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, June 13, 2011

Poem for Magpie Tales, One Stop's Free Verse Meme and One Shot Wednesday....

Update July 17-- little did I know that the marvelous manly mythic poet Brendan McOdrum would link to my work in his piece on Poetry and Myth today.  I think he may have been especially referring to the second poem in this post, The Wrack of Shells, which refers to Venus' birth from the sea...xxxj

Thanks to Tess Kincaid, poet extrordinaire, for photo prompt up at Magpie Tales, and poet Sam Peralta, for cogent and fascinating essay on Free Verse up today at One Stop Poetry.

I'm posting the poem below, written today, for the prompt, and below that appears my poem "The Wrack of Shells," my homage to Sylvia Plath written earlier this year, originally put up at She Writes.  Enjoy!  Comment on me and I'll come to you...xJenne'


Now little clock of the tide
Ticking among round and shining stones
I put you to my ear

It is there—the pulse of the sea.
The sea rolling and making you
With its translucent tongue.

The mothering sea
Laving and rocking you,
Fitting your tusk-hard housing
To the slick soft bodies
Of the fluke, the snail.

Now rock, rock, in tidal foam,
Knock, knock
Nobody home

Seashell on the seashore
Darwin’s Cambrian totem
 Fearful symmetry
Out of Narragansett
Endlessly rocking

Porcelain keys
To the how and why
Of thou, me—

Nacre carapace,
Once mollusked husk
Algonquin wampum
This orchestra’s all percussion--

Mnemonic knucklebones 
Shamanistic sand-worn
Vacant sea-homes

This bone-clatter colloquy
Of moon-miming shells.

--copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

 #2 -- As noted, posted earlier around Plath would-have been birthday; much, much is to be learned about the craft of poetry in reading Sylvia Plath.

To the memory of Sylvia Plath
“A lone beachcomber squats among the wrack
Of kaleidoscope shells
Probing fractured Venus with a stick
Under a tent of taunting gulls.

No sea-change decks the sunken shank of bone
That chucks in backtrack of the wave;
Though the mind like an oyster labors on and on,
A grain of sand is all we have.”

From Two Lovers and a Beachcomber by the Real Sea, Sylvia Plath

How then, our fractured girl
Did Venus too break apart at low tide
In scattered porcelain shards
Beneath our bare feet

Perhaps two disrobed
On the white sand
Before the indignant witness
Of rumpled waves

And stood revealed
As dual wounds
Red mouths made to leach
Brine, and lacerate--
Speaking words that abrade

The withdrawing sea leaves
Silted wrack
To seal small graves
Oysters drop pearls there
Bright confessions
Let slip from yearning tongues
And phantom sea stars
Bivouac in the ruins
Of the houses of the sand
Where love birthed herself
Rising sun-tinted
To stun and stripped
Tease the wayward young

This makes a lonely
Beachcomber brave:
I come unto you
Wet and singing,
But no sea-change checks
The sighing storm
That unnerves a hungry wave

You surge, stunning me with your white crest
And then pull back
To the unlit monasteries of the sea

As if to know me then and there
Has turned your blood to water:
Now I am a grain of sand
Burning on in the bone-house
Of a shell.

 Copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011


Sioux said...

"Algonquin wampum." That phrase just tripped off my tongue so elegantly.

Beachanny said...

Re: Timepiece
Loved the "rock and roll" rhythm and backbeat as well as backsplash of it. Took me to the Atlantic historically and actually. Cold waters, bright jewels, all music. Loved it. Truly musical. Thank you, Gay

C Rose said...

I could swim in this tercet

"Mnemonic knucklebones
Shamanistic sand-worn
Vacant sea-homes"

Brilliant tapestry of words you created. ~ Rose

Tess Kincaid said...

Love-love that knuckle bone shell beat!

Ann Grenier said...

Little clock of the tide, in Timepiece", is such a precious image. A beautiful poem.

Sean Vessey said...

Wow. Thank you for poetry of Sylvia Plath. Your poem is a fine tribute to her memory and style. Thank you for sharing your poem.

Anonymous said...

First of all let me say I love Sylvia Plath she's the whole reason I started writing! I love the whole concept of your poem, the language is brilliant! Absolutely terrific!

jen revved said...

Many thanks to all! xxxj