay for a reprieve?   This useless

Chattering of sparrows in the plum blossoms-- who will love us.   
does it matter.   Write to live.  Paint to burn down the wormwood
of day. A priest claimed I don’t believe I’m loved and then

My windshield was pitted by gravel and I slid from the white
dress of my flesh. Our fugitive bodies, washed, swaddled,
“eased” into the sea. Only then the fields on fire with lavender.
.



1st draft:

Jeopardy

The whole-body ache of profound exhaustion.  Day at its equinox and now grey afternoon.  Embers flare again and again on the heart’s periphery—Last night I saw cheval d’or with a girl on his back.  I had come in over the washboard road, the bridge poised to fall, past ancient trees, wary

Neighbor, dogs milling at her gate.  I have been writing down everything’s bones but today, the body resists. I have been running ahead of a storm of thundering crows for days.  Years.  Multitudes of owls with piercing eyes
and talons.  Blizzards of snow that want to be ash, sky that would like to

Go dark or swallow itself. In his run a golden horse looks out at the newly green field.  We together populate the rutted hours, our ears pointed forward, as if a stranger were working her way to us from farm to farm, the night blooming dusk:  manifold voices speak of the take-out of the

Patriarch terrorist.  The body washed and swaddled on board the ship after the skin-matches and the intonations, the sanguine photography. The sun irradiates a gull as it soars from cliff to white cap to prow.  The body was then placed in a weighted bag.  Unarmed.  They say now-- Does

It matter.   Write to live.  Paint to burn down the wormwood of day. We had a moment of rejoicing; now fire in the streets: rage spills forth in manifold countries.  We are exhausted from sewing one moment to the next, the being of a self-wearing down.  I have a leg I haul through the

World like a dead raccoon swinging from my hip.  I half-skate in the screeching walker and I avoid mirrors. I am a one-woman spectacle of life on the dole, no heirs or heiresses. I am obliged to pull up stakes and get out of your life—what is volition.   I inherited this—body, these eyes that

Look out at the unfolding purple iris.  For a time there is an opiate lift but then you must rest, no matter how lonely. Who will love me.  The priest claimed I don’t believe I’m loved and then my windshield was pitted by rocks and I slid from the dress of my white flesh.    I have a house, not a

Home—a realm of music and light.  Storms find me here and bleach the hours of their color.  This beloved, might be depression, and the weltanschauung of Eliotian weariness.  I sang and sang last night to Handel and Mozart and then we stabbed each other with our tongues. What is a

 Mortal wound, a hit to the brain by way of the eye. Or a blow to the heart quivering in its silver casing like a Derringer in a cupboard.   I am entrapped by the quotidian, I cannot leave him and my spoons are tarnished—the family silver is scattered—I should not have sold everything

Of theirs: they haunt me now. My jaw is tarnished, my spoons misaligned. Have you ever believed yourself to be a mistake. What would you pay for a reprieve?   This useless chattering of sparrows in the plum blossoms.  What do they want? I have nothing left for them, no stale bread, bits of

Cheddar.  Give me your tired, your poor but what do we do with them, these dark agents of guilt.  We are left with many questions.  What is appropriate action.  Who knew about this.  For God’s sake, release the

Photos of The Corpse;  give us the risen Jesus, give us our Ambien. I lie in the dark with an imploded brain, murmuring in a private language, and yet you have said you cannot hear me. Wrap me in white linen but do not bury me at sea.



 xx
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011



8 comments:

Brian Miller said...

a finely layered piece...with a good bit of social commentary as well...very well played jen...i figure we will get photos eventually

Fireblossom said...

What a fascinating mix of the timely, the topical, the tiresome and the mythic. And all of it expressed in your usual striking language. The clouds swallowing themselves. The sparrows in the plum blossoms. The golden horse. Even when there is a heavy weariness in a piece you've created, it still has such a charge.

PS--thanks so much for visiting and leaving the marvelous comment on "Dining Car."

hedgewitch said...

Almost like a journal entry, this form, and packed with substance so densely, like old dresser drawers, where one just keeps pushing the new on top of the old. The way you've woven the dismalness of reality into a private hell is seamless, and coherent beyond emotional incoherence.

Reflections said...

This is so densely written, vivid images float upon a surface, transforming from one to another like a blending image. Beautiful.

James Rainsford said...

A tightly packed poem, full of intelligence and insight. It will take quite a few reads for me to unpack all the meaning and allusions here. Thanks for sharing such a deeply compelling work.
Thank you also for your comments regarding my poem.
Kind regards to you, James.

Matt Coughlan said...

I love how frantic it is, as if the speaker is sprinting ahead of their cohesive thoughts, into a lucid dreamstate. I'd like to see a short film of this. :D

Alegria Imperial said...

Line by line by line an explosion of images in a world so deeply layered, your poem is perfection what else! It's your mastery that works on the crows and sky to divine what only the spirit through the senses and a textured heart can make this poem work. I love it, Jenne! Thank you!

luke Prater said...

fine craftswomanship, Jenne'. Always appreciate that i your work

Kind regards

Luke